Burberry Factory Outlet An excerpt from Kostya Kennedy

An excerpt from Kostya Kennedy

While the Hall of Famers and other important baseball people tend to spend induction weekend at Cooperstown sprawling Otesaga Resort Hotel, Pete Rose has always found his own accommodations. In 2012 he and his girlfriend Kiana Kim and her children, Ashton and Cassie, stayed in a two bedroom apartment above the downtown Safe At Home memorabilia store where Rose signed autographs for a fee throughout the weekend. Whenever they would look out the front windows before one of Pete signing sessions, Main Street was already thick with people crowded near the store entrance, many of them wearing Rose jerseys. “Wow!” said Cassie, 14, the first time she saw this. Trundling down the single flight of stairs a few minutes later, Rose quipped to Kiana, “Can beat the commute, babe.”

The 133 room redbrick Otesaga opened more than 100years ago, and Hall of Famers have slept there or at its sister property, the nearby CooperInn, during just about every induction weekend there has ever been. People gather by the enormous wooden front doors, and out back a spectacular terrace overlooks broad, immaculate green lawns and weathered oaks and glinting Otsego Lake, the Glimmerglass.

There can be an air of formality in the lobby and main rooms of the Otesaga, but things are a lot looser downstairs at the Hawkeye Bar Grill, where gaggles of Hall of Famers wind up at the end of each day. You might find stolen base king Rickey Henderson holding court at a table of 12, or come upon Phillies lefty Steve Carlton standing in the doorway of the marble topped men room talking about how to set up a batter for the kill. Tony Perez could walk in with one of his sons, inspiring Dave Winfield to bounce out of his armchair to say hello. Baseball front office types and team owners mill around with drinks in hand, and over by where the rock’n house band plays, you might see a 13 time American League All Star like George Brett start moving it like he means it on the dance floor.

“If Pete came through the door,” said Reds Hall of Famer Joe Morgan, standing near the bar and looking around the place, “I think everyone would stop what they were doing and go over and see him.”

But Rose and Kiana were half a mile away, alone with the kids in the fine apartment, which belongs to his pal Andrew Vilacky, the Safe At Home proprietor. Along with hardwood floors and a renovated master bath, the apartment is equipped with a couple of large flat screen televisions, which Rose naturally made extensive use of. When he not watching sports, Pete is the FoxNews type. “The guy who invented TV? I love that guy!” Rose says.

Rose presence touches that MainStreet apartment even when he not there. Two seats from the old Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia, autographed by Pete, lean against one wall, and a corner of the living room has been given over to a metallic statue of Rose sliding headfirst. Near the front door hangs a T shirt also signed that reads HEY BUD TEAR DOWN THE WALL/GET PETE OFF MAIN STREET AND INTO THE HALL, AS WELL AS A BASEBALL UNDER GLASS. TO THE GREAT PETE ROSE. LOVE HIM, HATE HIM, YOU CAN IGNORE HIM, and it signed, REGGIE JACKSON, MR. OCTOBER.

Perhaps the most interesting piece of Roseabilia in Cooperstown, however, stands not in Vilacky apartment but a few doors down, on display at the Heroes of Baseball Wax Museum. Strange, whimsical and, yes, a little creepy, the museum features a hodgepodge of about three dozen life sized wax figures spread among its three floors replicas of Satchel Paige and Ted Williams, of GeorgeW. Bush throwing out a first pitch in the World Series after 9/11, of Wade Boggs on the back of a police horse after winning the World Series, of characters from the movie A League of Their Own. The wax figure of Rose bears no facial resemblance to him whatsoever, but you know who it is by the old style Reds cap and the pin striped vest uniform number14. The figure stands at a podium on a stage, and behind it a simply drawn sign announces national baseball hall of fame induction ceremony. Benches have been set up in front of this scene, and visitors to the museum can sit, gaze toward the podium and talk about what Pete might say up there if he ever did get the chance. More people do this than you might expect.

Rose Hall of Fame worthiness has come under renewed discussion in recent years as players linked to performance enhancing drugs have become eligible for Cooperstown, in particular two at Rose level of accomplishment: Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens. Neither has come close to induction in their two years on the ballot, and neither have other potentially deserving players tainted by suspected steroid use. Still, all have had a fair chance; Bonds and Clemens may yet get Burberry Factory Outlet in.

Steroids were never an option for Rose “It too late for me,” he told a Reds trainer as PEDs began to proliferate in the mid 1980s and he is often asked his views on players who have used those drugs. At times, even as recently as last year, Rose has referred to Alex Rodriguez as his favorite player (he has also had A Rod programmed as a “favorite” contact in his phone), and he has suggested that players such as Bonds and Clemens are indeed Hall worthy. But Rose has also cast sharp aspersions, saying he could only imagine what men such as Babe Ruth and Roger Maris would think to know that “guys came along and cheated their way past those records.” When asked to weigh the sin of his betting on baseball against that of ingesting steroids, he has said, “To all the young kids out there, I say don do either one but if you do the one that I didn do, you have a good chance of hurting your body in the long run.”

At the same time that baseball has over the past decade adopted an increasingly strong stance against performance enhancing drugs, its resistance to its teams having an affiliation with gambling interests has softened. The Yankees installed the Mohegan Sun Sports Bar just above Monument Park at their new stadium. (Though of course there no gambling in the bar, the Mohegan Sun is a prominent casino, 212hours northeast of YankeeStadium.) The Tigers invite guests to their MotorCity Casino Hotel Champions Club at Comerica Park. Several other teams feature casino presences including, yes, the Reds, who display prominent ads for Cincinnati downtown Horseshoe Casino. When the Mets opened CitiField in 2009, they did so with Harrah on board as a “signature partner” and with its Caesars’ Club restaurant as a core attraction.

The clear and enormous danger of Rose baseball gambling lies less in its own crude execution and more in its implications. “The Pete Rose case represents the larger issue of gambling prevalence in America,” says Fay Vincent, the former baseball commissioner who, as deputy to that office, was deeply involved in Rose 1989 banishment from the game. “It is always out there, and it is a real threat to professional sports.” The crux, as ever: Gambling can lead a player to intentionally influence the outcome of a game in order to benefit a wager. A player might try to lose. And while fans will continue to pay to watch games played by athletes engorged by drugs, folks are not likely to stand for games that are not on the level.

As unsettling as it is to imagine an active major league player engaged in baseball betting, a manager involvement may be even more ominous. A corrupted manager for example, one who might want to throw a game as a way to help erase a personal gambling debt would have ample opportunity to make lineup and strategy decisions that work to undermine his team.

Even if a manager only wagered on his team to win, he might be swayed to give that short term gambling interest precedence over his team long term needs. Theoretically, for example, in the mid 1980s as Reds manager Pete Rose bet heavily and regularly on his team, he might have called upon an already overtaxed relief pitcher to try to win a particular game rather than preserve the pitcher for the long haul of the season. While this may seem a trivial baseball subtlety to those outside the game, it a real issue on the ground. So it should be noted that Rose had a lefthander in the bullpen, Rob Murphy, who in 1987 and ’88 appeared in 163games, the most in the National League. Murphy was effective (he had a 3.06ERA over that time) but not remarkably so. In ’88, for example, he went 0 6.

“The idea that Pete might have overused me or overused some other pitcher I was in the pen with, I never saw that at all,” says Murphy. “I just about say it is a ridiculous idea. If anything, I wanted to pitch even more times than I got in.” Murphy, who involved in thoroughbred breeding, is still in touch with Pete. “Early May, I know I might get a call,” says Murphy. “Pete will want to talk about who I like in the Kentucky Derby.”

There no indication, either through game logs or player testimony, that Rose betting influenced how he managed. But it could have. Speculation, sure. Evidence? Not yet. Rose himself, not surprisingly, says wagering had no impact on his managing although there always the possibility that his stance will change. If there is enough money to be made, as even those closest to Burberry Factory Outlet Rose will tell you, Pete can change his mind on just about anything.

Of all the ways one might characterize the differences and similarities between Rose and those players known to have used performance enhancing drugs the Hall of Shamers, as it were it comes to this: Rose has been banished for the incalculable damage he might have done to the foundation of the game. Steroid users are reviled for the damage they actually did.

In 2009 a special and unexpected visitor stopped by to see Rose at his table on induction weekend: Sparky Anderson. The two had been on uneasy terms ever since Rose banishment in 1989 Sparky, the Cincinnati manager through most of the couldn get over how Pete had lied so brazenly about his gambling and had not spoken in many years. As Anderson approached, frail but still vital at 75, a smile broke over his creased face, and then a mock scowl. When he got to Rose, he took off his baseball cap and, holding it by the bill, thwacked Rose back and forth about the head, muttering no goods at him all the while. “He knocked my cap sideways!” Rose later said, laughing. It was the scolding of a boy who had strayed, a what am I gonna do with you! display of benevolent pique. Anderson had known Rose for nearly 40years. “I owed him that visit. He played his heart out for me,” Sparky said later to friends at the Otesaga.

People around Rose say that for the rest of that day, after Sparky had chatted for a while and then left, and the tear between them seemed suddenly, miraculously mended, Pete was in an exceptionally light mood easier and more forgiving than usual, with all of his ebullience coming through.

About a year after that Cooperstown exchange, on an August afternoon in 2010, Rose and one of his steady associates, memorabilia dealer Charles Sotto, drove out from LosAngeles to visit Anderson at his home in Thousand Oaks. Sparky was thinner still than he had been in Cooperstown, smaller, it seemed, in every way, and his chalk white hair was yellowing at the sides. Although the day was not at all cool, he wore a jacket inside the house. Sparky and Pete sat at a table and drank iced tea and told each other stories they both already knew about the Big Red Machine, Anderson own playing career and Pete hit record, and about so many people they had known in the game that had once been everything to both of them. Sparky had some trouble hearing Rose, had trouble at times deciphering the rapid, Roseian chatter scat that had once been part of the sound track of his life.

They phoned former Reds coach George Scherger and left messages on his voice mail Sparky and Pete calling. Together! and they took a few snapshots standing side by side in the kitchen.

Six weeks after that visit to Thousand Oaks and six weeks before the November morning when Sparky would quietly pass away Rose officially returned to the ballpark in Cincinnati. The Reds had invited him to commemorate, before a Saturday night game on Sept.11, 2010, the 25thanniversary of his 4,192nd hit. On the big screen, video aired of the Ty breaking atbat and the pandemonium surrounding it, and then a recorded message played through the stadium: Pete voice recalling that night and hailing his teammates and thanking the fans who “made everything possible made everything what it was.” The sky was clear, and the evening sun still shone.

Rose was driven out in a cart from the bullpen, traveling in foul territory along the rightfield line until he signaled to the driver, “Here, this is fine.” The cart stopped, and Pete lumbered out and began to walk toward first base as the crowd rustled and cheered, the hooting increasing when Pete neared the bag and, once there, raised his right leg and stomped his foot hard upon it. Home again. Cries of “Peeete! Peeete!” came out of the stands and then a spontaneous chant: “Hall of Fame! Hall of Fame! Hall of Fame!”

The whole scene, this particular Cincinnati homecoming, almost never happened. The casino operators said that was Burberry Factory Outlet absurd, that of course Pete should go and appear at the Great American Ball Park, and that he could just come over to the casino afterward. They would push the start time back; the customers could wait.

And would he still collect his check, the full amount? Pete wanted to know, making sure to get a guaranteed yes.

The purpose of the casino dinner was a roast of Rose, and teammates came up one by one to give him a zing: Tom Browning, George Foster, Tony Perez, Ken GriffeySr. About 500people were in the room, seated at round tables of 10 or 12. Rose son Petey took the microphone briefly and made a crack about his dad retro chic clothes. At one point the lights dimmed and a clip aired of Rose singing in an old Aqua Velva commercial.

Then Pete himself got up there. By now the night was nearing its end, and the coffee cups were half full on the tables and the wine had been drunk. Everyone attention was right up front on Pete, this being the moment they had all really come for. Rose zapped Perez (for his unusual use of English) and Griffey (for his batting style), and Rose told the one about the time Petey had phoned him from the minor leagues, battling through an 0 for 22 stretch, to ask his father the best way to get out of a slump. And Rose answered, “How the hell would I know? I never been in a slump. Call [Dave] Concepcion.”

Not only was PeteJr. there, but Tyler Rose as well. Maybe what happened next was because those two were in the room (it was so rare to have his sons together), and maybe it was also because of the aftereffects of the celebration at the ballpark that night and having so recently seen Sparky in the condition he was in, and also having those teammates in the room around him, but what happened next, to everyone great surprise, is that Pete broke down. His voice did not simply waver or crack, he began to sob, much as he had while standing on first base 25years ago that night.

“I was covering this dinner, and it was kind of standard stuff,” says John Erardi, a reporter for The Cincinnati Enquirer, “but then Rose started to lose it, and that really got your attention. It felt completely unscripted, completely sincere and very powerful. I had covered Rose for more than 25years and hadn ever heard him like that.”

Rose told the room that he finally understood what it meant to “reconfigure” his life. He said, “I disrespected baseball.” He looked at Perez calling him, “like a brother to me” and apologized directly, and also apologized to the other teammates from the Big Red Machine. “I a hardhe Burberry Factory Outlet aded guy,” Rose choked out. “But I a lot better guy standing here tonight. I guarantee everyone in this room I will never disrespect you again.” As he fought to get his composure, he added, “I love the fans, I love the game of baseball, and I love Cincinnati baseball.”

Burberry Factory Outlet An excerpt from Keith Ellison

An excerpt from Keith Ellison

From the Black Bottom to Cane River

I have lived my adult life in Minneapolis, Minnesota, but I was born in Detroit, Michigan. My American journey actually began long before that. My story is best told through the people who raised me, because their history shaped the man I have become. Both of my parents grew up in a Jim Crow America where opportunities for people of color were limited. Both of them managed to fight through adversity to build success, but their paths were quite different.

My mother was nurtured and even cosseted by a strong family unit that provided the opportunity for her to grow. In fact, her nickname was Pet. My dad, however, had to fight a culture, a city, a nation, and sometimes his own family. His constant battles made him tough and callused enough to forge ahead to success but, at the same time, left him altered by the experience.

Leonard Ellison Sr. was born in Detroit in 1928. Today it is one of the most complex cities in the United States, filled with both great pride and serious challenges. It has some of the most culturally diverse neighborhoods in the country and also some of the most racially polarized. It has some of the most beautiful architecture surrounded by some of our most dilapidated communities. It is Burberry Factory Outlet the original home of Motown Records and General Motors. It brought the world everyone from Eminem to Madonna, from Dr. Ben Carson to Charles A. Lindbergh, from Henry Ford to Berry Gordy.

Though we were both born in Detroit, my dad and I grew up in different times and in different cities. I was raised on the West Side, which was relatively affluent and safe. It’s where my father wanted to live as an adult.

The Detroit of his childhood was best known for the Black Bottom, made famous in August Wilson’s play Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Many people think that the area got its name from the color of the people who settled there, but the real reason was its black soil.

Before World War I, the area was predominantly Jewish, but after the Great Migration of black Americans from the rural South to the northern industrial cities like Detroit, the color of its inhabitants began to match its soil. The Black Bottom evolved into Detroit’s central community of black owned businesses, lodges, churches, and nightclubs. It became renowned for music and entertainment: blues, swing, and jazz.

Every major urban area has a center of black culture, and certain streets have an iconic status. In D Burberry Factory Outlet etroit, it was Hastings Street, which was to the Black Bottom what Bourbon Street is to New Orleans, Beale Street is to Memphis, and 125th Street is to Harlem.

My dad loved to regale my brothers and me with stories about Paradise Valley, another name for the Black Bottom. As a teen, he would sneak into the nightclubs on Hastings to see Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Billy Eckstine, and Pearl Bailey. Aretha Franklin started her singing career in her father’s church, New Bethel Baptist, also on that street. By the time I was growing up in the 1970s, most of Hastings Street had long since been bulldozed to create the Chrysler Freeway segment of Interstate 75. But my father talked with pride about the hustlers who displayed such class and cachet that they almost had celebrity status on the streets. He made the era sound so thrilling and exciting that I could vividly imagine it.

This was my dad’s world during the height of segregation segregation northern style. There were no Whites Only signs per se, but you knew where you could and could not go. Blacks everyw Burberry Factory Outlet here faced structural isolation and denial. The silver lining of this oppression was social cohesion. The doctors, undertakers, and lawyers, as well as the pimps and the hustlers, all lived in the same segregated community and contributed to the tapestry of the Black Bottom. My dad was exposed not only to the greatest entertainers and most successful professionals but also to the worst of the criminal element, and he was influenced by it all. The Black Bottom contributed to my father’s character and soul as much as his unique upbringing.

My father was the son of a farmer turned factory worker turned entrepreneur. My grandfather Zollie Crawford Ellison, born in 1896, was a part of America’s Great Migration, detailed in Isabel Wilkerson’s The Warmth of Other Suns. He originally hailed from a farm near Sardis, in Burke County, Georgia. His father, Crawford Ellison, was born into slavery in 1862. And his grandfather Jacob Ellison lived and died a slave.

We knew all this family history because my father and his only brother, Uncle Bob, would sit around and talk about these men. They drilled those names and their stories into my four brothers and me. They gave us a sense of belonging and meaning and purpose. We knew we had a slave heritage, but it wasn’t given to us with shame. My dad always exuded pride and strength. For him, that heritage was a source of pride, a mark of perseverance, of survival over terrible odds.

As a young man, Grandpa Zollie left the farm and “went north” to work in Detroit’s factories. He wasn’t educated not in a classroom but he was a genius when it came to understanding how to succeed in this world. Grandpa Zollie was smart and industrious. In addition to working in the factory, he also saved his money and acquired several residential rental properties and opened a neighborhood store.

My grandfather was a driven man and not someone to mess with. I will never forget jumping in the car with my dad to check on Grandpa Zollie after we got a call that some guy had tried to rob his store. My grandpa, who stood just five foot four inches, had thrown the would be robber through the display window.

“A strong farm boy,” my dad joked, shaking his head as we stood surveying the broken glass on the sidewalk. Grandpa Zollie had a few scratches on his knuckles but otherwise was none the worse for wear.

I spent a lot of time with my grandfather. He would take my brother Brian and me to our Little League baseball practice, and to see the Detroit Tigers play at Tiger Stadium. We’d sit in the senior citizen seats for just fifty cents. On the weekends and during the summers, my brothers and I used to help cut the grass at his rental properties. He would ask us to make out the rent receipts while we were there.

“I can’t find my glasses,” he would say by way of an excuse for not doing it himself.

“But, Grandpa, your glasses are on your head,” I would point out.

“Boy, just fill out the receipts!” he’d fuss.

One day, after cutting the grass, as I was rummaging through the kitchen for something to eat, I asked my mother, “How come Grandpa always tells us to write out the rent receipts?”

My mother, who was usually mild mannered and patient, shot me a stern look. “What did you say to him?” she asked.

“Nothing, really. He said something about not being able to see, and I told him his glasses were on his head.”

“Don’t you ever embarrass your grandfather like that!” she said angrily.

“What?” I was confused. I didn’t think I had embarrassed Grandpa.

“You know Grandpa never had a chance to go to school like you.”

It had never occurred to me that my grandfather couldn’t read. He was one of the smartest men I knew. He seemed to know everything. Plus, everyone else in my family was educated. My father was a doctor: a psychiatrist. Uncle Bob was a dentist. My mother had her degree. My mother’s deceased father had been college educated, as was her mother. I just assumed that everyone knew how to read. I couldn’t imagine the times in which my grandfather was raised in Georgia, just a generation removed from slavery.

In such a hosti Burberry Factory Outlet le environment, choices were limited, especially for women. My paternal grandmother, Marian, married Grandpa Zollie when she was just nineteen and he was thirty. I never knew whether they fell in love or if they joined forces for convenience. Whatever the case, their marriage didn’t last long. You know it had to be bad, because hardly anyone got divorced back then.

After his parents split, my dad and his brother were raised by their grandmother, Marian’s mother. Grandpa Zollie had to work, and to the best of my knowledge, Grandma Marian started a new life.

My dad’s grandmother died when he was about ten. After that, he and Uncle Bob lived briefly with their mother, but that didn’t last long. My father was headstrong, willful, and boisterous. I imagine he was resentful about his broken family as well, although we’ve never talked about it. In any case, his mother couldn’t manage him, and he was sent to live with Grandpa Zollie’s sister, Carrie, who had moved up to Detroit and, like Grandpa Zollie, was quite enterprising. Aunt Carrie, according to family legend, operated an after hours establishment.

Burberry Factory Outlet An excerpt from Garry Marshall

An excerpt from Garry Marshall

Growing Up Allergic to Everything but Stickball

Marjorie Ward Marshall, my mother, was the first director I ever met.

Wearing an apron and teaching tap in the basement of our Grand Concourse apartment building, she was a Bronx housewife and a tap dance teacher you didn’t want to mess with. She ran a tight ship, and little girls never dawdled in putting on their tap shoes and costumes in front of Mom. She believed that dancing and performing were good for children because they gave them self esteem and a purpose all their own.

My mother taught us that the best thing in life was to entertain people and make them laugh. The biggest sin in life was to bore people.

“Beware of the boring,” she said.

“What is boring, Ma?” I asked.

“Your father,” she said.

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Mom was a born entertainer who thought performing was not just a hobby or even a profession but a way of living that was as essential as breathing or eating. She was a five foot six inch slacks wearing perky blonde with a dancer’s body and a comedian’s mouth. Mom was always “on” from her hyper cajoling of her dance students to her late night intensity when she would type out the songs, dance routines, and skits for her dance recital. Her typing sounded like rain. Always working, she would go to Broadway shows, steal the routines, and come back and type them up for her students to perform. I knew right from the beginning that if I could make my mom laugh, then I could make her love me.

If Mom had been born at another time in history, she could have become a stage performer or actress herself. Born in 1910, Mom just missed the feminism movement and was faced with raising three children in the Bronx during the 1940s. Her goal in life was to teach as many kids as possible including her own children, Garry, Ronny, and Penny to tap dance. There was Ronny, the middle child, and nice daughter Penny, the youngest child, whom my mother seemed to crown “troublemaker” the moment she came out of the birth canal. And I, of course, was the oldest child and the one who was always sick.

Mom’s students adored her because she was funny and irreverent whether she was charming your pants off or hurting your feelings. She commanded a kind of power and respect as a director that even Orson Welles and Martin Scorsese would find enviable. She could be encouraging to the students with talent, but spoke with a bite to those who didn’t show potential.

“You the pretty girl with the fat legs. You should play an instrument instead of dancing.”

Or she might move someone behind the scenes altogether.

“Hey, Zelda, or whatever your name is. You have two left feet. You can pull the curtain f Burberry Factory Outlet or the show.”

Traditional motherhood duties took a backseat to the curtain, the audience, and showtime. Since we were always running low on milk, Mom invented the family drink “Pepsi and milk” to make our dairy supply last longer. When she didn’t have time to simmer and cook fresh tomato sauce, she told us that Campbell’s tomato soup with noodles was just as Italian as spaghetti. If we were rushing to get down to the basement to make our curtain calls, she might squirt ketchup on our pasta and call it a night. My mom could make us smile, laugh, and cry all in the same hour. On my birthday one time she said, “Garry is celebrating eleven years of being round shouldered.” When my sister Penny had an overbite, she said, “When I want to open a Pepsi bottle, I do it with Penny’s teeth.” She taught us that to dwell on our problems was a waste of time and to make entertainment for others was supreme.

This did little to impress my dad. My father, Anthony W. Marshall, a good looking suit and tie wearing art director and advertising executive who invented his middle name, Wallace, because he thought it made him sound more distinguished. Born Anthony Masciarelli, he looked like a character from the television show Mad Men. He liked to wear suits, carry a monogrammed briefcase, and drink martinis in hotel bars. We rarely saw him drink at home, but sometimes he would stagger in and look like he’d had a few too many someplace else. My father was not the kind of dad who would throw a ball in the street with you like the Jewish dads, Catholic dads, or even other Italian dads in our melting pot neighborhood. Throwing a ball might mess up my father’s tie. He didn’t talk very much but instead wrote us notes like “Sorry you had to get a tooth pulled. It’s over now.” When he did talk he told stories of business trips where he met men who were working on a new device called television. He traveled for business to Florida and California and brought home oranges for us. For a long time my sisters and I imagined that both states were filled with fruit instead of people. He instilled in us the idea that there was a world outside the Bronx and that we should set sail for it as soon as we were old enough.

I was born November 13, 1934, Garry Kent Marshall, and we lived for most of my childhood along the Grand Concourse. First opened to traffic in 1909, the Grand Concourse was modeled after the Champs Elyses in Paris. It was four miles long and populated by Jewish and Italian families when I lived there. My apartment was in a five story building, with empty lots on either side. We were on the first floor. It was called Argonne Manor and housed mostly Jewish families and my family. We were Italian and Christian. Most of the other Italian families lived on Villa Avenue across the street. Because I was Italian, I fit in both neighborhoods easily.

My address was 3235 Grand Concourse. My favorite number has always been thirteen, and the numerals of my Bronx address added up to it, too. Like my father, I was given an arbitrary middle name, Kent, to give me dignity. My parents didn’t know him personally, but my mother liked the spelling.

My happiest moments of growing up in the Bronx were when my mom would bring home a new sports magazine from the candy store. I would jump out of bed and grab it from her. Then I’d rip the front cover right off and tape it to my bedroom wall. I would reposition myself comfortably in bed and look up at all of the athletes who floated above me like heroes and angels.

Often I would turn on the radio, lie in my bed, and listen to the Yankees baseball game. I’d dream about my hands down favorite player, Joe DiMaggio, and the day when I might be able to have a job that I could do well, too. There were many baseball players who were just as famous but who didn’t impress us, like Billy Martin and Ted Williams. To be able to make a living playing a sport you loved was what made Joe our favorite. I didn’t know what job I might be destined for, but my dad told me it better be something I could do with a headache or a toothache, because the whole family agreed I was not destined for good health. As a child I was often sick, plagued by some ailment or allergy, or my ability to hang on to a perpetual sniffle or wheeze from one winter to the next. My baby book read like a list of the greatest diseases of all time. Burberry Factory Outlet I once heard a doctor say that if we didn’t move to Arizona, I might die. I packed my bags. The next day I woke up to see if anyone was packing their bags. No one was.

“Dad, when do we leave for Arizona?”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “We’re not going anywhere. We can’t afford it.”

I thought they were trying to kill me.

Despite being sick all the time, I seemed to be destined for a career in show business. My mother sent my three year old baby picture to a contest in the Bronx Home News. I won the prize for cutest kid in my age division, and received a check for fifteen dollars. This encouraged my mom to think I could go on to become a child model. I auditioned and got cast in a milk commercial. Unfortunately, I spit up all over the director, and my modeling career was short lived.

When I was five years old my parents gave me a drum set for Christmas. My mom played the piano, and Dad played the saxophone badly. But that Christmas morning I remember we all played together and I thought it was the greates Burberry Factory Outlet t day ever. We were a band, and I imagined us practicing and performing as a family band for years to come. Unfortunately, Dad never played the saxophone with our band again. That Christmas morning remains imprinted in my mind as one of the few times we all got along. In general my dad thought entertainment was a waste of time and did little to support my mother’s dance studio or our performing aspirations.

Dad’s ambivalence, however, did not stop my mother or us. One day Dad was at work and Mom had a show to put on but she didn’t have a babysitter. Her mother, Margie, whom we called Nanny, used to watch my sisters and me when we were small. She was an Irish German rail thin brunette with a mild New England accent. As we got older, Nanny became blind and refused to go to the doctor. Without her sight it became difficult for her to mind us and us to mind her. Sometimes Penny would sneeze and then trick Nanny by saying, “It was Garry.” The girls blamed me for many things Burberry Factory Outlet because I was often too sick to put up a fight. With all of my sneezing and wheezing and pneumonia not once but twice, Nanny didn’t know how to help me. I once fell down in the street and hit my head, and she said, “I’ll give you a dollar if you stop bleeding.” Her reluctance to go to the doctor helped make me a hypochondriac. Nanny didn’t even know what to feed me because I seemed to be allergic to everything under the sun, including the sun.

I was lying in bed one day, covered in compresses and trying to feel better, when my mom came into the room.

“Get up. Let’s go to the cellar. You’re going to be in the show,” she said.

“But Mom, I’m sick. I should stay in bed and get better,” I said. I was six years old at the time, and I carried the perpetual smell of mustard plaster.

Burberry Factory Outlet An excerpt from David Ignatius

An excerpt from David Ignatius

In the softening light of another afternoon, nearly two years later, the faade of the Inter Services Intelligence headquarters looked almost welcoming. It was an anonymous gray stucco building in the Aabpara neighborhood of the capital, set back from the Kashmir Highway. The only distinctive feature was a ribbon of black stone that wrapped around the front, making it look as tidy as a gift box. Although the building was unmarked, the ISI’s presence in the neighborhood was hardly a secret. Pakistanis in other branches of the military referred to its operatives as “the boys from Aabpara,” as if they were a neighborhood gang to whom special respect must be paid. Ordinary Pakistanis made it a rule not to speak about the ISI at all.

Inside this house of secrets, facing onto an enclosed garden, was the office of the director general, who in recent years had been a soft spoken man named Mohammed Malik. On his shoulders, he wore the crossed swords and crescent insignia of a lieutenant general. It was almost always the case that General Malik knew more than the people around him, but he made it a rule never to flaunt what he knew, or to disclose how he had obtained it. That would be insecure and, worse, impolite.

General Malik was not an imposing man, at least in the way of a military officer. He was trim, with a neat mustache, and he was careful about what he ate and drank, almost to the point of fastidiousness. He had soft hands, and a reticent manner. It was easy to forget that he was in fact a professional liar, who told the entire truth only to his commander, the chief of army staff.

On this particular spring afternoon, General Malik had a concern that he wasn’t sure how to address. The brigadier who represented his service in Karachi had called to alert him to a potential problem. Now, there were large and small problems in Pakistan, but the very biggest ones were often connect Burberry Factory Outlet ed to the words “United States of America.” For it was said, not without reason, that Pakistan’s life was bounded by the three A’s Allah, Army and America. And in the brigadier’s Burberry Factory Outlet news from Karachi, all three were tied up in one.

It was part of General Malik’s aura among his colleagues at General Headquarters in Rawalpindi that he knew how to handle the Americans. Th Burberry Factory Outlet is was based partly on the fact that he had spent a year at the Army War College in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. And if you knew Kansas, people said, well, then, you knew the real America. Malik had actually disliked Kansas, and the only part of America that he had truly loved was the Rockies, where the thin air and the steep peaks reminded him of his ancestral home in the mountains of Kashmir. But he knew how to sham, in the way that is an art form for the people of South Asia, and so he had pretended for years to have a special fondness for Americans from the heartland.

In that spirit of sincere and also false bonhomie, the director general placed a call to Homer Barkin, the chief of the CIA station at the ever expanding American Embassy in Islamabad. Their regular liaison meeting was scheduled for later in the week, but General Malik asked if his American partner might stop by that afternoon, perhaps right away, if it was convenient. He didn’t explain why, for he had found that it is always a good rule to say less than you mean, particularly when you are dealing with Americans, who do the opposite.

“My friend Homer,” said General Malik in greeting the chief of

station when he arrived in Aabpara forty five minutes later. He usually addressed him that way, and the American responded by calling him “my friend Mohammed,” or sometimes, when he wanted something, just “my friend Mo.” General Malik found that especially grating, but he never said anything. He clasped his visitor’s hand in the firm way that Americans liked.

Barkin did not look well. His face was doughy, and he looked bulky in his suit jacket, like a sausage ready to burst its casing. General Malik knew why: Homer Barkin had been drinking, and the reason was that he had legal problems back home. He was one of the many CIA officers who had been caught in the boomerang effect of the “war on terror.” It was said that he had “crossed the line” in a previous job by being overzealous in targeting the enemy.

Looking at Homer Barkin, his eyes dark from the sleeplessness of depression, his collar button straining against the flesh of his neck, it seemed unlikely that he had ever been capable of zealotry in any form. But this was the “after” picture; he would not have been made station chief in Islamabad if there had not been a “before.”

“My dear friend Homer,” the Pakistani continued, “I hope you will not mind me saying so, but you are looking a little tired. You must be working too hard.”

“You don’t know the half of it, believe me,” said the CIA officer.

“No, indeed, I do not. Or even the quarter of it. And I am sorry for it, whatever it may be. But I hope that you will take care of yourself in these treacherous times. You are a guest in our house. You are precious to us.”

“Appreciate it.” Barkin’s eyes were flat and his demeanor was impassive. He was not a man who was easily flattered or cajoled. “What’s up, General?”

“Let me put it to you, sir: We have had many successes together in recent years, have we not? You could almost say that we are partners. Am I right? And so we like to think that there is a bit of trust between us, even though we are a poor and weak country compared to the United States. We have our pride, you see.”

“I never forget that, Mohammed, not for one day.”

“Well, then, I have a question for you. Normally, I would not trouble you in the late afternoon with such a detail, but this one is rather important. I hope you will forgive the imposition, and apologize to Mrs. Barkin for delaying your return home this evening.”

“Mrs. Barkin lives in Washington, General. I don’t know if I can give you an answer, but I won’t tell you a lie.”

General Malik smiled. Americans did not like lying to others. It made them uncomfortable. Their specialty was lying to themselves.

“Well, now, sir. Here it is: Are you running operations in Pakistan outside of your normal organization? Forgive me for being so blunt, but that is what I must ask.”

Barkin cocked his head, as if he had ear trouble and wanted to make sure he’d heard it right. He might be old, but he wasn’t stupid.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite hear that, General. What do you mean?”

The Pakistani sat back in his chair. He put his hands together and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he spoke again, louder this time.

“Let me state the question as clearly as I can, sir: Is the United States sending intelligence officers into Pakistan outside the normal CIA cover channels? Is your agency doing it? Or is some other agency doing it? That is what I want to know: Are you running a new game against us? You see, we think that we know you well, but we hear rumblings of something that we do not know. And let us be honest: No ones likes to be surprised.”

Barkin’s mouth puckered as if he had just eaten something bad. You know I can’t answer a question like that. I mean, hell, we run all sorts of operations, declared and undeclared, just like you do. We have agency employees at the embassy who conduct liaison with your service, and you know their names. But if I told you that we had no other presence in Pakistan, and no nonofficial officers, you know I’d be lying. But that’s business, right? We don’t look up your skirt, and we don’t expect you to start looking up ours.”

The American gave him a wink, as if they were two old poker players who knew the casino rules. But the Pakistani was not in a mood for professional courtesy.

“I am talking about something different, Homer. I know all about your NOCs. I could name Burberry Factory Outlet a dozen for you. I know all about your ‘forward deployed military assets.’ Perhaps I even know the names of your contractors, including the ones who work for other agencies, which you, my dear friend, are not supposed to know about. But this is different.”

Burberry Factory Outlet An excerpt from David Eagleman

An excerpt from David Eagleman

There’s Someone In My Head, But It’s Not Me

Take a close look at yourself in the mirror. Beneath your dashing good looks churns a hidden universe of networked machinery. Burberry Factory Outlet The machinery includes a sophisticated scaffolding of interlocking bones, a netting of sinewy muscles, a good deal of specialized fluid, and a collaboration of internal organs chugging away in darkness to keep you alive. A sheet of high tech self healing sensory material that we call skin seamlessly covers your machinery in a pleasing package.

And then there’s your brain. Three pounds of the most complex material we’ve discovered in the universe. This is the mission control center that drives the whole operation, gathering dispatches through small portals in the armored bunker of the skull.

Your brain is built of cells called neurons and glia hundreds of billions of them. Each one of these cells is as complicated as a city. And each one contains the entire human genome and traffics billions of molecules in intricate economies. Each cell sends electrical pulses to other cells, up to hundreds of times per second. If you represented each of these trillions and trillions of pulses in your brain by a single photon of light, the combined output would be blinding.

The cells are connected to one another in a network of such staggering complexity that it bankrupts human language and necessitates new strains of mathematics. A typical neuron makes about ten thousand connections to neighboring neurons. Given the billions of neurons, this means there are as many connections in a single cubic centimeter of brain tissue as there are stars in the Milky Way galaxy.

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The three pound organ in your skull with its pink consistency of Jell o is an alien kind of computational material. It is composed of miniaturized, self configuring parts, and it vastly outstrips anything we’ve dreamt of building. So if you ever feel lazy or dull, take heart: you’re the busiest, brightest thing on the planet.

Ours is an incredible story. As far as anyone can tell, we’re the only system on the planet so complex that we’ve thrown ourselves headlong into the game of deciphering our own programming language. Imagine that your desktop computer began to control its own peripheral devices, removed its own cover, and pointed its webcam at its own circuitry. That’s us.

And what we’ve discovered by peering into the skull ranks among the most significant intellectual developments of our species: the recognition that the innumerable facets of our behavior, thoughts, and experience are inseparably yoked to a vast, wet, chemicalelectrical network called the nervous system. The machinery is utterly alien to us, and yet, somehow, it is us.

In 1949, Arthur Alberts traveled from his home in Yonkers, New York, to villages between the Gold Coast and Timbuktu in West Africa. He brought his wife, a camera, a jeep, and because of his love of music a jeep powered tape recorder. Wanting to open the ears of the western world, he recorded some of the most important music ever to come out of Africa. But Alberts ran into social troubles while using the tape recorder. One West African native heard his voice played back and accused Alberts of “stealing his tongue.” Alberts only narrowly averted being pummeled by taking out a mirror and convincing the man that his tongue was still intact.

It’s not difficult to see why the natives found the tape recorder so counterintuitive. A vocalization seems ephemeral and ineffable: it is like opening a bag of feathers which scatter on the breeze and can never be retrieved. Voices are weightless and odorless, Burberry Factory Outlet something you cannot hold in your hand.

So it comes as a surprise that a voice is physical. If you build a little machine sensitive enough to detect tiny compressions of the molecules in the air, you can capture these density changes and reproduce them later. We call these machines microphones, and every one of the billions of radios on the planet is proudly serving up bags of feathers once thought irretrievable. When Alberts played the music back from the tape recorder, one West African tribesman depicted the feat as “tremendous magic.”

And so it goes with thoughts. What exactly is a thought? It doesn’t seem to weigh anything. It feels ephemeral and ineffable. You wouldn’t think that a thought has a shape or smell or any sort of physical instantiation. Thoughts seem to be a kind of tremendous magic.

But just like voices, thoughts are underpinned by physical stuff. We know this because alterations to the brain change the kinds of thoughts we can think. In a state of deep sleep, there are no thoughts. When the brain transitions into dream sleep, there are unbidden, bizarre thoughts. During the day we enjoy our normal, wellaccepted thoughts, which people enthusiastically modulate by spiking the chemical cocktails of the brain with alcohol, narcotics, cigarettes, coffee, or physical exercise. The state of the physical material determines the state of the thoughts.

And the physical material is absolutely necessary for normal thinking to tick along. If you were to injure your pinkie in an accident you’d be distressed, but your conscious experience would be no different. By contrast, if you were to damage an equivalently sized piece of brain tissue, this might change your capacity to understand music, name animals, see colors, judge risk, make decisions, read signals from your body, or understand the concept of a mirror thereby unmasking the strange, veiled workings of the machinery beneath. Our hopes, dreams, aspirations, fears, comic instincts, great ideas, fetishes, senses of humor, and desires all emerge from this strange organ and when the brain changes, so do we. So although it’s easy to intuit that thoughts don’t have a physical basis, that they are something like feathers on the wind, they in fact depend directly on the integrity of the enigmatic, three pound mission control center.

The first thing we learn from studying our own circuitry is a simple lesson: most of what we do and think and feel is not under our conscious control. The vast jungles of neurons operate their own programs. The conscious you the I that flickers to life when you wake up in the morning is the smallest bit of what’s transpiring in your brain. Although we are dependent on the functioning of the brain for our inner lives, it runs its own show. Most of its operations are above the security clearance of the conscious mind. The I simply has no right of entry.

Your consciousness is like a tiny stowaway on a transatlantic steamship, taking credit for the journey without acknowledging the massive engineering underfoot. This book is about that amazing fact: how we know it, what it means, and what it explains about people, markets, secrets, strippers, retirement accounts, criminals, artists, Ulysses, drunkards, stroke victims, gamblers, athletes, bloodhounds, racists, lovers, and every decision you’ve ever taken to be yours.

In a recent experiment, men were asked to rank how attractive they found photographs of different women’s faces. The photos were eight by ten inches, and showed women facing the camera or turned in three quarter profile. Unbeknownst to the men, in half the photos the eyes of the women were dilated, and in the other half they were not. The men were consistently more attracted to the women with dilated eyes. Remarkably, the men had no insight into their decision making. None of them said, “I noticed her pupils were two millimeters larger in this photo than in this other one.” Instead, they simply felt more drawn toward some women than others, for reasons they couldn’t quite put a finger on.

So who was doing the choosing? In the largely inaccessible workings of the brain, something knew that a woman’s dilated eyes correlates with sexual excitement and readiness. Their brains knew this, but the men in the study didn’t at least not explicitly. The men may also not have known that their notions of beauty and feelings of attraction are deeply hardwired, steered in the right direction by programs carved by millions of years of natural selection. When the men were choosing the most attractive women, they didn’t know that the choice was not theirs, really, but instead the choice of successful programs that had been burned deep into the brain’s circuitry over the course of hundreds of thousands of generations.

Brains are in the business of gathering information and steering behavior appropriately. It doesn’t matter whether consciousness is involved in the decision making. And most of the time, it’s not. Whether we’re talking about dilated eyes, jealousy, attraction, the love of fatty foods, or the great idea you had last week, consciousness is the smallest player in the operations of the brain. Our brains run mostly on autopilot, and the conscious mind has little access to the giant and mysterious factory that runs below it.

You see evidence of this when your foot gets halfway to the brake before you consciously realize that a red Toyota is backing out of a driveway on the road ahead of you. You see it when you notice your name spoken in a conversation across the room that you thought you weren’t listening to, when you find someone attractive without knowing why, or when your nervous system gives you a “hunch” about which choice you should make.

The brain is a complex system, but that doesn’t mean it’s incomprehensible. Our neural circuits were carved by natural selection to solve problems that our ancestors faced during our spe Burberry Factory Outlet cies’ evolutionary history. Your brain has been molded by evolutionary pressures just as your spleen and eyes have been. And so has your consciousness. Consciousness developed because it was advantageous, but advantageous only in limited amounts.

Consider the activity that characterizes a nation at any moment. Factories churn, telecommunication lines buzz with activity, businesses ship products. People eat constantly. Sewer lines direct waste. All across the great stretches of land, police chase criminals. Handshakes secure deals. Lovers rendezvous. Secretaries field calls, teachers profess, athletes compete, doctors operate, bus drivers navigate. You may wish to know what’s happening at any moment in your great nation, but you can’t possibly take in all the information at once. Nor would it be useful, even if you could. You want a summary. So you pick up a newspaper not a dense paper like the New York Times but lighter fare such as USA Today. You won’t be surprised that none of the details of the activity are listed in the paper; after all, you want to know the bottom line. You want to know that Congress just signed a new tax law that affects your family, but the detailed origin of the idea involving lawyers and corporations and filibusters isn’t especially important to that new bottom line. And you certainly wouldn’t want to know all the details of the food supply of the nation how the cows are eating and how many are being eaten you only want to be alerted if there’s a spike of mad cow disease. You don’t care how the garbage is produced and packed away; you only care if it’s going to end up in your backyard. You don’t care about the wiring and infrastructure of the factories; you only care if the workers are going on strike. That’s what you get from reading the newspaper.

Your conscious mind is that newspaper. Your brain buzzes with activity around the clock, and, just like the nation, almost everything transpires locally: small groups are constantly making decisions and sending out messages to other groups. Out of these local interactions emerge larger coalitions. By the time you read a mental headline, the important action has already transpired, the deals are done. You have surprisingly little access to what happened behind the scenes. Entire political movements gain ground up support and become unstoppable before you ever catch wind of them as a feeling or an intuition or a thought that strikes you. You’re the last one to hear the information.

However, you’re an odd kind of newspaper reader, reading the headline and taking credit for the idea as though you thought of it first. You gleefully say, “I just thought of something!”, when in fact your brain performed an enormous amount of work before your moment of genius struck. When an idea is served up from behind the scenes, your neural circuitry has been working on it for hours or days or years, consolidating information and trying out new combinations. But you take credit witho Burberry Factory Outlet ut further wonderment at the vast, hidden machinery behind the scenes.

And who can blame you for thinking you deserve the credit? The brain works its machinations in secret, conjuring ideas like tremendous magic. It does not allow its colossal operating system to be probed by conscious cognition. The brain runs its show incognito. So who, exactly, deserves the acclaim for a great idea? In 1862, the Scottish mathematician James Clerk Maxwell developed a set of fundamental equations that unified electricity and magnetism. On his deathbed, he coughed up a strange sort of confession, declaring that “something within him” discovered the famous equations, not he. He admitted he had no idea how ideas actually came to him they simply came to him. William Blake related a similar experience, reporting of his long narrative poem Milton: “I have written this poem from immediate dictation twelve or sometimes twenty lines at a time without premeditation and even against my will.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe claimed to have written his novella The Sorrows of Young Werther with practically no conscious input, as though he were holding a pen that moved on its own.

And consider the British poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge. He began using opium in 1796, originally for relief from the pain of tooth aches and facial neuralgia but soon he was irreversibly hooked, swigging as much as two quarts of laudanum each week. His poem “Kubla Khan,” with its exotic and dreamy imagery, was written on an opium high that he described as “a kind of a reverie.” For him, the opium became a way to tap into his subconscious neural circuits. We credit the beautiful words of “Kubla Khan” to Coleridge because they came from his brain and no else’s, right? But he couldn’t get hold of those words while sober, so who exactly does the credit for the poem belong to? As Carl Jung put it, “In each of us there is another whom we do not know.” As Pink Floyd put it, “There’s someone in my head, but it’s not me.”

From the book INCOGNITO by David Eagleman 2011 David Eagleman Reprinted with the permission of Vintage Books, an imprint of Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.

Burberry Factory Outlet An Excellent Wasp Repellent Fo

An Excellent Wasp Repellent For Keeping Away Wasps

While no one loves being surrounded by wasps, a lot of people have severe allergic reactions to them making them harmful and also unpleasant; an effective Burberry Factory Burberry Factory Outlet Outlet wasp repellent will keep them away from you. There are a baffling number of merchandise on the market from chemicals to all natural methods. Home Depot, Lowe’s, or some other hardware store will be the first place people go to find the largest selection of them all. Following is a brief rundown on the various methods recommended for wasp and yellow jacket repellent.

WASP REPELLENT SPRAYS AND SOLUTIONS

Since some typ Burberry Factory Outlet es of wasps are in fact considered beneficial, consider using a wasp repellent instead of a wasp killer. The idea behind these sprays and also solutions is to treat areas to keep the wasps from coming around an area just like a deck or pool. To make the best from your wasp repellent spray:

Spray or dust within crevices to work as a barrier: Wasps love going into crevices to start a nest; spray paper wasp repellent in these cracks and also under eaves or decks.

Time your spraying and also dusting: Treat the areas at nigh Burberry Factory Outlet t to make certain the wasps are not active whilst spraying or dusting

Do not spray before a rain is expected

Some wasp repellent sprays and dusts can have chemicals that could potentially harm pets or children. For a healthier option, you can look at some of the natural wasp sprays such as Repel Natural, EcoSmart, and Victor. Many famous brands like Raid offer natural solutions as well. People usually make their own natural wasp repellent sprays and solutions from dish soap, hot peppers, or shampoo and peppermint. Citrus oils may also be used in homemade wasp repellent.

High Tech Insectape is a merchandise from Rainbow Technology Corp and is made to use inside any meter box, surge protector or any other electronics or telecommunications equipment. It is designed to constantly release insecticide for up to a year after application. It works by releasing insecticide to prevent insects and also by killing them directly whenever they make contact with the tape.

Some lifestyle changes can lessen contact with wasps. Avoid keeping trash cans near doors or perhaps other social areas such as decks or pools; if they must be there, spray them consistently and keep lids on them. If drinking sweet sodas or other beverages keep tops on them to avoid attracting wasps, and always keep food covered if eating outdoors. Do not leave trash on a table after you are finished eating. Check under your decks and steps regularly for signs of nest building, and spray the new nests after dark. Many wasp sprays are available for repelling these insects, from all natural to high tech solutions. Even some plants as well as herbs can be planted to repel wasps.

Burberry Factory Outlet An example of undercapitalisat

An example of undercapitalisation in a mid 19th century lead mining venture

The late 1850s saw an increased investment in lead mining prompted by the high price of lead. With the introduction of limited liability status in 1855, along with the Companies Act of the following year, the way was opened for low risk investment in mining; stimulating the formation of a number of small companies to work mines in many of the less well known areas.

In 1853 the price of pig lead had jumped from ?7 15s 6d (?7.77) to ?3 8s 0d (?3.40) per ton, eventually peaking at ?4 in 1856. This increase had been generated by a buoyant domestic market and increased exports at a time when the effects of the Crimean War was reducing imports. Although prices fell back slowly after 1856 as imports again increased, they remained relatively high for a number of years. The consequent increase in the price paid for lead ores was to make a number of what had been regarded as poor or marginal mineral deposits appear as good investments. No more so than on the Carmarthen Pembrokeshire border where the small Trelech lead mine appeared set to emulate its larger neighbour Llanfyrnach.

Alth Burberry Factory Outlet ough undoubtedly the site of a much earlier working the Trelech mine was opened up as Carmarthen United in about 1855 / 56 at the lead price peak. Leases of 30 years being taken on a sett encompassing the farms of Cwm and Cileynon, the latter being part of a larger holding Gwndwn; with activity centred on the steep east side of the Afon Cynig, one and three quarter miles south west of Trelech village, at NGR SN 263.237.

The company formed to work the mine was probably a cost book company, later referred to as ‘the old company’, under the direction of Messrs Williams, Hand and Harrison. An engine shaft (initially referred to as Harrison’s) was sunk on the hillside close to the Cwm / Cileynon boundary. Down to the 7 fathom level by November 1857, it was initially drained by horse whim and kibbles although a water wheel pit was in the course of construction. Stores and a house were also erected. The adit driving north was showing signs of lead ore, but the primary task was to get under old workings below adit, following an ore shoot dipping south of the engine shaft, on what was to be called the Main Lode.

In January 1858 the company was reformed as a limited liability company, The Carmarthen United Lead Mining Co. Ltd., with a nomina Burberry Factory Outlet l capital of ?2,900 divided into 2580 shares of ? each. ?.50 per share was called up immediately netting ?1,610; the total of which was paid to the old company for the leases and the structure of the mine.

It was with this move that the mine’s problems really began. Limited liability had been incorporated in the Companies Act of 1856 and had an advantage for the small investor over the earlier cost book and joint stock companies where any one shareholder could be sued for the total company debt. However the amount of capital which could be raised was set in the articles of association; it was not open ended as it had been with a cost book company.

Thus having paid for the mine the new Carmarthen United company was left with only ?290 as potential working capital. ?032 of this was called up, in four calls of 2s (10p) per share, within a few months to pay for a 24 foot pumping water wheel and settle outstanding wages to the end of May. However, by the middle of July over ?00 was due on merchants’ bills and miners’ wages for June, and little or no production had taken place.

There is little doubt that too much was paid to the old company for the mine. But it appears that the intention was to continue running the company along the lines of its predecessor, calling up capital as required, and the purchase price represented reimbursement of costs to the old shareholders who would be expected to take shares in the new company. Arrears of calls made by the old company, along with their cash balance, appear as assets in the accounts of the new, limited liability, company. Under the mistaken impression that the company could operate in that manner, yet have the full benefit of limited liability, they failed to make adequate provision for working capital.

Once the available capital had been realised, and there is evidence that shares were more than fully paid up with calls totalling ?.40 per share to February 1860, the company had to resort to loans from individual shareholders and a mortgage on the mine. A total of ?57 was raised in this manner supplementing the revenue from ore sales but that was only sufficient to pay working costs to November 1859. From that date the company operated on merchants’ credit and the miners went unpaid.

The situation came to a head in March 1860 when the miners withdrew their labour. With no monies being forwarded by the company their agent, Captain Robert Sanders, also manager at Llanfyrnach and resident at that mine, had been advancing them money from his own pocket. But that proved insufficient even with a local shopkeeper, David Rees, allowing them provisions on credit.

By that date the engine shaft was down to the 32 fathom level, sunk on the underlay of the mai Burberry Factory Outlet n lode about 1.5 feet in the fathom; now pumped by a new 34 foot water wheel. Increased water in the workings had been beyond the capacity of the 24 foot wheel, which was relegated to working the crusher. By fortune or design the company had brought in their leat at sufficient height to run water over two wheels. The new pumping wheel being installed directly down slope from the shaft collar; working a short run of flat rods to an angle bob fixed in a stone arched housing in the shaft head. Water from that wheel then ran directly onto the crusher wheel before exiting through a stone arched tail race at river level. The masonry structures housing this arrangement still survive on the site.

Nine partnerships had been engaged in deadwork and raising ore on tribute; along with 28 other persons working in the engine shaft, at surface and on the dressing floors, on day wages. In total they were owed over ?50 for activities during the five months to mid March. Some of the men having appointed David Rees, the shopkeeper in Trelech, as their agent; a Carmarthen solicitor. J B Jefferies, was engaged to recover the monies due from the company. (Appendix One)

Jefferies at first considered suing the company; but once it was evident that their capital was more than called up, he, with the clandestine support of Captain Sanders who as agent was also owed a sizeable amount in salary, approached William Darling the company secretary who was trying to raise fresh capital. The mine had already been offered for sale by auction but as there was apparently no interest it was withdrawn and in the early part of April a subscription of ? per shareholder was negotiated, which funds were used to pay the miners up to the end of February; one of the directors making a personal guarantee for the March pay.

This was sufficient to get the miners back to work and by the summer of 1860 prospects for the mine were quite good. Output of ore had slowly risen to a point where the mine was virtually paying its way and if sufficient capital had been available that point might have been reached much sooner. As it was break even was not achieved until June 1861, by which time it had been necessary to borrow another ?250.

In mid 1861 the mine was being worked at the 42 fathom level and shortly afterwards a rich ore body was cut at that level on the main lode north of the engine shaft. This discovery, lying under the Cileynon section of the mine, was to sustain the mine for the next three years. The orebody was cut in the 66 fathom level in July 1863 but progress beyond then is not known as reporting in the Mining Journal ceased. Dressing of ore at least continued until late February 1864, resuming again briefly in July of that year; by which time a new company, Trelech Lead Mining Co. Ltd., had been formed to take over the leases. One lot of ore, 8tons 9cwt, was offered for sale on November 30th but this no doubt represented the final dressing of material left on site and was not fresh mined. It is evident that this new company was not successful as it was replaced by another, Trelech Mines Ltd, in the following year. Nor was this a success. Further attempts to rework the mine in the 1870s came to nothing and in the period 1882 to 1891 it was in the hands of L H Evans, the lessee at Llanfyrnach, who no doubt investigated the site but apparently never worked it. (1)

The reason for failure in 1864 are not known for certain; the final report refers to a crosscourse which apparently cut off the lode, in which case the lack of working capital would have seriously hampered any attempt to identify and regain the profitable ore body. Mining was, and remains, a speculative business and without sight of ore few would invest new money in a mine when the trend in lead prices was downward. Carmarthen United had produced over 692 tons of lead ore, dressed to 75% metal content, averaging about ?3.50 per ton; plus at least 18.5 tons of second grade ore which realised around ? less. The total being much higher than that credited to the mine in the official Mineral Statistics. As shown in the graph of ore sold, production was steadily increasing; expectations must have been high and a better financed mine might have recovered.

The various claims for wages due (Appendix One) illustrate the casual nature of employment in a small mine. Apart from three or four of the partnerships few of the miners were working at Trelech full time, only the female lead dressers put in a regular appearance. The few men who appear for March only perhaps replaced others who left, frustrated by non payment of wages. Many of the miners were locally born and no doubt had access to alternative agricultural employment. For others the nearby Llanfyrnach Mine offered a more stable future and when Trelech did close many moved on to that mine. Over the next three decades fewer immigrant miners are in evidence and the larger mine could call on an indigenous workforce from the surrounding parishes.

Since this paper was published the diary of David Williams, a carpenter working for Lewis Evans at the Llanfyrnach Mine, has come to light. From this it is clear that Trelech (Carmarthen United) Mine was actively investigated by Evans during 1888. Williams worked there for 10 days repairing a bob and miners moved to that mine from Llanfyrnach, as they did to Penegarreg (Talley) another mine leased by Evans. The diaries have been Burberry Factory Outlet published in part in Clebran (papur bro’r Preseli) Rhif 235, Ionawr 1996.

Burberry Factory Outlet An Evergreen Accessory For Men

An Evergreen Accessory For Men

If you want to purchase a bag for yourself to be used as your office bag, a leather bag can be a good choice. There are a number of options available when it comes to leather bags for men. It depends on your usage that which type of leather bag you would like to take. Gone are the times when there were only one or two options available to choose a leather bag. Now these are manufactured in endless variety of designs. According to your personal choice, you may have a checklist prepa Burberry Factory Outlet red to specify the kind of bag you want.

While purchasing a mens leather bag, there are a few points needed to be remembered like:

Quality The qua Burberry Factory Outlet lity of a leather bag is of utmost importance depending upon the material of the bag, strength of the zippers and buttons and the finish. Many sellers in the market use a low quality leather to make these bags. In many cases, the material used is not even genuine leather and it is something that looks like one. You will not be able to differentiate between the genuine leather and this material at first; however, it will start showing its low quality after a small time of usage. Be aware of such fake dealers.

Style These bags are available in different designs varying in the stitching, outer appearance, handles and straps fixed. Some bags have a small handle at the top to be kept hand held while others have a long strap fixed on either sides of it to carry it on shoulders. Try to find a bag with both types of these handles included so that you can carry it either ways.

Color In earlier times, the traditional leather bags were available in either black or brown color. With the advancements in a leather coloring process called tanning, these are now available in a variety o Burberry Factory Outlet f colors. Black goes with all but other shades like chocolate, tan, beige, sepia, coffee, beaver, etc. are also gaining popularity in mens leather bag category. These colors are very unique and give a whole new look to your personality.

Number of pockets The number of pockets you want in your bag depends upon its usage. If you have to carry just a few daily use things to your work place, then a few inner pockets are enough while carrying huge amounts of paper, diaries and files will need more pockets to keep them organized for easy access. Some professionals also need to carry a laptop and ipad to their work. In that case, special laptop bags with efficient space for a laptop can be searched.

Sturdiness A leather bag will be something which you will have to bring every day to the office. Carrying electronic gadgets which are vulnerable to breakage will require a robust bag to give it a secure space. The laptop leather bags are a different category for these bags. These are made in such a way to provide efficient Burberry Factory Outlet space to the gadget with full shield from external temperature, dust and moisture. The article is strictly for educational or entertainment purposes only and should not be used in any way, implemented or applied without consultation from a professional. Please read our Terms of Service for more information.

Burberry Factory Outlet An Evening with the Vera Wang

An Evening with the Vera Wang Fall 2014 Bridal Collection Tickets at Shore Club Hotel

Join Modern Luxury Brides South Florida and The Caribbean for a special presentation of the 2014 Vera Wan Burberry Factory Outlet g Bridal collection. The insp Burberry Factory Outlet ired looks boldly embrace shades of pi Burberry Factory Outlet nk to create a truly memorable wedding design for the bride who wants to be extraordi Burberry Factory Outlet nary. The presentation will be the only time the gowns are on display in South Florida outside of a bridal salon.

Hosted in the luxurious penthouse of the Shore Club, the intimate event will offer an up close look at the gowns and an opportunity Show more to interact with a select group of Modern Luxury Brides partners. Your ticket will include VOGA Prosecco, light bites, reduced valet, and a fabulous swag bag filled with gifts and special offers as you plan your wedding day.

Special thanks to our event partners: The Shore Club, South Beach; Vera Wang Bridal; Rocco Donna Hair Beauty Art; Miami Soundwave DJs; Aroma Espresso; A Joy Wallace Catering, Design Special Events; Onli Sparkling Beverages; Unearthed Vintage; VOGA Italia.

Burberry Factory Outlet An Evening in the Guildhall

An Evening in the Guildhall

The Staging Exeter Project team warmly invite you to Staging Exeter: An Evening at the Guildhall. This exciting performance event will include an informal talk on community history by top university professor Philip Sch Burberry Factory Outlet wyzer, a small exhibition of the history behind the project Burberry Factory Outlet , a series of performances by the talented acting team and a wine reception. Expect fireworks, foolery and a bit of Doctor Faustus!

Over the past 12 weeks, the Staging Exeter team has explored Exeter’s theatre history, bringing old texts and spaces back to life. This final performance on Friday May 2nd will interactively showcase the project’s work, explaining more about the city’s past performances and exploring what they can mean today.

Fund Burberry Factory Outlet ed by the RCUK Catalyst tea Burberry Factory Outlet m, the event is entirely free and open to all students and members of the public. Doors open 6.30pm and the event starts at 7pm sharp. There are no advance tickets and the capacity is limited to 90, so arrive in good time to guarantee your entry. We look forward to seeing you on 2nd!.