“When I started counting my blessings, my whole life turned around.”
- Willie Nelson
"It is not enough to have a good mind; the main thing is to use it well."
The council splashed $22,000 to create the sculpture, which was part of a Transport Accident Commission (TAC) grant. The artwork is part of an initiative to activate and improve road safety...Road Safety? Yeah. Right! Because nothing says I'm going to pay more attention to my driving than, "Look over there! Is that a statue of a skull carved into a giant banana?" Twenty two thousand dollars?? This is where we need Mick Dundee to step up and say, " 'Ats not a banana! This is a banana!" Communities that have to live with "public art" should have the final say of what gets foisted on their communities. Or better yet, don't have any taxpayer funded art. The Statue of Liberty was a gift from France, but private funds paid for the pedestal. If the people want it badly enough, they'll pay for it themselves!
Behold, the nations are as a drop of a bucket, and are counted as the small dust of the balance: behold, he taketh up the isles as a very little thing.
Most people in this country don't take notice of race at all. For some, it is a prison they check into every morning, though none stop them from leaving.
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“Our Constitution, like the Declaration of Independence before it, was predicated on a simple truth: One’s liberty, not to mention one’s dignity, was something to be shielded from, not provided by, the State.”
“The Rights of man come not from the generosity of the state, but from the hand of God.”
“A true friend is the greatest of all blessings, and that which we take the least care of all to acquire.”
“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them."
You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England.-Surprised by Joy
Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty.
An Isolated Incident
A short story by Mary M. Isaacs.
The door buzzer sounded three times, with a fourth buzz a little after the first three. He clicked on the timer he always carried and then hurried to the front door to look out the peephole. He saw the back of a man walking away from the door. As he watched, the man climbed into a delivery truck and then drove away. They never looked back at his door; he wished one of them would sometime, and maybe wave or acknowledge his existence some way or another.
Looking down, he saw the familiar plastic bag on the front porch. I wonder what it is tonight? he thought. He used to play a guessing game about the contents, but that was getting a little old now. He continued to look at the bag as he waited for the timer to go off.
When it did, he unlocked the door (Why do I bother locking it? he asked himself. Who’s going to come in?) opened it and picked up the bag. It felt heavier than usual. Probably pasta, he thought. Any meat portions were so small as to lessen the usual weight of the bag.
After closing the front door, he carried the bag to the kitchen, opened it, and removed the contents. Yep, it was pasta all right; the container was unmistakable.
He wiped the inside of the bag with a paper towel and then set it aside. He was responsible for cleaning it and all the containers and putting them back outside—empty--to be picked up at the next delivery. Empty, because he was required to eat everything he was given. Once, early on, he had sent back some food he didn’t like. It showed up as the next meal delivery, with nothing else added. He’d been annoyed and sent it back once more, untouched. Sure enough, it appeared again for the next meal. Being extremely hungry by then, he ate it. It was only borderline digestible by that time, but he had no choice.
His garbage was inspected regularly, and any discarded food brought a quick negative response. He didn’t want to go through that again, either. There was also no garbage disposal in the kitchen sink, and he had only a bedside commode in his apartment—no toilet. His personal waste products, in plastic bags, were collected daily. They were probably inspected, too, to make sure he hadn’t thrown any food in there. He didn’t envy the people who had THAT job. He knew what to do with things he really couldn’t stomach, but he had learned to eat a lot of the things he used to reject.
Tonight’s meal was almost totally edible. He only had to pick out the green peas in the pasta—he couldn’t stand canned green peas. Fortunately, they would be easy to get rid of later.
After he had eaten there was little to do. He avoided watching TV or listening to the radio; he’d had as much of their edited programming as he could take. He did turn it on, though, at a low volume—in case they were monitoring the amount of time he watched. He tried to ignore it. The available books and magazines were boring now, after having been read through several times, but he wouldn’t get new ones until next week. Exercise was a possibility, but he’d already spent a couple of hours doing that earlier in the day. It wasn’t his day to have a bath—the 3-minute shower this morning was his personal washing allotment for the day. Oh well, at least he had the disposal of the green peas to look forward to. He just had to wait until it was dark.
When that time came, he put the peas into his drinking cup and quietly opened the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. The yard was very small, not much larger than his kitchen, and was fenced all around, with completely unscalable, 10-foot fencing (his estimate). Just outside the door there was a small concrete slab with a bench on it, for getting (relatively) fresh air and sunshine, but the rest of the area was just dirt. He quietly paced off a certain distance and then crouched and dug a shallow furrow with his hands. He spread the peas out at the bottom of the trench and then covered them with the dirt. He pressed it down with his foot and then scuffed it up a bit, to look as if it had been untouched. He idly wondered what he’d do when he ran out of food burial space but decided that the first things he’d disposed of would surely be decayed by then, so he could start over. By now, he had no real expectation of ever being allowed to leave the compound (as he called it—or perhaps it really was one) until he was carried out of it in a shroud.
He suddenly froze in place, letting his awareness stretch out beyond his body. He’d heard nothing obvious but had felt something, some presence. As he stood silently, there was a soft whirring sound overhead. He looked up into the starless blackness—too much pollution—and thought he saw a faint flash as something moved towards the back fence.
He remained motionless, no longer feeling anything strange, but conscious of a deep apprehension inside. Drone? he wondered, and then pushed that thought aside in denial. His expression remained sober as he went back inside, however.
The next day was like the previous one, like all the others since they had moved him into the apartment. But on the second day following, he discovered a printed note on the mat under the letter flap in his front door. Med/tech visit already? he thought, as he scanned the message. But he had long ago stopped keeping track of the days--as they seldom varied--so he could easily be wrong. He undressed and got ready, putting on mask, gloves, and paper tunic, and waited for the knock on the door. How many Hazmat suits would he see this time, he wondered? Well, it made a change.
When the buzzer sounded two times, he was ready to go.
They opened the door to let him back inside. After the door shut, he turned automatically, to look out the peephole. The suits lumbered back to their van, got in, and drove away—with no backward glance. He was alone again. Even though no one talked to him the entire time, at least there had been other human beings around him; he treasured that awareness, for as long as it lasted.
He removed the mask and gloves and ripped off the now-wrinkled paper tunic. They went into the garbage bag as usual. He re-dressed himself in the uniform he’d worn earlier, as it wasn’t laundry day. That was another thing that had taken some getting used to—wearing the same clothes over and over and over and over again. It did promote extra care while eating, however, to avoid wearing spilled food for days—so there was that.
Maybe I’ll sit outside for a while, he thought, and walked to the sliding glass door. It wouldn’t open. He pulled harder but nothing happened. He banged on the door; all at once, a metallic voice said, “Privilege denied”. Startled, he looked confusedly around the room and out into the yard--then he noticed it: the dirt part had been dug up, he could tell immediately. The dirt was in piles and depressions, not smooth as he’d left it a few nights earlier. Why had they gone into his back yard? Why had they been digging? Had they found the buried food? As his eyes scanned the entire yard, he knew they had to have found it. So he wasn’t to be allowed outside again--ever? Or just for a while? He could guess the answer… And now he’d have to eat everything they brought him; his disposal site was unavailable.
With a sharp sense of loss, he sat on the only chair in the room. There was nothing left to do but watch the shadows creep slowly over the disturbed earth as the sun went down.
The door buzzer sounded three times, with a fourth buzz a little after the first three. He clicked on his timer and walked to the front door to look out the peephole. He saw a man climbing into a delivery truck. As it drove away, he wondered what would be in the food bag tonight. When the timer went off, he opened the door and picked up the bag. It seemed heavier this time.
He carried the bag into the kitchen, opened it, and removed the contents. He wiped the inside of the bag with a paper towel and then set it aside. He opened the largest container and stopped, puzzled. What was that greyish stuff inside? It was unrecognizable. He opened more of the numerous containers—all the contents were unrecognizable, and there was a strong smell coming from most of them. In the last container, there were some dirt-covered green peas. All at once, he knew what they’d given him for dinner, what they expected him to eat.
And he couldn’t send any of it back.
Copyright 2021 -Mary M. Isaacs
(from a forthcoming book)"Life begins at fertilization" is a shorthand way to say that the zygote is the first developmental stage of a human being's life cycle. This is not a religious premise; it is a biological fact, attested to in countless biology and embryology texts and affirmed by the majority of biologists worldwide.
Kyle Rittenhouse was attacked by thugs, hoodlums and the mainstream media. But I repeat myself.
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“Keep doing good deeds long enough and you'll probably turn out a good man in spite of yourself.”
“When misguided public opinion honors what is despicable and despises what is honorable, punishes virtue and rewards vice, encourages what is harmful and discourages what is useful, applauds falsehood and smothers truth under indifference or insult, a nation turns its back on progress and can be restored only by the terrible lessons of catastrophe.”
"When the history books are written about our time in Afghanistan, (Gen.) Milley will look more like a Custer and less like a Patton."
"Ilhan Omar called the police dysfunctional but she's the one that married her brother."
A man's rights rest in three boxes: the ballot box, the jury box, and the cartridge box.
“If CHRIST died for me, I cannot trifle with the evil that killed my best friend”
First they came for our guns, but I wasn't a gun owner, so I said nothing.
Then, they came for our pickup trucks, but I wasn't a pickup owner, so I said nothing.
Then they came for our dogs and our 'shine, and I looked around and there was no one to speak up for me!
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People often complain about lack of time when lack of direction is the real problem.
"The brave die never, though they sleep in dust, their courage nerves a thousand living men."
“A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer.”
“I’ve always believed that no officer’s life, regardless of rank, is of such great value to his country that he should seek safety in the rear … Officers should be forward with their men at the point of impact.”
“We are all in such a hurry, we want everything at once. We believe that all truth can be stated in a few minutes. The answer to that is that it cannot.”
I could go into the octagon with a three legged kitten, with two paws tied behind its back and I'd still bet on the kitten!
"Critical Race Theory, which isn’t real, turned the suburbs (of Virginia) 15 points to the Trump insurrection endorsed Republican."
“Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others."
Its one thing to call someone a communist, but to encounter a true-blue, dye in the wool believe in marxism in the United States is not actually that common. Except in the Biden Administration of course…
Owning a handgun doesn't make you armed any more than owning a guitar makes you a musician.
But if someone has a gun and is trying to kill you ... it would be reasonable to shoot back with your own gun.