Visage à trois #492
54 minutes ago
Sunday, September 25, 2022
Now You See Him...
Editor's Note: Continuing our retrospective of some of the Mary M. Isaacs stories we have published. This one was published here Oct 25, 2020
He liked this place. He didn’t have to think or plan or worry or anything. Things happened around him, but nothing touched him. He could just be. He liked that. That was good.
Mariana drove her car carefully into the preschool/daycare parking lot. She always drove slowly to her assigned spot, as she knew that the children could pop up in unexpected places, even though they were supposed to walk directly to the front door with an adult.
It was raining that winter morning, which slowed her even more—but the children were easier to see, with their mini umbrellas: striped ones, clear ones, ones that looked like ladybugs or yellow ducks. But wait, there was one child without an umbrella, walking with a man. Oh, wasn’t that Riley? The man was wearing a raincoat and carried an umbrella, but Riley had neither. He was getting wet…well, maybe he had some extra clothes in his cubby. She watched them go through the front door.
She parked her car, stepped out and slipped on her raincoat, and gathered her school materials for the day. She was just starting out in her teaching career, so she brought a lot of things with her every day, in case she needed to use them. Mariana walked toward the front door with her arms full.
It was raining again, but not too much this time. His clothes had gotten a little wet during the walk from the car to the school. He didn’t have a raincoat or an umbrella. An umbrella would be fun to have. He’d like a clear one, so he could see all around. Or maybe not clear, so no one could see him. He couldn’t decide. Now he sat on a wooden chair near a window in the big room, looking out at the rain. He didn’t worry about wet clothes. They would dry before someone came to pick him up. He wouldn’t get in trouble for that.
At the school, Mariana helped with the oldest children. Their classroom was in a modular unit, across the play yard from the main building. All the other classes were in the big building, which also had the front entrance, office, bathrooms, and kitchen. Every morning she walked through the larger building to punch in, check on staff messages, and say hello to the teachers and children who had arrived earlier. She wasn’t very familiar with the younger children, although she was getting to know a few of them. Like Riley, for example. He was always there before her, from early opening time in the morning until late in the day, after she left. Five days a week, always quiet. Because of that quietness, she hadn’t really noticed him right away.
Sometimes he turned off his thinking in this place. It gave him a chance to rest. He liked his classroom—it had all the sorts of things in it that he was used to. This big room, too. His teacher didn’t pay much attention to him, which was good. He wanted to be left alone. The other children left him alone. He didn’t even look at the teachers or the other children. As long as he followed directions and didn’t bother anyone, nobody would bother him. That was predictable. The only people he looked at were his mother and his father. He had to watch them all the time.
Maybe it was time for his puzzle again…
She thought more about Riley as she punched in with her time card. His was an unnatural quietness, withdrawn and colorless. He didn’t play with other children (that she had observed). He wasn’t physically active, but mostly sat at a table with a puzzle or a book. His clothes looked okay at first glance, but always turned out to be torn, or grimy, or inadequate for the weather. She turned to look at him—yes, his clothes were too lightweight for the cold and wet weather today; and as they were still wet, he obviously didn’t have extra clothes, or no one had bothered to look for them. Riley didn’t speak much, and never responded to a friendly greeting. She knew—she had tried a few times. She had never met his parents, knew nothing about them. He always seemed to just “be there”.
He looked at the wooden puzzle he had pulled out from the bottom of the stack. There were some smiling children sitting around a teacher, who was reading to them. He put out his finger and touched one child’s image. Then he took all the face pieces out of the puzzle and laid them on the table, all lined up. Then he turned back to the puzzle with the faces missing. He looked at that for a long time.
During the next few weeks, Mariana found herself thinking about Riley often. She worried about him, about his unusual behavior, about his questionable physical condition, more and more. She even began to wonder if she should make a report to Child Protective Services. She knew she was required to do that if she suspected something like neglect or abuse. It would be a bold step—the owner-directors of the school would not be pleased if she made a report and they had to deal with legalities and inspections and interviews, no matter how it turned out. Even if there was abuse, they would not be happy with her at all; they might even fire her. She carried on an internal debate with herself for days, trying to weigh the pros and cons of any actions…or inactions. In the meantime, Riley never changed one way or another, which only made him stand out in her mind even more. It was like he was frozen: frozen in time, frozen in emotions, frozen in existence.
His eyes flicked up and then back down to his favorite puzzle lying in front of him. That lady was looking at him again. He didn’t know her; she wasn’t his teacher. She worked in another room. He wished she would stop hanging around him. He wished she would leave him alone. She was a teacher, but she wasn’t acting predictably. She worried him. He didn’t like it when people did unexpected things. He had enough of that at home.
Thoughts of Riley started to bother her night and day, to the point of feeling very uneasy about it. She asked his teacher indirect questions about him, but that woman was clearly only there to do a job; she was far too interested in her personal life to be focused any more than she had to be on the children in her class. Finally, Mariana asked her point-blank how Riley’s parents treated him, how he acted around them, how he behaved in class. That seemed to catch her colleague’s attention. The immediate feedback was inconclusive, but apparently her questions may have started a train of events.
Something was going to happen. He felt agitated and apprehensive. He raised his eyes from his favorite puzzle and looked around the big room. It had been good here. He would miss this place.
Over the weekend, Mariana definitely made up her mind to call Child Protective Services the next work day. She arrived at the school on Monday morning and went into the big playroom. As she punched in, she looked around—and realized that Riley wasn’t there. She scanned the room intentionally, from one end to the other, and then asked the teacher on early care duty where he was. “Oh, his parents pulled him out of the school,” was the answer she received. Mariana was stunned. “Why did they do that? Did they move or something? Did he say good-bye to his class?” she asked. The other teacher shrugged. “I don’t know anything about it. I don’t think they gave a reason. He’s just gone.”
Mariana walked off in a random direction, unable to think clearly. Her mind was full of questions, concerns, guilt, fear. She ended up standing in front of the puzzle table where Riley often played. She sat down and stared at the stacks of puzzles on the table and the nearby shelf. Gradually, she realized that something wasn’t “right” about the puzzles—no, just with one puzzle, an old-fashioned wooden one with a teacher reading to a group of children. There was an empty space, a missing piece. She looked under the puzzle, around the others, and on the floor, but couldn’t find it.
The face of one of the children was missing.
She looked at that for a long time.
(copyright 2019, Mary M. Isaacs)
Now You See Him...is included in the collection "Holy Innocence", featured on the sidebar.
He liked this place. He didn’t have to think or plan or worry or anything. Things happened around him, but nothing touched him. He could just be. He liked that. That was good.
Mariana drove her car carefully into the preschool/daycare parking lot. She always drove slowly to her assigned spot, as she knew that the children could pop up in unexpected places, even though they were supposed to walk directly to the front door with an adult.
It was raining that winter morning, which slowed her even more—but the children were easier to see, with their mini umbrellas: striped ones, clear ones, ones that looked like ladybugs or yellow ducks. But wait, there was one child without an umbrella, walking with a man. Oh, wasn’t that Riley? The man was wearing a raincoat and carried an umbrella, but Riley had neither. He was getting wet…well, maybe he had some extra clothes in his cubby. She watched them go through the front door.
She parked her car, stepped out and slipped on her raincoat, and gathered her school materials for the day. She was just starting out in her teaching career, so she brought a lot of things with her every day, in case she needed to use them. Mariana walked toward the front door with her arms full.
It was raining again, but not too much this time. His clothes had gotten a little wet during the walk from the car to the school. He didn’t have a raincoat or an umbrella. An umbrella would be fun to have. He’d like a clear one, so he could see all around. Or maybe not clear, so no one could see him. He couldn’t decide. Now he sat on a wooden chair near a window in the big room, looking out at the rain. He didn’t worry about wet clothes. They would dry before someone came to pick him up. He wouldn’t get in trouble for that.
At the school, Mariana helped with the oldest children. Their classroom was in a modular unit, across the play yard from the main building. All the other classes were in the big building, which also had the front entrance, office, bathrooms, and kitchen. Every morning she walked through the larger building to punch in, check on staff messages, and say hello to the teachers and children who had arrived earlier. She wasn’t very familiar with the younger children, although she was getting to know a few of them. Like Riley, for example. He was always there before her, from early opening time in the morning until late in the day, after she left. Five days a week, always quiet. Because of that quietness, she hadn’t really noticed him right away.
Sometimes he turned off his thinking in this place. It gave him a chance to rest. He liked his classroom—it had all the sorts of things in it that he was used to. This big room, too. His teacher didn’t pay much attention to him, which was good. He wanted to be left alone. The other children left him alone. He didn’t even look at the teachers or the other children. As long as he followed directions and didn’t bother anyone, nobody would bother him. That was predictable. The only people he looked at were his mother and his father. He had to watch them all the time.
Maybe it was time for his puzzle again…
She thought more about Riley as she punched in with her time card. His was an unnatural quietness, withdrawn and colorless. He didn’t play with other children (that she had observed). He wasn’t physically active, but mostly sat at a table with a puzzle or a book. His clothes looked okay at first glance, but always turned out to be torn, or grimy, or inadequate for the weather. She turned to look at him—yes, his clothes were too lightweight for the cold and wet weather today; and as they were still wet, he obviously didn’t have extra clothes, or no one had bothered to look for them. Riley didn’t speak much, and never responded to a friendly greeting. She knew—she had tried a few times. She had never met his parents, knew nothing about them. He always seemed to just “be there”.
He looked at the wooden puzzle he had pulled out from the bottom of the stack. There were some smiling children sitting around a teacher, who was reading to them. He put out his finger and touched one child’s image. Then he took all the face pieces out of the puzzle and laid them on the table, all lined up. Then he turned back to the puzzle with the faces missing. He looked at that for a long time.
During the next few weeks, Mariana found herself thinking about Riley often. She worried about him, about his unusual behavior, about his questionable physical condition, more and more. She even began to wonder if she should make a report to Child Protective Services. She knew she was required to do that if she suspected something like neglect or abuse. It would be a bold step—the owner-directors of the school would not be pleased if she made a report and they had to deal with legalities and inspections and interviews, no matter how it turned out. Even if there was abuse, they would not be happy with her at all; they might even fire her. She carried on an internal debate with herself for days, trying to weigh the pros and cons of any actions…or inactions. In the meantime, Riley never changed one way or another, which only made him stand out in her mind even more. It was like he was frozen: frozen in time, frozen in emotions, frozen in existence.
His eyes flicked up and then back down to his favorite puzzle lying in front of him. That lady was looking at him again. He didn’t know her; she wasn’t his teacher. She worked in another room. He wished she would stop hanging around him. He wished she would leave him alone. She was a teacher, but she wasn’t acting predictably. She worried him. He didn’t like it when people did unexpected things. He had enough of that at home.
Thoughts of Riley started to bother her night and day, to the point of feeling very uneasy about it. She asked his teacher indirect questions about him, but that woman was clearly only there to do a job; she was far too interested in her personal life to be focused any more than she had to be on the children in her class. Finally, Mariana asked her point-blank how Riley’s parents treated him, how he acted around them, how he behaved in class. That seemed to catch her colleague’s attention. The immediate feedback was inconclusive, but apparently her questions may have started a train of events.
Something was going to happen. He felt agitated and apprehensive. He raised his eyes from his favorite puzzle and looked around the big room. It had been good here. He would miss this place.
Over the weekend, Mariana definitely made up her mind to call Child Protective Services the next work day. She arrived at the school on Monday morning and went into the big playroom. As she punched in, she looked around—and realized that Riley wasn’t there. She scanned the room intentionally, from one end to the other, and then asked the teacher on early care duty where he was. “Oh, his parents pulled him out of the school,” was the answer she received. Mariana was stunned. “Why did they do that? Did they move or something? Did he say good-bye to his class?” she asked. The other teacher shrugged. “I don’t know anything about it. I don’t think they gave a reason. He’s just gone.”
Mariana walked off in a random direction, unable to think clearly. Her mind was full of questions, concerns, guilt, fear. She ended up standing in front of the puzzle table where Riley often played. She sat down and stared at the stacks of puzzles on the table and the nearby shelf. Gradually, she realized that something wasn’t “right” about the puzzles—no, just with one puzzle, an old-fashioned wooden one with a teacher reading to a group of children. There was an empty space, a missing piece. She looked under the puzzle, around the others, and on the floor, but couldn’t find it.
The face of one of the children was missing.
She looked at that for a long time.
(copyright 2019, Mary M. Isaacs)
Quote du jour
"Oh, for as much love as would go round about the earth, and over heaven—yea, the heaven of heavens, and ten thousand worlds—that I might let all out upon fair, fair, only fair Christ."- Samuel Rutherford
Saturday, September 24, 2022
Best of the Web*
*…that Dave and I have seen all week!
(BTW, if you wonder where any of the links will take you, hover your cursor over the link.)
Political/SocioEconomic
Doctor Mehmet Oz, the Republican Senate candidate for Pennsylvania, did something no Philadelphia politician has done in years… if ever. Mehmet Oz traveled to the Kensington section of the city, arguably the worst drug neighborhood in the country.
IRS Sent $1.3 Billion In Stimulus Checks To Locked Up Criminals, Including Murderers
School Attacks: When Things Fall Apart
Got an Extra $11,500? You’ll Need It to Keep Up With 2022 Prices
Soros Prosecutor Twice Sprung Criminal Who Went On To Kill A Man
Culture
Feel Good Friday
Las Vegas: Criminal Starts Gunfight; Wounded Female Officer Finishes It
Stephen Hunter: The Assault Weapon Massacres of 1964
Space Force debuts its official service song ‘Semper Supra’
Why Isn’t Marilyn Mosby In Prison Yet?
Too Stupid To Survive, #64
Photoshops/Cartoons/Graphics
Sunday Funnies
Sunday Funnies For 09-18-22
Linkfests:
In The Mailbox: 09.19.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Americans feeling pain of housing crisis: millions fear eviction under Bidenomics
In The Mailbox: 09.20.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Key congressman: Hunter Biden was 'operative for foreign influence,' belongs in jail
In The Mailbox: 09.22.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Mulvaney, Goolsbee and Santelli Finally Discuss Supply Side Energy Driven Inflation
In The Mailbox: 09.23.22 (Afternoon Edition)
In The Mailbox: 09.23.22 (Evening Edition)
Dave's Rule Five Roundup can be found here, as the Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama. Dave's been compiling the links for about the last three years. Bookmark his site and visit him for your Rule Five links! If it's not at the top of the page, scroll down to "Blog Archive" on the sidebar and look for "Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama".
Friday, September 23, 2022
Extra Bonus Free Gun Friday
Our Extra Bonus Free Gun Friday this week is a leather or combination polymer home for your sidekick. A Comfort Flex Custom (IWB) or Comfort Flex Deluxe Holster from Versacarry!
You can enter to win here.
Bonus Free Gun Friday
This week's bonus Free Gun Friday is an AR 5.56 in burnt bronze!
• LWRCI - IC DI Standard 5.56
• AimPoint- CompM5 AR Ready
• Liberty Safe - Freedom 30 Safe
• Ammunition Depot - $750.00 Gift Card
• Amend 2 - 5 black mags, round mag extension and swagYou can enter here.
Free Gun Friday
Today's Free Gun Friday requires you to have or obtain an AR-15 lower receiver to upgrade.
Ballistic Advantage BA AR-15 Enhanced Upper Receiver
Ballistic Advantage 15" AR-15 BA Logic Rail M-LOK Handguard
Ballistic Advantage 18" .223 Wylde SPR Fluted SS Rifle Length AR-15 Barrel
Timney Triggers $500 Gift Card
Timney Triggers Logo Hat
Timney Triggers Exclusive Limited Edition R.E.D. Tee
Timney Triggers Limited Edition Capsule Collection Tee
WOOX Furiosa ChassisYou can enter here.
Quote du jour
“There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man”- Winston S. Churchill
Thursday, September 22, 2022
Wednesday, September 21, 2022
Jesus Came to Martha's Vineyard!
Jesus came to Martha's Vineyard. No, not one of the Venezuelans named Jesus, Jesus himself, the very Son of God! The Bible speaks of this. In Matthew chapter 25, starting at verse 31 it tells us:
"When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory:
And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats:
And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left.
Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:
For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.
Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?
When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?
Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."
Like maybe an illegal immigrant? Martha's Vineyard put Jesus on a bus and sent him out of town as fast as they could!
That's how he dealt with the sheep. What about the goats?
"Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels:
For I was an hungred, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink:
I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.
Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?
Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.
And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal."
However, there is hope wherever there is still breath. Call upon the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and you will be saved. Thus endeth the lesson.
Quote du jour
"Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancoly that I love - that makes life and nature harmonize."- George Eliot
Tuesday, September 20, 2022
Quote du jour
“Some oxygen molecules help fires burn while others help make water, so sometimes it’s brother against brother.”- from a science essay quote, in "The Revenge Of Anguished English"
Monday, September 19, 2022
Quote du jour
Some have made the argument, bordering on the frivolous, that only those arms in existence in the 18th century are protected by the Second Amendment. We do not interpret constitutional rights that way. Just as the First Amendment protects modern forms of communications and the Fourth Amendment applies to modern forms of search, the Second Amendment extends, prima facie, to all instruments that constitute bearable arms, even those that were not in existence at the time of the founding.- Justice Anton Scalia
Sunday, September 18, 2022
The Cell Phone (a short story)
Editor's Note: Continuing our retrospective of some of the Mary M. Isaacs stories we have published. This one was published here 9/8/2020
…..It was early in the afternoon. He had taken a break from walking and was sitting on an old bench in the park of the little town. It seemed like a nice place to live; he was glad that he’d had a chance to see it before leaving the state. While he rested his feet, he took a water bottle from his backpack and had a drink before putting it away. He would look for a cafe or a grocery store deli while heading to the bus station. There was a long road ahead of him, and he would need food and more water for the journey.
The phone in his jacket pocket rang. He took it out, looked at the display for a moment, and then decided it was okay to answer right now. He held the phone up to his ear as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Hello.”
Her voice sounded like it always did now: controlled, tentative, intentionally neutral. “Hi, Jack. How are you?”
“I’m all right.”
A pause. Then, “Where are you these days?” The question was said in a light tone, but that didn’t fool him.
“I’m on the move. Passing through Colorado right now.”
“Where are you heading?” The end of the question was bitten off, as if she had realized she was going too far and would like to unsay it. Too late.
“Not sure right now. Somewhere.” It was the usual answer. And a truthful one.
There was more silence. “Do you need anything? I could send something General Delivery if you told me what town you were heading towards. Or where you’ll be sometime soon.” She qualified the explanation, to give him space.
He thought about it, and then replied in the negative. “But thank you.” He knew she was just trying to be helpful. Like when she gave him this phone, which she was paying for. He seldom used it, except for answering her calls. Sometimes. And he had disabled the GPS tracking as soon as he received it. He didn’t want to be dependent on anyone or anything; he didn’t want to be found, especially by her. But he kept the phone just to give her some peace of mind. He figured he owed it to her, after what had happened.
“Jack…” her voice trailed off uncertainly. He knew what that meant.
“I know.” He passed his hand over his eyes and considered whether he should say anything else, and then decided it was the least he could do for her. “I love you, too.”
There was another long silence. He could feel the intensity in it, and he waited, knowing she had something to say. But when she finally did speak, her abrupt abandonment of generalities caught him off guard.
“I’m not angry with you any more, Jack—don’t you know that? It wasn’t all your fault, your decision. I agreed, remember? I know it was wrong, but we did what we thought was best at the time. I forgive you. I’ve forgiven myself.”
He jerked upright. “But I can’t,” he responded harshly. “And I can’t forget what I did. Not ever.” He stopped speaking as suddenly as she had, earlier. “I have to go now.”
There was no response from the other end, but he knew it wasn’t silent where she was. He knew she was trying to keep her crying as quiet as possible. Their calls always ended like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He waited for her to speak again, trying to keep his own pain under control.
“Please take care, Jack. Be careful wherever you go. I’ll call again.”
“You do that.” He heard hesitancy, as if she was going to say something else, and then she hung up.
He turned off the phone and pocketed it. Then he leaned back on the park bench and closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. Her calls always had that effect, scrambling his thinking; this one would haunt him for quite a while. What would everything be like if it hadn’t happened? Was he going to be on the road like this forever? Would he ever be able to see her again? At that, he opened his eyes and sat forward, dragging his thoughts away from a past that could not be changed.
He took a deep breath, picked up his backpack, and got to his feet. He thought he’d seen a cafe sign down the road a bit. It was time to go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
copyright 2019, by Mary M. Isaacs
(included in the collection, Holy Innocence available on Amazon here)
…..It was early in the afternoon. He had taken a break from walking and was sitting on an old bench in the park of the little town. It seemed like a nice place to live; he was glad that he’d had a chance to see it before leaving the state. While he rested his feet, he took a water bottle from his backpack and had a drink before putting it away. He would look for a cafe or a grocery store deli while heading to the bus station. There was a long road ahead of him, and he would need food and more water for the journey.
The phone in his jacket pocket rang. He took it out, looked at the display for a moment, and then decided it was okay to answer right now. He held the phone up to his ear as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Hello.”
Her voice sounded like it always did now: controlled, tentative, intentionally neutral. “Hi, Jack. How are you?”
“I’m all right.”
A pause. Then, “Where are you these days?” The question was said in a light tone, but that didn’t fool him.
“I’m on the move. Passing through Colorado right now.”
“Where are you heading?” The end of the question was bitten off, as if she had realized she was going too far and would like to unsay it. Too late.
“Not sure right now. Somewhere.” It was the usual answer. And a truthful one.
There was more silence. “Do you need anything? I could send something General Delivery if you told me what town you were heading towards. Or where you’ll be sometime soon.” She qualified the explanation, to give him space.
He thought about it, and then replied in the negative. “But thank you.” He knew she was just trying to be helpful. Like when she gave him this phone, which she was paying for. He seldom used it, except for answering her calls. Sometimes. And he had disabled the GPS tracking as soon as he received it. He didn’t want to be dependent on anyone or anything; he didn’t want to be found, especially by her. But he kept the phone just to give her some peace of mind. He figured he owed it to her, after what had happened.
“Jack…” her voice trailed off uncertainly. He knew what that meant.
“I know.” He passed his hand over his eyes and considered whether he should say anything else, and then decided it was the least he could do for her. “I love you, too.”
There was another long silence. He could feel the intensity in it, and he waited, knowing she had something to say. But when she finally did speak, her abrupt abandonment of generalities caught him off guard.
“I’m not angry with you any more, Jack—don’t you know that? It wasn’t all your fault, your decision. I agreed, remember? I know it was wrong, but we did what we thought was best at the time. I forgive you. I’ve forgiven myself.”
He jerked upright. “But I can’t,” he responded harshly. “And I can’t forget what I did. Not ever.” He stopped speaking as suddenly as she had, earlier. “I have to go now.”
There was no response from the other end, but he knew it wasn’t silent where she was. He knew she was trying to keep her crying as quiet as possible. Their calls always ended like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He waited for her to speak again, trying to keep his own pain under control.
“Please take care, Jack. Be careful wherever you go. I’ll call again.”
“You do that.” He heard hesitancy, as if she was going to say something else, and then she hung up.
He turned off the phone and pocketed it. Then he leaned back on the park bench and closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. Her calls always had that effect, scrambling his thinking; this one would haunt him for quite a while. What would everything be like if it hadn’t happened? Was he going to be on the road like this forever? Would he ever be able to see her again? At that, he opened his eyes and sat forward, dragging his thoughts away from a past that could not be changed.
He took a deep breath, picked up his backpack, and got to his feet. He thought he’d seen a cafe sign down the road a bit. It was time to go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
copyright 2019, by Mary M. Isaacs
(included in the collection, Holy Innocence available on Amazon here)
Quote du jour
“Here, then, is the real problem of our negligence. We fail in our duty to study God's Word not so much because it is difficult to understand, not so much because it is dull and boring, but because it is work. Our problem is not a lack of intelligence or a lack of passion. Our problem is that we are lazy. ”- R C Sproul
Saturday, September 17, 2022
Best of the Web*
*…that Dave and I have seen all week!
(BTW, if you wonder where any of the links will take you, hover your cursor over the link.)
Political/SocioEconomic
Pro-Criminal Fetterman Puts Convicted Killers on His Senate Campaign Payroll
Not One Abortion Activist Has Been Arrested for Firebombing, Attacking Pregnancy Centers or Churches - but 87,000 IRS agents will be hired to make sure you pay your taxes!
Defensive Gun Use Among Blacks, Whites, Hispanics, Asians, and American Indians
Planned Parenthood Annual Report Shows It Killed 383,000 Babies in Abortions, More Than Ever Before
Culture
Feel Good Friday
Mike Tyson Talks About His Shift in Political Views
The world remembers when the Queen broke a 600-year-old tradition to honor 9/11
64 AWARDS, 29 FOR VALOR, A MEDAL OF HONOR: MAJ JOHN DUFFY, THE BADDEST DUDE EVER?
Don’t Buy The Historically Illiterate ‘Backlash’ Over Marvel’s Israeli Superhero
Photoshops/Cartoons/Graphics
Sunday Funnies
Sunday Funnies For 09-11-22
Science/Technology
The EV and Climate Change Scams
Linkfests:
Larwyn’s Linx: Illinois eager to join Democrats' pro-crime experiment
In The Mailbox: 09.12.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Bombshell: DOJ Conceals Records About Biden’s Use Of Federal Agencies To Influence Elections
In The Mailbox: 09.13.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Durham shocker: Russia Hoax “source” Danchenko was a paid FBI informant
In The Mailbox: 09.14.22
Larwyn’s Linx: The Democrats' Filibuster Scheme
In The Mailbox: 09.15.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Facebook spied on private messages of Americans who questioned 2020 election
In The Mailbox: 09.16.22
Dave's Rule Five Roundup can be found here, as the Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama. Dave's been compiling the links for about the last three years. Bookmark his site and visit him for your Rule Five links! If it's not at the top of the page, scroll down to "Blog Archive" on the sidebar and look for "Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama".
Friday, September 16, 2022
Double Bonus Free Gun Friday!
Today's Double Bonus Free Gun Friday is a GLx® 1-6x24mm FFP Rifle Scope and US-Made GLx 30mm Cantilever Scope mount!
To enter, click here.
Free Gun Friday
This week's Free Gun Friday is an Aero Precision varmint rifle!
- Aero Precision M4E1 Receiver set, Anodized Black
- ATLAS S-ONE 15" Handguard, Anodized Black
- 16" 5.56 Mid-length barrel
- Black Nitride Bolt Carrier Group
- BREACH Large Lever Charging Handle
- Magpul Furniture
- VG6 Delta
- Crimson Trace Hardline 4-12x40 BDC-Carbine
A total prize package worth over $1,450.00!You can enter here.
Quote du jour
“An investment in knowledge always pays the best interest.”- Benjamin Franklin Six figure student loans notwithstanding!
Thursday, September 15, 2022
Quote du jour
"The winds and the waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators."- Edward Gibbon
Wednesday, September 14, 2022
Quote du jour
“Almost every male character so far is a coward, a jerk or both. Tolkien is turning in his grave.”- Elon Musk, on "Rings of Power"
Tuesday, September 13, 2022
Monday, September 12, 2022
Quote du jour
"In poverty and other misfortunes of life, true friends are a sure refuge. The young they keep out of mischief; to the old they are a comfort and aid in their weakness, and those in the prime of life they incite to noble deeds."- Aristotle
Sunday, September 11, 2022
In Memoriam: Sandra W. Bradshaw, Killed Sept. 11, 2001
Sandy Bradshaw: 38, Loving wife, mother of two, stewardess on Flight 93 on 9/11/01.Twenty-one years have now passed, and her two children are grown. Her son Nathan was a baby, and her daughter Alexandria, at age three, little more than one when their mother was taken from them.
Sandy, along with four siblings, grew up on a chicken ranch, of all places, but she dreamed of "flying the friendly skies" as a stewardess. She first became a "stew" for US Airways in 1990, but was laid off five months later. She met the man who was to become her husband, working as a pilot for US Air. By December of that same year, she was working for United Airlines.
She'd been working as a stewardess for over ten years, but with the arrival of her babies, she was cutting back her hours to spend more time with them. She was only making two, two day trips a month, the minimum amount of time she could work, when she took off on that fateful day.
Phil Bradshaw got a phone call from his wife that morning:
"Have you seen what's happening? Have you heard?" She asked in a calm voice. "We've been hijacked."
And, in the typical, gutsy manner of those aboard Flight 93, She told her husband that she and the other attendants were boiling water to throw at the hijackers.
A brave lady, a loving mom, a beloved wife, a devoted daughter, a caring sister. The last moments of her life were spent making sure that Flight 93 did not become yet another aerial bomb to be used on helpless civilians. We honor her bravery and we honor her life.
Sandy is survived by her husband, a daughter, a son, and a step-daughter, her parents, three sisters, and her brother.
She touched many lives and those who were touched by her miss her. Twenty-one years later.
If I may add the same sentiments I have before, though I never met Sandy Bradshaw, I mourn for her and grieve with her family. The craven cowardice of those who would commit war by attacking defenseless civilians has not gone unavenged. Many of those who sowed the wind on 9/11 have reaped the whirlwind.
But, vengeance can never restore loss. What was taken from Sandy Bradshaw's family can never be replaced. Nor that of the 2,995 other families who lost loved ones on that day.
But, we can remember them. We can hold them in our hearts. And we can vow that so much as is in our power, it will never happen again.
Our hearts go out to the family of Sandy Bradshaw today. I hope that in some small way I have captured a bit of her essence to share. Our hearts are with you this day.
Rest in peace, Sandy.
You can read more about Sandy here:
United Stewardess Sandra W. Bradshaw
Flight crew: Sandra Bradshaw
United Heroes
Sandra Bradshaw
There's a video tribute to Sandy on You Tube here.
In Memoriam: Dwight David Darcy, Killed Sept. 11, 2001
As a part of Project 2996, I'm going to write to you about an individual I never met. I've never even heard his name. I only knew him as a part of a group: The people who perished on 9/11.
He was not a very imposing man, from his picture. I imagine you could pass him on the street and not think twice about it. Just like many of us. But, Dwight, if I may be so bold, had already lived through one World Trade Center attack before that fateful day.
He was there in 1993 when the WTC was bombed the first time. It made him a little jumpy. Sudden loud noises would startle him. For years, his wife, Veronica said, "Every time there was a bang, he would jump." But that did not deter him from returning to work.
Dwight was raising two sons, Kieran and Ryan, with his wife, living in Bronxville, N.Y., a little village about fifteen miles north of midtown Manhattan, home to about 6,500 people.
He was a Senior Attorney at the Port Authority of NY and NJ. He'd been with the Port Authority for 25 years. He was 55 at the time of the attack. A few years older than I was then. Years younger than I am now.
He served on the parish board of the St. Joseph's Roman Catholic Church in Bronxville. He loved opera. He and his wife were frequent attendees at performances at the Met and the City Opera. He was a member of the New York Athletic Club.
He had a brother, Keith T. Darcy of Pound Ridge, NY, and a sister, Joan D. Sorgi of Darien, CT. who survived him, as well as an aunt, Claire Menagh of Manhattan, an uncle, George Kindermann of New London, NH, and several nieces and nephews.
A family man, with familial ties to other families. Much like you and I.
Here's what another 2,996 blogger said about Dwight:
Dwight was a Bronx native, graduated from Fordham Prep, Fordham University, and the Fordham University School of Law. He began his legal career as an Assistant D.A. in the Bronx in 1971, and joined the Port Authority in 1977. While at the Port Authority, Dwight specialized in labor relations, serving for many years as the Head of the Labor Relations Division.
Dwight was very active in charitable works in New York City. He served as president of the Catholic Big Brothers of NY, as well as, the president of the Parish Council of St. Joseph's Church in Bronxville. Dwight was also voted a life member of the Society of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick of NY, and made an affiliate member of the Marist Brothers for his many years of service on the board of Mt. St. Michael Academy in the Bronx.
WHAT WAS DWIGHT LIKE?
"We kind of grew up together at the authority," said his friend and colleague Jeffery Green, the general counsel for the authority's legal team, made of up 75 lawyers. "He was very calm and logical and had a good sense of humor," Green said.
Outside of work, Darcy followed his favorite sports teams: The New York Yankees, the New York Giants and college basketball teams, Green said. "He was a devoted father and sports fan. He was a very big Yankee and Giants football fan. I would see him at the games."
Darcy had a way of winning people over. "Everyone who met him liked him. He took pride in his work and his family. He was a really good individual," Green said.
I received an email from someone who knew Dwight. They had this to say:
I first met Mr. Darcy in 1968. I was a Freshman at Mt. St. Michael Academy, a private Marist (Catholic) High School in the Bronx, NY. Although he had a Law degree, Dwight Darcy started his working life as an English teacher at the “Mount”. I had him for English 1 that year. I was very interested in history, and Mr. Darcy made it a point, during his lectures, to not only teach the fine points of English Grammar and Composition, but also expounded on American and World History, to which he added a large dose of Morals and Ethics. I was always fascinated by the breadth and depth of his knowledge, and made it a point to have discussions with him on these topics, even outside of class hours. He was an excellent role model, and I considered him an inspiration and mentor. He was a dynamic and dedicated teacher, and he had a profound effect on me. He is one of the few teachers I ever had, that I truly remember with fondness.
When I heard that he left teaching to practice law for the Port Authority, I knew that he was really following his true love, which he considered the true arena of human interaction. But I knew that future students would lose the opportunity to meet a truly remarkable person.
On 9-11, I was overwhelmingly heartbroken to learn that he did not survive the attack. It seemed like a horribly cruel injustice. Here was a man who was so kind, so dynamic, so profound, and so cognizant of the needs of others, who was caught up, with so many unfortunate others, in the effects of incredible madness and evil, and the result an overwhelming hatred of all mankind. I really could not believe it had actually happened. But I remember him with honor and respect, and with a deep sense of loss.
I hope this helps in illustrating the truly excellent person that he was.
Michael Cutrera
Dwight went to work September 11th, 2001, like he had on many other mornings, I would imagine, not dreaming of the horror and chaos that would await him. He worked on the 66th floor of the North tower. According to a co-worker, he'd had surgery on his foot several weeks before and was still in a cast. It would have made it difficult for him to take the stairs to flee the building.
He died at the hands of terrorists who did not care that Dwight was president of the Catholic Big Brothers of NY, where he helped disadvantaged youths. They did not care about the grieving widow and sons he would leave behind. The brother and sister, aunt and uncle left with a sense of terrible loss. The friends and acquaintances who would miss his kind words and encouragement. His death was not meaningless, because there is still meaning even when evil men commit evil deeds. His death was tragic in that it cut him off from whatever productive years he had left , the communion he spent with family and friends and the good deeds he would have done had he lived.
And though I never met Mr. Darcy, I mourn for him and grieve with his family. The craven cowardice of those who would commit war by attacking defenseless civilians has not gone unavenged. Many of those who sowed the wind on 9/11 have reaped the whirlwind.
But, vengeance can never restore loss. What was taken from Dwight Darcy's family can never be replaced. Nor that of the 2,995 other families who lost loved ones on that day.
But, we can remember them. We can hold them in our hearts. And we can vow that so much as is in our power, it will never happen again.
Our hearts go out to the family of Dwight Darcy today. I hope that in some small way I have captured a bit of his essence to share. Our hearts are with you this day.
Rest in peace, Mr. Darcy.
"Profiles in Grief" of The New York Times
Paid notice NYT
A Step in the Right Direction
Ellis
Quote du jour
Our Lord in his infinite wisdom and superabundant love, sets so high a value upon his people's faith that he will not screen them from those trials by which faith is strengthened.- Charles H. Spurgeon
Saturday, September 10, 2022
Best of the Web*
*…that Dave and I have seen all week!
(BTW, if you wonder where any of the links will take you, hover your cursor over the link.)
Political/SocioEconomic
Mortgage rates almost double from year ago, nearing 6 percent
The 10th Anniversary of the Benghazi Attack Arrives This Sunday, The Events Look Different Against Latest Deep State Revelations
Culture
Feel Good Friday
The Gibson’s Case: Evil’s Last Gasp?
Ten dead, 15 wounded in Canadian mass stabbing spree - because guns are bad!
The Ultimate Women’s Issue, 2022
Suspect In Memphis Woman’s Murder Began His Criminal Career at Age 11
Employees Shocked as Lesbian Vegan Doughnut Shop Goes Out of Business
Civilization: The Screams Of History
Photoshops/Cartoons/Graphics
Sunday Funnies
Sunday Funnies For 09-04-22
Science/Technology
New Study Shows Wearing Disposable Mask Did More Harm Than Good
The Mysteries of Long COVID-19 -Victor Davis Hanson
Linkfests:
Larwyn’s Linx: Biden Puts the ‘Total’ in Totalitarianism
In The Mailbox: 09.06.22
Larwyn’s Linx: It Isn’t Hard to Cheat
In The Mailbox: 09.06.22 (Evening Edition)
Larwyn’s Linx: Judge halts prosecutors from using Trump Mar-a-Lago materials for criminal investigation
In The Mailbox: 09.08.22 (Afternoon Edition)
Larwyn’s Linx: How to survive our electricity crisis
In The Mailbox: 09.08.22 (Evening Edition)
Larwyn’s Linx: The Brief: Merrick Garland Loses In Court
In The Mailbox: 09.09.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Iranian Terrorists Will Get Billions of Dollars Before Congress Can Review New Nuclear Deal
Dave's Rule Five Roundup can be found here, as the Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama. Dave's been compiling the links for about the last three years. Bookmark his site and visit him for your Rule Five links! If it's not at the top of the page, scroll down to "Blog Archive" on the sidebar and look for "Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama".
Friday, September 9, 2022
Free Gun Friday
This week's Free Gun Friday is to Win a Springfield Prodigy 5" + 1000 Rounds or a Springfield Prodigy 4.25" + 1000 Rounds! 2 Winners!
To enter, click here.
Thursday, September 8, 2022
Quote du jour
We went from safe streets to record crime. We went from a secure border to no border. We went from $2 gas to $5 gas and we went from stable prices to record inflation.— Rep. Jim Jordan
Wednesday, September 7, 2022
Quote du jour
“Decide whether or not the goal is worth the risks involved. If it is, stop worrying.”- Amelia Earhart
Tuesday, September 6, 2022
Quote du jour
"Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it. It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the deserts that our lives have already become."- C S Lewis
Monday, September 5, 2022
Quote du jour
They want diversity of appearance but demand conformity of thought- Jack Posobiec, on liberals
Sunday, September 4, 2022
A Gift of Flowers
Her house was some distance from the city where she worked. Visitors almost never came to call, so she spent most of her time by herself. Writing of any kind helped keep the loneliness and isolation at bay. She wanted to share thoughts and discoveries with someone, though, which is how the letters first began. They filled a deep need. But over the years, the contact developed into more for her than just casual conversing—much more: it became deeply interwoven into her life.
Her writing desk was in front of a large window. She had put the desk there on purpose. The garden she had planted and worked in at least a little every day was one of her great joys; through that particular window she could view it best, all the year round. In spring and summer, the sun’s warmth poured in onto the desk, the chair, and her; in fall and winter, the wind made patterns with the storm clouds, and the sound of falling rain was soothing. In the day she enjoyed the colors of the plants and the sky; at night, moonlight put a silver wash over everything, or darkness made shadowy shapes. All times and seasons fed her imagination.
Between letters, she spent many hours at her desk, writing simple, old-fashioned stories that no one wanted to publish. They were “bland, boring, unexciting”, she was told. In her heart, she didn’t really believe that; nevertheless, it was discouraging. But she could never bring herself to write the sorts of stories that were being accepted for publication. They were trash, in her opinion, and they disturbed her deeply; she felt that they couldn’t possibly be good for anyone to read. If writing things like that was the price to pay for being published, then she would remain unpublished forever. She continued to write the kind of stories she wanted to write; perhaps one day someone would appreciate and enjoy them.
That late afternoon she looked out the window and saw flowers everywhere: yellow sunflowers beginning to open; red geraniums in earthenware pots; pink and purple hydrangea bushes framing the window. Her freesias and daffodils were finished for the year, but daylilies had taken their place. Marigolds, daisies, forget-me-nots, alyssum--wherever there was room for them, flowers grew.
Her garden produced beauty; her letters and stories produced uncertainty. It was an interesting, if disheartening, contrast.
Sophie looked back down at the letter in front of her. In most of them, she included reflections about her days or shared what she hoped would be amusing or distracting anecdotes. She asked questions which would probably never be answered, but she asked them anyway; one never knew, after all. From time to time she wondered why she continued to do this. Why indeed? Maybe this should be the last letter. She’d said that before, too, many times…but she did know why she wrote them and knew that she would probably keep on writing. She was good at making up excuses for his silences; she even found herself believing the excuses after a while. A wry smile crossed her face at that admission while she folded her letter.
She slipped the letter into its envelope, sealed and addressed it, and then put on a stamp. Although the mail truck had almost certainly gone by, she could still put the letter into the mailbox and raise the little red flag. She always enjoyed doing that; it was like one of her old-time stories come to life. Sometimes she wished that real life was more like those stories; sadly, most of it was like the ugly and depressing ones now being published.
She went through the living room to the front door, out onto the porch, and down the steps; it was only a short walk across the front yard to the mailbox by the gate. Everything was peaceful and still in her garden. It had been a beautiful day, with large white clouds moving slowly across a deep blue sky. What a lovely painting that would have made, she thought; she had described it in her letter. The shadows were lengthening now and the sky was turning pale, as the afternoon slowly advanced into evening.
She reached the gate and opened the mailbox, expecting it to be as empty as it usually was, apart from ads and bills. But today it wasn’t empty; today there was something different inside: a padded envelope nearly filling the space. Sophie took it out of the mailbox and then stood still when she saw who it was from. She stared at it, hardly believing what she was seeing. She seldom received anything from him other than a few cherished postcards or brief notes. What could this be?
Sophie turned the envelope over and opened it carefully. Between two pieces of cardboard was a photo folder; slipped into the opening was a small watercolor painting of a handful of flowers. There were daffodils, as brilliant yellow as the sunshine through her window; fragile freesias, in orange and pink, red and purple; and tiny blue forget-me-nots on thin green stems. The colors glowed intensely, as if bright sunlight was shining through each petal. She smiled with surprise and delight while she looked at the beautiful image. The flowers in the painting were as lovely as the real ones scattered throughout her garden--more so to her, considering the source. And these flowers would last forever; these colors would never fade.
She walked slowly back towards the front porch, still looking at the delicate painting. Her own letter couldn’t be mailed yet; she wanted to tell him how much happiness he’d given her with this gift of flowers. She began thinking about how she would say that…
Upon entering the house, Sophie went back to her desk and sat down with the painting in her hand. The writing on the envelope was the same as on the small stack of notes she kept in a desk drawer, but there had never been a gift before, and such a gift. It had been painted for her! From her own descriptions of some of her favorite flowers! It was totally unexpected, and therefore doubly to be treasured.
She knew where it would go--on the desk right in front of her where she could see it always. Somewhere in the house there was a small picture stand, but she would find it later. At the moment all she wanted to do was look at the painting, and think about the work that went into it, the time that went into it, the hands that created it. But why had he sent this? What did it mean? Anything? Or nothing? She wished she knew the answer.
Then she noticed that the painting had become slightly askew in the folder. She took it out to straighten it and discovered that it wasn’t a painting after all—it was a greeting card. She looked blankly at the printed information on the back, and then opened it. There was a hand-written message inside: “This card company accepted some of my work. Good quality materials & reproduction. Looks real, doesn’t it? Could almost fool people.” She read and reread the words, as the joyful happiness faded inside her. She could think of nothing to say in response that wouldn’t show her to be a complete idiot. After putting the card and her letter on the desk, she leaned back in her chair.
She sat for a long time in silence, while the sun went down and twilight shadowed her garden; the bright colors became only memories. Then she took a deep breath and reached over to her old CD player to click it on, pressing the button until she found the track she wanted: “Moonlight Waltz”. In a moment, the solo piano notes floated out into the room, romantic and sweet, but painfully sad.
As she sat, filled with emptiness, she imagined being asked to dance; imagined saying “yes”; imagined standing up and moving into his arms, the strong, artistic hands holding her and guiding her steps as she held onto him, leaning into his warmth. She closed her eyes and fell into the music, lost once again in familiar dreams and fantasies… all the while knowing the answer to her earlier question: that no matter how deeply she cared, it would never really mean anything.
It would always mean nothing.
_______________________________________________________________________________
Copyright 2022, Mary M. Isaacs. From a forthcoming book
Quote du jour
"If sinners will be damned, at least let them leap to hell over our bodies. And if they will perish, let them perish with our arms about their knees, imploring them to stay. If hell must be filled, at least let it be in the teeth of our exertions, and let not one go there unwarned and unprayed for."- C H Spurgeon
Saturday, September 3, 2022
Best of the Web*
*…that I have seen all week!
(BTW, if you wonder where any of the links will take you, hover your cursor over the link.)
Political/SocioEconomic
Why Do Democrats Hate Women?
Who Has the Worst Election Laws? These 10 States, According to Scorecard
Drowned children lay bare surge in migrant deaths, disappearances at southern border under Biden
Canada Is Euthanizing Its Sick and Poor. Welcome to World of Government Health Care
Colorado's sleeper Senate race just got real
Culture
Feel Good Friday
Florida newlywed, 34, is arrested for trying to solicit a prostitute on his HONEYMOON as wife slept
At Democrats’ Bidding, Google And Yelp Censor Searches For Life-Saving Pregnancy Centers
Why the Marine Corps Maintains Its Private Herd of American Bison
Photoshops/Cartoons/Graphics
Sunday Funnies
Sunday Funnies For 08-28-22
Science/Technology
Stuff That’s Hard to Do (Falcon9 Starlink night launch)
Democrats And Testosterone Do Not Mix
Discarded hotdog napkin helps solve cold case murder
Leaky battleship in Texas begins trip for $35M repairs
Linkfests:
Larwyn’s Linx: Conventional Wisdom is an Oxymoron
In The Mailbox: 08.29.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Biden DNI Makes Troubling Announcement About Documents Seized During Trump Raid
In The Mailbox: 08.30.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Kash Patel: Seized Documents Showed DOJ and FBI Corruption in Russia Hoax
In The Mailbox: 08.31.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Californians asked to keep AC at 78 and nix electric vehicle charges to spare grid
In The Mailbox: 09.01.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Visibly shaken Tucker Carlson calls dangerous Biden speech truly nuts
In The Mailbox: 09.02.22
Dave's Rule Five Roundup can be found here, as the Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama. Dave's been compiling the links for about the last three years. Bookmark his site and visit him for your Rule Five links! If it's not at the top of the page, scroll down to "Blog Archive" on the sidebar and look for "Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama".
Quote du jour
When Joe Biden was looking around for people to identify as "fascist threats to our Constitution", a mirror would have come in handy!- Mike B
Friday, September 2, 2022
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