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Beth Powning
Beth Powning grew up in a small New England town, where her family has lived since the 1790s. In 1972, she and her husband Peter Powning moved to Canada and bought an 1870s farm in New Brunswick, where they established a pottery business.
In 1995, Beth Powning published a book of photography, Roses For Canadian Gardens (written by childhood friend Bob Osborne). She later found her voice in Home: Chronicle of a North Country Life. Over the next fifteen yaers, five books followed: another book of photographs, Northern Trees and Shrubs; two works of non-fiction, Shadow Child and Edge Seasons; and two bestselling novels, The Hatbox Letters and The Sea Captain's Wife.
A Measure of Light
by Beth Powning
edition:Hardcover
also available: Paperback
tagged : historical, literary
edition:Paperback
also available: Hardcover
tagged : historical, contemporary women, non-classifiable
Edge Seasons
A Mid-life Year
tagged : literary
THE NUTSHELL
After we married at the age of nineteen, Peter and I lived in a tiny house known as "The Nutshell." It was the summer of 1969, and we were university students. We had met on a blind date at my campus, just north of New York City. Peter wore wire-rimmed aviator glasses, bell-bottom jeans, and T-shirts with red and blue stripes. He was tall, with shoulder-length brown hair and a gap between his two front teeth. He had blue eyes and a funny last name. I'd just returned from a summer spent at a work camp in the mountains of Mexico. I wore huaraches and sweaters with threadbare elbows. I wanted to be either an actor or a writer. He studied art.
Our parents thought it was unseemly, in those years, to live together unwed, so we were married and moved to the town where I'd grown up – near to the University of Connecticut, for Peter, and a commute to Sarah Lawrence College, in Bronxville, for me. It was a small town, its village centre built along the ridge of a hill, with nineteenth-century houses shaded by giant maples and the surrounding countryside still a patchwork of small dairy farms.
The Nutshell had once been a cobbler's shop but had eventually become an annex to the Chelsea Inn. The inn was half-hidden by overgrown American bamboo; its windows were obscured by ancient, sun-browned paper shades. It was my Aunt Mildred's summer place. After her husband died and her children left home, she let it fall into disrepair. Once a month she drove out from her city house in her Thunderbird, carrying trays of mushrooms in its trunk. "A perfect place for them," she told us in her whispery, enthusiastic voice, "dark and warm." Hair skinned into a bun, lopsided lipstick giving her a loopy smile, she collected the rent and stuffed it into her pocket. I watched her go to the inn's side door, where she stooped, fumbling with the key.
Across the village street were two large houses: one had once been my grandparents' summer place, and the other, my uncle's. I had spent my childhood exploring these houses: their attics were filled with oddments from previous generations – spinning wheels, calf-hide trunks, dresses, hats. Their barns were occupied by dusty wooden tools, sleighs, carriages; and there were flower gardens, orchards, beehives. Next to The Nutshell was a house that had once belonged to my aunt's parents. All these houses were now sold, but the family gatherings of my childhood – Fourth of July, or Labor Day, or apple-harvesting weekends – meant that on either side of the street I could push through screen doors and be offered cold lemonade or cookies. From our porch I could see the Congregational Church, where my parents and my great-grandparents had been married. I could see the library where I had learned to love the smell of books. The post office was five minutes' walk away, as was the town's only general store, with its sagging wooden porch and a bulletin board covered with faded, limp announcements.
Peter and I had two marmalade cats and a dog. In the dank undergrowth behind the little house we cleared space for a chicken pen and kept twelve Rhode Island Red hens. In the summer our two pigs lived at my parents' place at the north end of town, in a pen by their pond. We thumbtacked a map of North America to the plaster wall of our living room and studied it. Place was abstract, a yearning based on notion and desire.
Everything happened for the first time: it was our first kitchen, our first living room, our first bathroom. Peter, revealing himself to be both resourceful and energetic, built a bed on posts, accessible by a ladder. There was a claw-footed tub, its porcelain abraded so that the bather's bottom was scoured. The kitchen was like a boat's galley – sink, gas stove, and refrigerator barely left room to move.
Maples burned in the tawny sun: red-orange, freckly gold. The sweet, wormy smell of soil rose on morning mist. The air was restless, filled with migrating birds and the idle dance of spent leaves. The Vietnam War was present in our lives like an inevitable disease. Young men spent their creativity avoiding or sabotaging the draft – feigning injury or illness, mailing pumpkins to draft boards. The future had no shape. I imagined it the way I saw the valley that spread below us – folds of hills holding no known towns or people or stories. Peter and I wanted to migrate, like the birds. We imagined independence, pictured ourselves living in a place surrounded by space and light, its only sounds those of weather.
The Nutshell filled with dried herbs – tansy, thyme, marjoram – hung in string-tied bunches from nails over the kitchen window. We grew a vegetable garden in my parents' west field. We picked wild Concord grapes from the stone walls. I learned to make jam and bread. We acquired an electric mill and ground our own flour. We went down to a farm in the valley and brought home raw milk in metal cans. Butternut squash lined our porch on frosty October mornings. We bought bushels of apples from roadside stands. I lifted racks of canning jars from their boiling bath, the metallic steam flushing my cheeks, and for the first time I felt the satisfaction of having shelves lined with glass jars: pink applesauce with saucer-shaped air bubbles, purple-black grape jam, dried mint. We sold eggs to our neighbours, made Christmas wreaths and peddled them door to door. Peter helped my father split wood. My mother showed me how to make a purl stitch. Cold air on our faces and frozen earth beneath our boots, the smell of baking bread, frost on windowpanes: these things, like first snow, turned, drifted, and coalesced.
That first autumn of our marriage we visited with another young couple, Bob and Kathy. They, too, lived in my hometown in a rented house.
"What are you going to do after you graduate?" Peter asked.
"Something like this," Bob said, pointing out the window to the remains of a vegetable garden. "But not here. The slime," he added, nodding towards the village, where the church steeple pierced the treetops, "is just over the hill." He meant the factories, malls, highways, and housing developments that were creeping ever closer, displacing cow pastures and orchards.
We drank mint tea and talked about the Peace River Valley in Alberta, shoring one delicious dream up against another. We imagined going in canoes to a place electricity would never find. We discussed building log cabins, setting traplines, hunting, planting gardens in riverside clearings. I imagined what we would take in our canoes.
"What about my piano?" I said.
Over the winter, we honed our vision, until a plan was made to explore New Brunswick, just beyond Maine. We found a book in the library about the Maritime provinces and pored over its photographs. Bob shared his childhood memories of visiting New Brunswick's forests and river valleys. My maternal grandfather's family had lived in a house called Old Oaks in the border town of St. Stephen. At the turn of the twentieth century they'd come south, to Rhode Island. Now we decided to immigrate at the same border crossing. Once we entered Canada we would leave behind a country in turmoil. Neither Bob nor Peter had been drafted: Bob because of a high lottery number; Peter by dint of creating so many headaches for his draft board that he was given a classification that meant "administratively shelved." Still, it would be a relief to step forward into a nation at peace.
Chronicle of a North Country Life
edition:eBook
tagged : essays, personal memoirs, landscapes
Included in the sponsored collection: New ebooks From Canadian Indies
also available: eBook
Included in the sponsored collection: Atlantic Books for the Holidays
Shadow Child
A Woman's Journey Through Childbirth Loss
tagged : personal memoirs
As I surface from sleep, sounds clarify and become simple. Peter lies on his side with his back to me; I can hear his slow, deep sleep-breathing. The window is cracked open just far enough to bring the April night into our bedroom. The brook is swollen with snow-melt; it breaks loose from the forested hills, coils through the greening pasture, splits around our house and barns, and is gathered by the Hammond River. The rush of waters, darker than wind and steadier, is the sound of northern spring, when what has been stilled runs free.
Something else, though, has awakened me. I lift my head from the pillow. The sound is regular and insistent, like a child calling. A mother instinct sharpens me.
It's an owl. I wait, listening for its deep, wild voice, but I hear only the brook waters. The owl calls again, and then there's an answer. It comes from the copse in the hill pasture, on the west side of the brook. The answering call is higher. I think of it as a female voice, tough, smaller, more remote. The deep one calls again, and then the voices overlap, and they call together, continuously.
I listen, propped on one elbow. I think how the owls are like me and Peter. We lie in bed, back to back, and talk to one another in the darkness without seeing each other's faces. We need to know only that the other one is there; that the other one wants to listen, wants to respond. After thirty years of marriage, we need only the brush of a finger on skin to feel less alone, reassured of our primacy in someone else's heart. We've each disentangled ourselves, bit by bit, from the thicket of couplehood, and have emerged scarred after plucking out thorns of need, resentment, jealousy, and feel equal, and distinct, and secure in ourselves. Still, increasingly, we realize that it's our love for one another that feeds our separate strengths.
The maple bed we're lying in belonged to my grandparents, who in turn inherited it from my great-grandparents. Its four posts are shaped like pawns in a chess set, pear shapes set on thick, round discs, ending in fluted legs and topped by knobs worn smooth by sleepy hands; its glossy footboard curls at the lip, like a wave. I imagine the bed as a ship carrying us through the night, keeping us safe, when the winds of February blizzards are so strong that we can feel the house shuddering as if alive, its mute timbers expanding like a ribcage.
I love thinking of Granny and Poppy sleeping in this bed, since we're alone here. When we came to this place, in 1972, we never thought about whether we would miss the people we were leaving behind; we were like hawks, buoyant, circling on the updrafts of our imaginations. We didn't think about how we would change, or be changed. Rather, we filled notebooks with plans; we made lists; we determined what we would do, and how. We imagined ourselves doing everything we wanted to do, saw ourselves as the people we thought we would make ourselves become.
I slide down onto my side and lie facing the window with my palms pressed together and propped beneath my cheek so my best ear will be able to hear the owls. The notes of their conversation are like amber beads: round, full, complete. Around me, the house, even in its shadowed stillness, feels alive and vital, like the heart of a lily.
We've always slept in this little north-facing room; it doesn't get the morning sun, but from its window we can keep an eye on the barn, with its changing cast of animals (horse, pony, sometimes chickens, once ducks, cow, goats), and on Peter's studio. I can see my gardens with their perennial flowers, raspberry canes and raised beds for vegetables. The things in this room that I brought from Connecticut have no intrinsic power, do not keep me moored to the past as I thought they would when I brought them here. I saw them, the morning after we immigrated, strewn randomly on the driveway — chairs tipped with their legs in snow patches, mirrors leaning against the house's peeling paint — and I felt as I did when, as a child, I saw my parents in some strange place; I'd be shocked by their rumpled familiarity, and would want to put them back where they belonged. I sensed, that morning, that these things, like me and Peter, could never be put back; that they, like us, were patches on a quilt, and that time would fade them, soften their edges, make them part of the fabric until only close scrutiny could identify their careful stitches. Now these things surround me and Peter in the intimate familiarity of our bedroom. The furniture is exactly the same as it was the morning we arrived; the mirrors hang in the same places on the walls, the bed hasn't moved for years. The rungs on the chair are still worn in the same places, from children's feet. These things are no longer part of my past, but have become part of my present. They have their place within this fragile and fleeting composition that I call my life. But they are less changed than I am.
It's me who has changed. I see these things differently. I don't see my granny when I look at the bedpost dimly outlined against the wall, but I hear the sound of weeping as Peter and I cried in this room. I picture our son, Jacob, when he was two, industriously climbing over the headboard; I remember how I couldn't fit between the bed and the wall when I was pregnant, but had to go sideways.
Time folds me into its bewildering layers.
Soon I'll be fifty. I'm a mother, a daughter, a wife, a writer. I can state all of these things now without ambivalence. I can see myself almost clearly. I feel my own resignation, my own humility. Oddly, what I've learned is that the making of self is more a matter of yielding than forcing; it is like a gradual clarifying, and the slow, surprising emergence of an unexpected shape.
The Hatbox Letters
1. Kate
Kate leans in the doorway of the living room, arms crossed, the sleeves of a cotton sweater shoved to her elbows. Her forearms are sinewy–brown, dry-skinned, thorn-scratched. She wears two silver bracelets and a thick gold wedding band. Some women, she realizes, remove their rings.
In the corner is a stack of nine antique hatboxes. She has not touched them since they were set down a week ago, delivered by her sister, who drove them up from Hartford. They are oval or round, some tied with string, some decorated with maroon-and-silver stripes, others printed with gothic landscapes – willows, mountains, ruined castles. Their smell has begun to permeate the room even though the windows are open. It is the smell of her grandparents' attic, a smell she has not forgotten but thought had vanished, like the past itself. That it has not and is still here, this aroma of horsehair and leather, of apples and musty quilts, of old dresses and satin ribbons – that this smell still exists here in this Canadian river valley, six hundred miles north of her grandparents' house, is disquieting. It awakens a feeling in Kate that she remembers from childhood, composed of odd emotional strands: love, sorrow, pain, contentment.
The arrival of the hatboxes is untimely, since dispossession, like grief, is an act of which Kate has had her fill since Tom's death a year and three months ago, from a heart attack at age fifty-two. She's hauled garbage bags of clothes, like lumpy corpses, down to the washing machine, unable to give away anything that might bear his painty, sawdusty smell. Sorting through the clothes, she was relieved whenever she came across T-shirts like Swiss cheese or underpants held by threads to waistbands no longer elastic. Choices made easy: Okay, throw this away. No one in her family has wanted to face making such decisions about the papers in these hatboxes. They have been lugged from place to place, from barn to basement to closet, ever since the big house in whose attic they'd accumulated for five generations was sold.
She goes into the living room and squats by the boxes. Their papered cardboard is dry as old plaster. How strange, she thinks, that they are here, now. And she finds herself wishing they could have remained forever under the attic's cobwebbed window, their contents spilled, letters stuffed by children's hands back into envelopes embroidered by the teeth of mice. Like leaves in a mulch pile. Forgotten, skeletal, slowly reverting to dirt. So it might have been if the house had not been sold, if time had not stalked on relentless legs, like a heron, and bent its long neck.
She slides her fingers over a lid, remembering the excitement she and her cousins had felt about these boxes and the disappointment of finding only papers whose half-read sentences were like windborne music or distant surf, faint hints of a larger sound. The box is so desiccated that its lid is loose and lifts easily, releasing the concentrated mustiness within, so familiar that tears spring to Kate's eyes. It takes her to the closets, bedrooms, pantries and cupboards of her grandparents' enormous, white-clapboarded house on the tree-lined street of the village where Kate grew up. She and her sister could leave their own home, walk past the tiny general store, with its wooden porch and post office, past the library and the church, and be on Shepton's lawn in ten minutes. Shepton House had been named by her great-grandmother for the English town where some branch of the family originated. Shepton, they called the place after awhile, dropping the pretentious "House." The word, spoken and accompanied by memory, is what a spell might be to a shaman: an evocation, a tumult of associations. She stirs the papers. Like the snow-flattened leaves of early spring, they are brown and soft, overlapping, their corners fanned. Some are in bundles, tied with faded cotton string. Most lie in a dismaying confusion. Kate pauses, looks out the window. River light quivers in trees at the bottom of her lawn. She is still squatting, irresolute. Why did I agree to take on this responsibility? Now – of all times.
She slips into a sitting position, crosses her legs. The house is so quiet. No one will be coming to visit until Thanksgiving. Her daughter, Christy, is in Halifax, her son, Liam, in Ireland. She listens to the sound of an empty house, thinking, Am I still a wife? She sees her future not the way it is now but the way it was supposed to be; this, unlike the bald fact of Tom's death, is a loss she can't share, a grief she can't reveal. She is allowed to mourn the past, Tom as he was, the sound of his voice, the body that once cradled hers; but the future that was theirs – its loss has become like a new death, the death of someone no one else knows. A hidden corpse. It ebbs away, her memory of how it felt to slide her hand into the back pocket of Tom's shorts, to relate a rambling dream and not care whether he listened, to casually wipe mustard from his chin. This loss of intimacy is the hardest, for with it goes her sense of self. She cannot bear to be with long-married couples: she's watched a husband lift a strand of windblown hair from his wife's mouth, has seen a wife peel a hard-boiled egg and hand it to her husband. It is dangerous, as well, to be in places – dinner parties, picnics – where conversational lures may attract memories, or feelings. She feels stripped of some sleek texture, as if she has lost her favourite silk scarf, orange-pink and luminous as sun-filled tulips, that carried in its folds the wife she once was, the wife she would still be.
She leans forward and rummages in the hatbox, knowing that she is being hooked by its sweet smell. She tips reading glasses from her head, settles them on her nose, unfolds a paper and presses it to her face. She breathes deeply. What is it? Lately she finds herself in a peculiar state, slowed, as if floating without impulsion, in which she examines her own feelings. There's a familiar, disturbing stab in her heart that she remembers from when, as a child, she laid her head on Shepton's prickly pillows, or lifted the lids of stoneware crocks or opened the games cupboard under the stairs. It's a small ache, a presage of grief, evoked by the distilled smell of age. It's a reminder, she thinks, of joy's sorrow-edge. Of how every moment tilts on the brink of its own decline. There's something else, though. Responsibility to the past. And flight from its demands. The feelings she's come to recognize, holding in her hand, say, a small pin that Tom was once given at a ceremony in Ottawa "for service to the arts." How, she chastises herself, during her process of dispossession, could she think of parting with this piece of silver? Doesn't she have the responsibility of memorializing Tom?
The Sea Captain's Wife
also available: Paperback Paperback
1. Noah's Ark
It was the fifth year of her marriage, when her child, Carrie, was four years old. The bleeding began in the privy. Azuba wiped herself with a square of newspaper and found a red gout. She ripped newsprint from the nail. More blood came, thick, flecked with black strands. She mopped, mopped. She stood, bent with pain, settled her hoops, petticoat and skirt.
Wind snatched the door from her hand. She left it unhooked, gathered her cloak across her breast. The house loomed against a grey sky, the path a pale string in the headland grass.
Blood surged, trickled down her legs.
She began to run, one arm clasping her belly.
"Hush, now, could've been worse," the midwife said. "You were only four months."
She set a tin basin on the floor by Azuba's bed, stooped and gathered the rags. "Baby's gone, but there'll be more bleeding. Stay still."
Azuba lay flat on her back listening to the midwife's steps going down the stairs. Mother was in the kitchen, feeding Carrie her supper. Soon the whole town would know.
Azuba Bradstock lost a child, people would murmur. Years before she'll have another chance. The next time she went into the village, women would lower their voices, clasp her wrist, touch her shoulder. Such a pity.
She rolled her head sideways to gaze at the candle flame.
Nathaniel. Oh, Nathaniel, my beloved.
She pictured her husband reading the letter she had recently sent. Perhaps he'd been in Cape Town, where he'd planned to stop for provisions. There he sits, she thought, at the rolltop desk in Traveller's saloon, holding the letter over a mess of business papers. She pictured his fingers smoothing his moustache, wide mouth bent downward, studying her words. His eyes lighten, he smiles. He reads the letter again. Then he folds it, tucks it into its envelope. Presses it to his heart.
Whelan's Cove, New Brunswick
Dear Nathaniel,
I am with child. Carrie is excited to think she will have a brother or a sister. Oh my darling, if only you could be home for this child's birth.
Nathaniel had left six months after their wedding, and had been at sea when Carrie was born. Once he received news that he had become a father, he'd written to say that he'd be home as soon as possible. One thing, though, had led to another: a cargo of coal to Bombay; a long delay in port; a consignment across the Pacific. His letters became increasingly frustrated. Carrie had been a sturdy little girl of almost three when he'd finally arrived home.
Azuba thought of the tiny nightgown in her workbox. It was a smocked nainsook, embroidered with a red rose, its stem unfinished. Her needle, piercing the fabric. Carrie's finger, tracing it.
"May I name the baby, Mama?"
The candle flame licked the air, blue at its base.
Azuba watched it through tears. She felt the heartbreak of motherhood— sorrow, now, not only for herself and Nathaniel, but for Carrie.
Ah, the day he left. He had been home for a one-year furlough and had left again just after Christmas. He'd carved Carrie a Noah's ark with all the animals and, before leaving, had clasped her to his chest, gruff voice in her hair and a rare tear glistening in his eye.
"I'll be home soon," he'd said to her. "Don't worry."
There Carrie had stood, waving to her father going out to his ship in a rowboat. Returning home in the carriage, she'd knelt to look back down the bay, too stunned to cry. And then, when they returned to the house, she had climbed onto his chair and made herself into a ball, pressing her face to the brocade, refusing to speak, eat or be comforted. For days afterward she had stood at the bow window, staring out over the headland pasture, asking for Papa. Expecting to see his sails, coming home.
And that night of his leave-taking. How I took his coat from the closet. She'd sat on the bed with her face buried in its black wool, breathing its smell of tobacco and cold air. And realized that her love for him had no expression now other than in words— scrawled or read.
Now she cried herself to exhaustion and lay staring at the ceiling. She longed to tell Nathaniel. Her shock, stumbling over the field. Her hired man, Slason, hurrying to the barn. How she'd waited, moaning, while the carriage went for her mother and the midwife. She longed to be held in his arms, to feel his hand on her forehead, smoothing, consoling. To feel the bitter comfort of shared loss.
Despair, she thought, was the inability to imagine. She pictured the nightgown she had been embroidering. The names she had thought to bestow on the new child.
I have no reason to despair.
The bedroom had two bow windows overlooking the Bay of Fundy with its spruce-cragged cliffs. At the age of nineteen, she had married Nathaniel Bradstock, who at twenty-eight was a seasoned captain. Her father had given them the house as a wedding gift, hiding it beneath a scaffolding strung with sails as it was being built. A big house meant to be filled with dogs, toys, music, guests, family. He had set the house high on a headland, fit for a sea captain's wife, where Azuba could look down at Whelan's Cove with its shipyards, hulls looming higher than the rooftops, gulls circling in clouds of sawdust; its harbour, crowded with fishing boats, coastal schooners, sloops— and farther out, in the deeper water, square-rigged merchant ships with their forest of masts and rigging. One of which might, on occasion, be Nathaniel's Traveller.
She could look down at the farmstead of her childhood, set within fields of oats and buckwheat, and the ribbon of shore road. She could see the salt marsh where, as a child, she had run with her older brothers, Benjamin and William, and the dunes where compass grass scratched half-moons in the sand. She could see the beach where they'd chased stiltlegged sandpipers, jumped the ropes of froth, watched ships beating up the bay with billowed, patched sails.
She pictured herself as a child— dark-haired, impetuous, with black eyes, different from her fair-skinned cousins— and felt pity for her hope. Her innocence.
I thought I would sail away on one of those ships. Married to a sea captain. I'd be Mrs. Shaw, with her red-headed parrot.
Her days, now: as they would unfold tomorrow, and next week, and next month. She saw herself working with her hired girl, Hannah— planting, weeding, scrubbing— her own hair pinned back, sleeves rolled, scissors and knives jingling in the deep pockets of her wash dress. How she made her choice to work from the wearisomeness of its alternative: tea parties, visits, carriage rides. She pictured Slason, with his crooked leg and loose-lipped mouth. He tended the pigs, the horse, the cow. His voice, submissive. What do you need, Mrs. Bradstock? And the violent headland winds, different from the winds of her childhood. Clothes on the line, twisted into knots. Doors, pulled from her hand. Often, she paused on the porch and looked out at the blue line of Nova Scotia and the silver gleam in the southwest where the bay widened to the Gulf of Maine: the sea spread before her, thundered in her ears; and sometimes she loathed it, since Nathaniel was at its mercy. At other times, she closed her eyes, tossed back her bonnet and breathed deep of the world's size.
Azuba drew up her knees, rocking from the ache in her womb, thinking of Carrie.
No brother. No sister.
The May wind blew onshore and there was a spring tide. Carrie was at her granny's for the day.
Azuba sat in an armless chair, a Paisley shawl concealing the opening at the back of her dress; she had left her corset loosely knotted. She wore a brown dress with purple piping. Her black hair was unwashed, parted in the middle, caught up in a net at her neck. Beneath her eyes were blue shadows. After four days, she still felt a low cramp in her womb.
The new Anglican minister, Reverend Walton, had come to visit. He had heard she was unwell, but would not speak of the reason. He sat upright, his ankles crossed and his arms laid precisely along the chair's carved arms. He was a slight, mild man, easily moulded by the parish women.
She and Nathaniel had paid a call at the parsonage when he had first arrived. He'd shown them his studio, a large room at the back of the house with an easel, drawing books and a table beneath a window littered with treasures he'd collected along the shore— feathers, shells, skulls.
Even when he's old, she thought, he'll still look eager, innocent.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, lit the carpet-draped table with its oil lamp and leather books; a japanned china cabinet; a pump organ.
"It's a beautiful house, Mrs. Bradstock," he said.
His composure was disarming and she felt an impulse to tell him her real feelings about the house. How, when her father had told her he would build it, she'd exclaimed, "No, no, we won't need . . ." And then had paused. Mother had looked up from her sewing, shocked, her face revealing all she hoped for in a married daughter: help, companionship, grandchildren. Father's smile paled. "What did you say, Azuba?" His voice was awry, like Mother's face, its tone incredulous. He'd laid down his pen slowly, his eyes had narrowed, and she had been caught by his prescient gaze. She saw that her intention to go to sea with her captain husband was so far from her parents' expectations that her words were like a foreign language. And she had not dared refuse the house, or announce her plan. A house, she'd thought. Only a house. "I meant that you needn't do so much for me," she'd amended. "Thank you, Father. We would be grateful for such a gift."
Or how, on the day of their wedding, in the midst of an October gale, she and Nathaniel and most of the villagers had gone up the headland road in horse-drawn carriages. Father had lifted his arm, men had slashed the ropes, and the sails had fallen from the scaffolding, revealing a large white house that would forever be known as "the sail house." It had gingerbread shingles, a porch and steep gables. In their enthusiasm, the men had cut the ropes tethering the sails and the canvas had risen like monstrous, demented gulls, flapping towards the horses. Drivers had stood, shouting, hauling on reins. Nathaniel had jumped from the carriage, seized their horse by the bridle, growling "Whoa! Whoa!" even as he stared up at the newly minted house with a complex expression—surprise, affront and then a dawning comprehension.
At that moment, she realized later, Nathaniel had glimpsed the implications of taking her to sea: the danger to her, the anguish of those left behind. Perhaps when the sails fell from the house, Nathaniel's mind had shifted like ballast throwing a ship off true. A place he could safely leave me. She wondered if her father might have hoped for such an outcome.
"My father built it as a wedding gift, as you know."
Reverend Walton leaned forward, picked a dead leaf from his pants. "It must be a comfort to you to have such a house."
He was studying the leaf, and she saw that he was unsure of his boundaries, as a minister and as a man.
She pressed her folded hands to the ache in her belly. She felt an upwelling of longing to be sharing the loss of the baby with Nathaniel, and it was borne upon her that she must learn to fold waiting into living, like a kind of stillness within motion.
It is the nearness, she thought, of his last visit. Only four months since he'd left. And then this loss. It made his absence more unbearable. And she wondered if the pain of parting, over the years, would increase rather than diminish.
She must begin again her work of maintaining love. Keeping Nathaniel alive in her memory, and now in Carrie's. Reminding the child how he carved the tiny animals, one eye squinted, critical; or knelt on the rug with his muscled thighs, being a horse for Carrie. His lovely baritone voice singing Irish ballads. And her own, private memories: silky flesh, his hands cradling her face, the way he lifted her shawl from the floor and tucked it around her. And to compose in her mind an imagined life that dexterously shrunk the years he was away and expanded the time he was home.
She began speaking nervously, as if confessing. "You know, Reverend Walton, I married for love. I wanted to be with my husband. I thought that I would go to sea with him. I've always wanted to sail; I still do. I've always wanted to travel, to see the world." She gestured at the window.
It came in a rush.
"I thought we would be a seafaring family, like so many others. Did you know that Captain Shaw delivered all three of their children at sea? They had a pet billy goat on board. Captain Shaw made a little cart for it. The children had a full-rigged model ship that they towed in the wake of their ship. Mrs. Shaw hung her wash in the rigging. She saw Buckingham Palace. The children rode on elephants."
Reverend Walton tightened his arms to his sides as she spoke. His eyes slid to the clawed feet of the organ stool. He brushed hair from his forehead, as one would a fly.
"Well," he said, after a silence. "Could you not? Go with him?"
"He changed his mind."
When Nathaniel had first bent his eyes on her, she had felt a heat in her chest, fear mixed with elation. She had felt light as the wind, and as formless. Oh, and I asked him, Will I come with you, on Traveller? Yes, he said. He took me by the elbows and studied my resolve. Yes, he said, I could not bear to leave you.
Reverend Walton appeared agitated by her tone. His eyes flew to the window and remained there. "It would be a life filled with peril," he ventured. "For you and the children."
"I'm sorry," Azuba said. "I shouldn't . . . I'm not myself."
The minister rose. "Mrs. Bradstock, please." He stepped forward, took her hand, held it for an instant before shaking it. "I've tired you. Please come visit the parsonage. Bring your daughter. I'll show her my collection."
After he had seen himself out, Azuba rose and sought her sewing box. She sat on the horsehair sofa, lifted out a bundle of Nathaniel's letters tied with blue satin ribbon.
My dearest Azuba,
I am at lat. 35 11,' long. W. 126, in the vicinity of Pitcairn Island. We are in the S.E. trades and the weather has been beautiful.
She skimmed through the letters, seeking words.
Love. Sweet. My dear wife. Home, soon. Our wedding. Wish that I. Forever.
Azuba dropped the letter into the sewing box and replaced the lid. It was her secret, what she had told Reverend Walton. Everyone assumed her contentment. There was not a girl in the village who would not have married Nathaniel Bradstock. Sea captains' wives were envied, whether they sailed with their husbands or not. Nathaniel was the youngest of three boys, all sea captains. When he was twelve years old, he had served as cabin boy on his oldest brother's ship; at fourteen, he was sent away to the academy in Sackville. And was a second mate at nineteen. The Bradstock brothers, Nathaniel included, were renowned for their hard-driven voyages, extravagant items brought or shipped home, adventures spiced with rumours of ruthlessness. Their parents gave balls and dinners to celebrate their infrequent visits.
Azuba thought of her plaid silk wedding dress, hanging in her bedroom closet. Green and purple, with a shimmer of gold thread.
The following week, Azuba and Carrie drove to visit Azuba's grandmother, Grammy Cooper. Slason offered to drive, but Azuba refused. She loved to collect the mare's energy, tightening the reins, snapping the whip. And it was only five miles, through the village, up along the needle-softened road.
Far below, Whelan's Cove was like a toy village, and off to the west, Grand Manan spliced the silver sea.
"I loved to come here when I was little," Azuba said. Carrie sat straight-backed with excitement. She held her doll, Jojo, face-forward to see the view.
They turned down the lane. Budding hardwoods held the light tenderly. Half-wild cats slithered away beneath the barn. Grammy was stumping lopsided towards the house. She clutched a bunch of parsnips by their tops.
"Come along in," she called. She waved her cane.
Azuba unhitched the mare, led her to the barn. Carrie squatted by the sill making chirping noises for the cats.
They crossed the hen-scratched earth. The poplar leaves funnelled the wind with a soft roar. They went up the wooden steps, holding their skirts.
The house was placid, vital: knitting needles spiked a sweater; carded wool was piled by the spinning wheel. Geraniums lined the windowsills. By the stove was a pail, a bucket of potatoes and a narrow, high-sided cradle.
Carrie took her doll to the cradle. It had been Grammy's as an infant and had kept her warm during that first terrible winter in Saint John. Carrie had heard her greatgrandmother's story, the words incantatory as prayer. Log house caulked with seaweed. The autumn fleet. Loyalists. Grammy, child of refugees.
Grammy made tea while Azuba poured cold water from a pitcher into a bowl, washed the parsnips. They sat at the table to chop them. Grammy's fingers were twisted, the knuckles swollen. She held her knife by tucking it in her palm. It flashed in the sunlight, cut as fast as Azuba's.
"Lost a baby. Probably something wrong with it, Azuba. Nature knows. Think it's something you did?"
Azuba looked into the beloved face with its splotchy brown marks. Skin fanned beneath Grammy's chin in parchment folds; her eyes were tucked deep beneath loops of flesh.
"Every woman thinks the same, Azuba. I began bleeding once after I'd lugged a bushel of potatoes."
"Why—" began Carrie.
Grammy raised a finger at her. "Take these to the hens." She swept the peelings into a bowl.
Carrie went out to the sunshine and the cats. They saw her wandering towards the barn, strewing parsnip skin. The wind lifted her dress, revealed her tiny boots.
"No. I don't think it's something I did," Azuba said. "I think it's the way I was feeling."
Grammy darted a look, but said nothing, only pursed her lips with their white waxy patches.
"Maybe wanting the baby so that Nathaniel would hurry back home." She laid the white, rubbery parsnips in a row and aligned the ends. "When he was home, it was as if it was my house, or Father's house. Not his. I could feel it. He was only a visitor. And I will never tell Father, but I have not yet reconciled myself to my life. I don't live to fill my rooms with silver tea sets and satin cushions, delivered to me by my husband from Paris or Bombay." She lowered her voice, spoke as if to herself. "I want to go to those places. With him."
Grammy put down her knife. "He's a good man, Nathaniel." She spoke firmly, as if she had once doubted. "Some say he's too hard, or too blunt, or too used to command. But I've watched him look at you, Azuba. No one else except Carrie gets that look from Captain Bradstock. Do you think you made a bad choice?"
"No. Never."
"Still. You're not like those peacocks in their pretty pens."
They both watched Carrie. She was skirting the rooster, whose yellow and black tail feathers fluttered.
"I could see you on that ship of his. Do him good."
Azuba remembered her small, bright-faced grandfather and how Grammy had broken into a keening at his burial, her cries unfurling into the sky. She'd been urged to come down off the mountain when he died, but had refused. She said she would live her life the way she wanted.
After they had eaten dinner and washed the dishes, Carrie and Azuba said their goodbyes. There were deep, oval holes in the soil where hens had scratched out dust baths. Carrie held up Jojo. Nathaniel had carved the doll's face, arms and legs. He had painted its cheeks red, given it a wispy smile. Azuba had stuffed the body with dried peas.
Grammy took the doll in her hand. "Father made that for you?"
"Papa makes my toys," Carrie said. She spoke solemnly and as if her Papa were not far away, nor would be long in returning.
Grammy kissed the doll's head. Carrie hugged her great-grandmother and Grammy put one arm around the child. She set her cane, looked deep-eyed at Azuba.
"Never let men frighten you, Azuba. They're boys at heart. Just boys."
The Sail House
I have sad news for you, my dear. I am no longer with child. There was no fall or apparent cause. The baby slipped away, and I am left well but sorrowing. Carrie is heartbroken, for she had been hoping for a little brother, and had begun choosing names.
I am well. I am back at work with Hannah and Slason. I know you will think I should not be, but it is my wish to be outside and vigorous, and so we have begun breaking up the soil with the mare for a new garden.
Nathaniel, I missed you so during this misfortune. My heart ached for you. If I could have made a miracle, I would have lifted you from the seas and set you here in your chair. I hope you can find a way to make a shorter voyage, although I know it is not always in your control. This past year that you were home, although we had not agreed upon our future, was so blessed, not least the joy of seeing you and Carrie together. She misses you terribly and plays with her ark every night as she promised you she would.
I know that after you changed your mind about my coming with you, we had many discussions. I know that you tire of hearing my views on this, and hesitate to write them down, but I must say that I continue to believe Carrie and I would not be such a burden as you think. If you cannot find time to come home, please know that I am still ready to pack up and join you so that we may be a family. I am not afraid, as you know. No storm seems as bad as having to live day after day with no husband, and no knowledge of when he might return.
I am sorry; perhaps I should not write this letter, but these are my feelings at the moment, and were you here I would be telling them to you.
I love you, always. I miss you. I pray for your safety.
Azuba
"Oh, Mr. Marr has ridden an elephant, too." Crumbs blew from Mrs. Marr's lips. She was tiny. She patted her mouth with a linen napkin. "He assured me he was not a bit frightened."
Azuba and Carrie had been invited to tea at the home of Mrs. Black. Mrs. Holder and Mrs. Marr were present. All were sea captains' wives.
Their skirts rustled, releasing the scent of lavender. They sat forward on their chairs to accommodate their bustles. Carrie's feet did not touch the floor. She sat with a biscuit forgotten in her hand, staring at the cut glass chandelier, the fringed lamps, the stuffed pheasant, the clocks, mirrors and waxed fruit.
This house, Azuba thought, holding a teacup and saucer, was as large as hers, similarly ornamented with gables and turrets, set back from the main street on a slope overlooking the harbour. But it was so stuffed with possessions that its rooms seemed smaller, darker. Nor could she think of herself as similar to the other women. They were as overly decorated as the room. They wore rings on every finger, gold chains around their necks, dangling jet earrings, lace collars, ribbons, beads. They swept their hands in negligent arcs and talked loudly, without reflection.
Mrs. Black resumed her husband's latest letter, lifting her chin to read from the very top of the paper. Fine silver chains looped from her pince-nez.
The cook baked tarts and gingerbread. I have a very attentive steward who brought me these with my tea. I passed the morning pleasantly, scarcely a ruffle on the ocean or a cloud to be seen. Today some handsome birds have been flying under our lee. I spied a brigantine standing to the westward but could not make her out . . .
Mrs. Black swept the pages with an ostentatious rustle.
Later in the day came a heavy gale from the northwest, attended with squalls of rain. I called the watch, but before we could get all sail in, the fore and maintop split . . .
Azuba leaned forward. She pictured the black clouds, the rain-stippled waves.
"Oh, bother that part. Let me find something interesting."
"Oh!" Azuba said.
Mrs. Black lowered the paper. "What, Mrs. Bradstock?"
"No, I'm sorry. I just wondered what happened."
"Well . . ." She raised the pages, scanned them. "He doesn't say much more. They limped along, I suppose."
Mrs. Marr set down her cup and saucer. She frowned when she spoke, causing a wedge-shaped furrow on her brow. "I skip those parts too. They will go on about the storms."
"I like to read about the storms," said Azuba. She glanced at Carrie. "Although I always wonder what he's feeling, and he never says."
"Feeling!" Mrs. Marr's narrowed eyes slid sideways to Mrs. Holder, a stern-faced woman from Saint John. Mrs. Holder's expression held a permanent state of affront, her mouth pinched down at the corners. The two women exchanged a glance. "Don't expect to hear about feelings, my dear."
"Not a shred of fear in their bodies," said Mrs. Black, setting down the letter. "Annie?"
An Irish girl dressed in a starched cap and apron circled the room with the teapot and a plate of biscuits.
"It's not only his feelings," Azuba said, taking a biscuit from the maid. She wanted, suddenly, to needle these women. "It's the storms. He dismisses them in a word or two. 'Storm last night.' But I find them exciting. I always want to know what happened. Whether the sails shredded, or if they had to heave to."
There was a silence. The room was overheated, the windows closed against the spring air.
"What really happens, we don't care to know," said Mrs. Marr. She glanced at Carrie. "It's best not."
Azuba turned to stare at the bright little woman. "I wouldn't be afraid to know."
"Wouldn't you? I suppose you would like to sail with your husband?"
Azuba saw that Mrs. Black's mouth was opening, a change of subject in her eyes.
"Yes," she answered, quickly. "I wouldn't mind. I'd love to see London, Paris. Antwerp."
The women laughed. They made clucking sounds, glanced at Carrie, who had not yet finished the biscuit she held in her hand and whose dress, Azuba noticed, was covered in crumbs.
"Have you met any of those women who sail with their husbands?" Mrs. Marr hissed. "Have you seen their skin? Observed their manners? And think, Mrs. Bradstock, of what we read in the papers." The wedge on her brow raised, hardened.
The voyages that went dreadfully wrong, Azuba thought. Fire at sea, women put off in lifeboats, captains shot dead by mutineers, dramatic rescues in icy waters. These landbound wives could not conceive of the excitement of such drama, or imagine the lives of the families who sailed without mishap. They saw no challenge, no thrill; only the evils of weathered skin, the pity of coarse manners.
"Will you grow your heliotrope this year, Mrs. Marr?" Mrs. Black turned the conversation to Flower Sunday, in July, when the church would be decorated with blooms from their gardens.
" . . . lovely new rose. Mr. Marr brought some rootstock from England . . ."
" . . . Love-Lies-Bleeding. So foggy in Saint John, can't grow . . ."
Azuba looked at Carrie and raised her eyebrows. The biscuit. Eat it.
She pictured Nathaniel sitting in a hotel parlour in San Francisco. Perhaps he was speaking to a woman with sunbrowned cheeks who was sailing with her captain husband, telling her about his own beautiful wife, Azuba, back home in New Brunswick, and of their fine house on the headland overlooking the Bay of Fundy, and of Carrie, his little daughter. Perhaps the sun-browned woman bowed her head demurely and then slid him an admiring glance. And Nathaniel was free to think of Azuba as privileged, safe, fortified by wealth, glorified by her absent husband.
Carrie nibbled nervously at her crumbly butter biscuit. Azuba felt sudden rage at the sight of her little girl, already burdened by the weight of expectation. Expectations. These tiresome women who clucked so disapprovingly expected her to come to their sewing circle. They expected her to grow formal flowers suitable for ornate vases or placement in the church. Like her parents, they expected her to spend Nathaniel's money on carriages and dresses, and to stand proud at village events—ship launches, cotillions. Like Nathaniel, they expected her to produce children on whom a father might lavish attention when he returned on his infrequent visits.
Sun broke through a bank of clouds, quivered in the rainbowed daffodils. In the room, the light illuminated the stuffed partridge and the powder on Mrs. Black's cheek.
Azuba leaned forward and set her cup and saucer on a table whose heavy cloth silenced the motion. She sat staring at the wrinkled pages of Captain Black's letter, lying beneath Mrs. Black's pince-nez.
Never again. Never again will Nathaniel set sail without me.
She glanced at Carrie.
Without us.
Azuba watched it through tears. She felt the heartbreak of motherhood— sorrow, now, not only for herself and Nathaniel, but for Carrie.
And that night of his leave-taking. How I took his coat from the closet. She'd sat on the bed with her face buried in its black wool, breathing its smell of tobacco and cold air. And realized that her love for him had no expression now other than in words— scrawled or read.
The bedroom had two bow windows overlooking the Bay of Fundy with its spruce-cragged cliffs. At the age of nineteen, she had married Nathaniel Bradstock, who at twenty-eight was a seasoned captain. Her father had given them the house as a wedding gift, hiding it beneath a scaffolding strung with sails as it was being built. A big house meant to be filled with dogs, toys, music, guests, family. He had set the house high on a headland, fit for a sea captain's wife, where Azuba could look down at Whelan's Cove with its shipyards, hulls looming higher than the rooftops, gulls circling in clouds of sawdust; its harbour, crowded with fishing boats, coastal schooners, sloops— and farther out, in the deeper water, square-rigged merchant ships with their forest of masts and rigging. One of which might, on occasion, be Nathaniel's Traveller.
She pictured herself as a child— dark-haired, impetuous, with black eyes, different from her fair-skinned cousins— and felt pity for her hope. Her innocence.
Her days, now: as they would unfold tomorrow, and next week, and next month. She saw herself working with her hired girl, Hannah— planting, weeding, scrubbing— her own hair pinned back, sleeves rolled, scissors and knives jingling in the deep pockets of her wash dress. How she made her choice to work from the wearisomeness of its alternative: tea parties, visits, carriage rides. She pictured Slason, with his crooked leg and loose-lipped mouth. He tended the pigs, the horse, the cow. His voice, submissive. What do you need, Mrs. Bradstock? And the violent headland winds, different from the winds of her childhood. Clothes on the line, twisted into knots. Doors, pulled from her hand. Often, she paused on the porch and looked out at the blue line of Nova Scotia and the silver gleam in the southwest where the bay widened to the Gulf of Maine: the sea spread before her, thundered in her ears; and sometimes she loathed it, since Nathaniel was at its mercy. At other times, she closed her eyes, tossed back her bonnet and breathed deep of the world's size.
She and Nathaniel had paid a call at the parsonage when he had first arrived. He'd shown them his studio, a large room at the back of the house with an easel, drawing books and a table beneath a window littered with treasures he'd collected along the shore— feathers, shells, skulls.
Or how, on the day of their wedding, in the midst of an October gale, she and Nathaniel and most of the villagers had gone up the headland road in horse-drawn carriages. Father had lifted his arm, men had slashed the ropes, and the sails had fallen from the scaffolding, revealing a large white house that would forever be known as "the sail house." It had gingerbread shingles, a porch and steep gables. In their enthusiasm, the men had cut the ropes tethering the sails and the canvas had risen like monstrous, demented gulls, flapping towards the horses. Drivers had stood, shouting, hauling on reins. Nathaniel had jumped from the carriage, seized their horse by the bridle, growling "Whoa! Whoa!" even as he stared up at the newly minted house with a complex expression—surprise, affront and then a dawning comprehension.
"Why—" began Carrie.
"It's not only his feelings," Azuba said, taking a biscuit from the maid. She wanted, suddenly, to needle these women. "It's the storms. He dismisses them in a word or two. 'Storm last night.' But I find them exciting. I always want to know what happened. Whether the sails shredded, or if they had to heave to."
Carrie nibbled nervously at her crumbly butter biscuit. Azuba felt sudden rage at the sight of her little girl, already burdened by the weight of expectation. Expectations. These tiresome women who clucked so disapprovingly expected her to come to their sewing circle. They expected her to grow formal flowers suitable for ornate vases or placement in the church. Like her parents, they expected her to spend Nathaniel's money on carriages and dresses, and to stand proud at village events—ship launches, cotillions. Like Nathaniel, they expected her to produce children on whom a father might lavish attention when he returned on his infrequent visits.
tagged : historical, contemporary women, sea stories
The Sister's Tale
tagged : non-classifiable, literary, historical
Hardy Roses
A Practical Guide To Varieties And Techniques
by (photographer) Beth Powning
by Robert Osborn & Robert Osborne
tagged : roses
Roses For Canadian Gardens
A Prctical Guide To Varieties And Techniques
by Robert Osborne
The Essential Guide for High Latitudes and Altitudes
by Bob Osborne
photographs by Beth Powning
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text:
Workday Announces Fiscal 2019 Third Quarter Financial Results
Total Revenues of $743.2 Million, Up 33.8% Year Over Year
Subscription Revenue Backlog of $5.9 Billion, Up 31.0% Year Over Year
PLEASANTON, Calif., Nov. 29, 2018 (GLOBE NEWSWIRE) -- Workday, Inc. (NASDAQ: WDAY), a leader in enterprise cloud applications for finance and human resources, today announced results for the fiscal 2019 third quarter ended October 31, 2018.
Fiscal Third Quarter Results
Total revenues were $743.2 million, an increase of 33.8% from the third quarter of fiscal 2018. Subscription revenues were $624.4 million, an increase of 34.7% from the same period last year.
Operating loss was $182.8 million, or negative 24.6% of revenues, compared to an operating loss of $80.1 million, or negative 14.4% of revenues, in the same period last year. Non-GAAP operating income for the third quarter was $49.7 million, or 6.7% of revenues, compared to a non-GAAP operating income of $50.1 million, or 9.0% of revenues, in the same period last year.1
Net loss per basic and diluted share was $0.70, compared to a net loss per basic and diluted share of $0.41 in the third quarter of fiscal 2018. Non-GAAP net income per diluted share was $0.31, compared to a non-GAAP net income per diluted share of $0.24 in the same period last year.2
Operating cash flows were $114.3 million and free cash flows were $58.9 million.3
Cash, cash equivalents, and marketable securities were $1.6 billion as of October 31, 2018. Unearned revenues were approximately $1.6 billion, a 27.8% increase from the same period last year.
"We had a great third quarter and continue to see significant momentum across our suite of products," said Aneel Bhusri, co-founder and CEO, Workday. "We extended our market leadership in HCM, welcoming more Fortune 500 customers to the Workday community, and accelerated adoption of Workday Financial Management as more finance organizations move to the cloud. As we look to the remainder of fiscal 2019, we are confident that our commitment to customer satisfaction and product innovation, coupled with our strong company culture, will continue to deliver meaningful growth and customer success."
"We're pleased with our strong performance in Q3, which resulted in accelerated growth across our core business metrics and gives us great momentum heading into year-end," said Robynne Sisco, co-president and chief financial officer, Workday. "The strength in our business is allowing us to raise our fiscal 2019 outlook and we now expect subscription revenue of $2.375 to $2.377 billion, or growth of 33%. We continue to prioritize investing in long-term growth initiatives, while delivering solid operating and cash flow margins over time."
Workday was ranked #1 on the Fortune Future 50 list, which recognizes the global companies with the best prospects for long-term growth. In addition, Workday was ranked #3 on the list of the 100 Best Workplaces for Women by Fortune and Great Place to Work Institute.
Building on the Adaptive Insights acquisition momentum, Workday announced it went live on Adaptive Insights Business Planning Cloud in just 10 weeks. In addition, Adaptive Insights announced it extended Business Planning Cloud with a new strategic workforce planning solution that empowers organizations to develop comprehensive workforce plans that seamlessly integrate with an organization's larger plan.
Workday held its 12th annual customer conference, Workday Rising, in Las Vegas as well as its fifth annual European customer conference, Workday Rising Europe, in Vienna. Between both conferences, Workday welcomed more than 13,000 attendees as well as once again revealed its annual customer satisfaction rating, which came in at 98 percent.
Workday announced the general availability of its skills cloud, a universal skills language that helps organizations cleanse, understand, and relate job skills data. Using its skills cloud as a foundation in Workday HCM, Workday aims to help customers more easily tap talent inside and outside of their organizations.
Workday unveiled Workday People Analytics, which leverages augmented analytics powered by artificial intelligence to provide customers with key metrics - accompanied by explanatory narratives called stories - on the most critical activities in their business.
Demonstrating its ongoing commitment to comprehensive privacy legislation, Workday shared its privacy principles – privacy first, innovate responsibly, and safeguard fairness and trust – which enable customers to accelerate innovation in their workplaces while enabling the protection of their data.
Workday plans to host a conference call today to review its fiscal 2019 third quarter financial results and to discuss its financial outlook. The call is scheduled to begin at 1:30 p.m. PT/4:30 p.m. ET and can be accessed via webcast.
The webcast will be available live and a replay will be available following completion of the live broadcast for approximately 90 days.
1 Non-GAAP operating income excludes share-based compensation expenses, employer payroll tax-related items on employee stock transactions, and amortization expense for acquisition-related intangible assets. See the section titled "About Non-GAAP Financial Measures" in the accompanying financial tables for further details.
2 Non-GAAP net income per share excludes share-based compensation expenses, employer payroll tax-related items on employee stock transactions, amortization expense for acquisition-related intangible assets, non-cash interest expense related to our convertible senior notes, and income tax effects. See the section titled "About Non-GAAP Financial Measures" in the accompanying financial tables for further details.
3 Free cash flows are defined as operating cash flows minus capital expenditures (excluding owned real estate projects). See the section titled "About Non-GAAP Financial Measures" in the accompanying financial tables for further details.
Workday is a leading provider of enterprise cloud applications for finance and human resources. Founded in 2005, Workday delivers financial management, human capital management, and analytics applications designed for the world's largest companies, educational institutions, and government agencies. Organizations ranging from medium-sized businesses to Fortune 50 enterprises have selected Workday.
Reconciliations of non-GAAP financial measures to Workday's financial results as determined in accordance with GAAP are included at the end of this press release following the accompanying financial data. For a description of these non-GAAP financial measures, including the reasons management uses each measure, please see the section of the tables titled "About Non-GAAP Financial Measures." A reconciliation of our forward outlook for non-GAAP operating margin with our forward-looking GAAP operating margin is not available without unreasonable efforts as the quantification of share-based compensation expense, which is excluded from our non-GAAP operating margin, requires additional inputs such as number of shares granted and market price that are not ascertainable.
This press release contains forward-looking statements including, among other things, statements regarding Workday's fiscal year 2019 subscription revenue projections and growth, products, and customer success. The words "believe," "may," "will," "estimate," "continue," "anticipate," "intend," "expect," "plans," and similar expressions are intended to identify forward-looking statements. These forward-looking statements are subject to risks, uncertainties, and assumptions. If the risks materialize or assumptions prove incorrect, actual results could differ materially from the results implied by these forward-looking statements. Risks include, but are not limited to: (i) risks related to our ability to successfully integrate Adaptive Insights' operations or failure to achieve the expected benefits of this or any other acquisition transaction; (ii) our ability to implement our plans, objectives, and other expectations with respect to the Adaptive Insights business or that of any other acquired company; (iii) breaches in our security measures, unauthorized access to our customers' data or disruptions in our data center operations; (iv) our ability to manage our growth effectively; (v) competitive factors, including pricing pressures, industry consolidation, entry of new competitors and new applications, and marketing initiatives by our competitors; (vi) the development of the market for enterprise cloud services; (vii) acceptance of our applications and services by customers; (viii) adverse changes in general economic or market conditions; (ix) delays or reductions in information technology spending; and (x) changes in sales, which may not be immediately reflected in our results due to our subscription model. Further information on risks that could affect Workday's results is included in our filings with the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC), including our Form 10-Q for the quarter ended July 31, 2018 and our future reports that we may file with the SEC from time to time, which could cause actual results to vary from expectations. Workday assumes no obligation to, and does not currently intend to, update any such forward-looking statements after the date of this release.
Cash and cash equivalents $ 540,430 $ 1,134,355
Prepaid expenses and other current assets 132,488 97,860
Acquisition-related intangible assets, net 332,583 34,234
Goodwill 1,377,615 159,376
Current portion of convertible senior notes, net 229,684 341,509
Convertible senior notes, net 961,139 1,149,845
Unearned revenue, noncurrent 109,694 110,906
Treasury stock (178,801 ) —
Accumulated other comprehensive income (loss) 3,768 (46,413 )
Three Months Ended October 31, Nine Months Ended October 31,
Professional services 118,773 91,821 321,328 262,739
Costs of professional services 119,691 91,657 330,124 260,834
General and administrative 138,784 56,184 259,533 163,085
Total costs and expenses 925,944 635,448 2,376,553 1,782,458
Other income (expense), net 26,617 (3,742 ) 24,382 (4,467 )
Provision for (benefit from) income taxes (2,807 ) 1,745 (4,722 ) 5,767
Costs of professional services 15,702 9,956 39,012 27,278
Product development 86,304 59,116 230,169 167,068
Depreciation and amortization 57,602 34,727 138,492 100,025
Other (30,990 ) (1,133 ) (45,173 ) 5,052
Trade and other receivables, net (9,379 ) 19,070 54,565 59,463
Prepaid expenses and other assets (5,985 ) (11,355 ) (2,943 ) (23,373 )
Accounts payable (12,148 ) (7,383 ) 1,793 2,830
Accrued expenses and other liabilities 63,896 59,171 60,341 49,788
Unearned revenue 19,379 6,470 (34,508 ) 7,632
Net cash provided by (used in) operating activities 114,296 144,031 356,145 339,179
Purchases of marketable securities (89,294 ) (930,783 ) (1,523,636 ) (1,829,231 )
Maturities of marketable securities 369,771 372,389 1,711,652 1,185,730
Sales of marketable securities 3,388 32,886 945,685 222,823
Owned real estate projects (37,302 ) (27,616 ) (126,072 ) (80,151 )
Business combinations, net of cash acquired (1,447,600 ) — (1,474,337 ) —
Purchase of other intangible assets — — (1,000 ) —
Purchases of non-marketable equity and other investments (29,375 ) (5,272 ) (32,775 ) (10,722 )
Sales and maturities of non-marketable equity and other investments 17,771 294 17,771 1,026
Other (11 ) (1,000 ) (11 ) (1,000 )
Net cash provided by (used in) investing activities (1,268,079 ) (595,458 ) (640,358 ) (617,002 )
Proceeds from borrowings on convertible senior notes, net of issuance costs — 1,132,101 — 1,132,101
Proceeds from issuance of warrants — 80,805 — 80,805
Purchase of convertible senior notes hedges — (175,530 ) — (175,530 )
Payments on convertible senior notes (3 ) — (350,008 ) —
Proceeds from issuance of common stock from employee equity plans 2,767 1,974 44,064 36,501
Other (60 ) (36 ) (176 ) (112 )
Net cash provided by (used in) financing activities 2,704 1,039,314 (306,120 ) 1,073,765
Effect of exchange rate changes (213 ) (322 ) (795 ) 261
Net increase (decrease) in cash, cash equivalents, and restricted cash (1,151,292 ) 587,565 (591,128 ) 796,203
Cash, cash equivalents, and restricted cash at the beginning of period 1,695,818 750,532 1,135,654 541,894
Supplemental cash flow data
Cash paid for interest, net of amounts capitalized $ 1 $ 18 $ 34 $ 64
Cash paid for income taxes 633 651 3,839 3,259
Non-cash investing and financing activities:
Vesting of early exercised stock options $ — $ 106 $ — $ 670
Purchases of property and equipment, accrued but not paid 60,800 47,055 60,800 47,055
Non-cash additions to property and equipment 2,314 649 2,679 1,276
October 31,
Reconciliation of cash, cash equivalents, and restricted cash as shown in the statements of cash flows
Restricted cash included in Prepaid expenses and other current assets
Restricted cash included in Other assets 130 1,113
Total cash, cash equivalents, and restricted cash $ 544,526 $ 1,338,097
Three Months Ended October 31, 2018
GAAP Share-Based Compensation Expenses Other Operating Expenses (2) Amortization of Debt Discount and Issuance Costs Income Tax Effects (3) Non-GAAP
Costs of professional services 119,691 (15,702 ) (495 ) — — 103,494
General and administrative 138,784 (57,993 ) (758 ) — — 80,033
Operating income (loss) (182,755 ) 208,924 23,484 — — 49,653
Operating margin (24.6 )% 28.1 % 3.2 % — % — % 6.7 %
Other income (expense), net 26,617 — — 12,341 — 38,958
Income (loss) before provision for (benefit from) income taxes (156,138 ) 208,924 23,484 12,341 — 88,611
Net income (loss) $ (153,331 ) $ 208,924 $ 23,484 $ 12,341 $ (17,870 ) $ 73,548
(2) Other operating expenses include total employer payroll tax-related items on employee stock transactions of $4.2 million and amortization of acquisition-related intangible assets of $19.3 million.
(3) We utilize a fixed long-term projected tax rate in our computation of the non-GAAP income tax provision to provide better consistency across the interim reporting periods. For fiscal 2019, we have determined the projected non-GAAP tax rate to be 17%.
GAAP Share-Based Compensation Expenses Other Operating Expenses (2) Amortization of Debt Discount and Issuance Costs Non-GAAP
Costs of subscription services $ 71,898 $ (6,899 ) $ (2,468 ) $ — $ 62,531
Costs of professional services 91,657 (9,956 ) (200 ) — 81,501
Product development 239,588 (59,116 ) (3,780 ) — 176,692
Sales and marketing 176,121 (25,517 ) (598 ) — 150,006
General and administrative 56,184 (20,991 ) (683 ) — 34,510
Operating income (loss) (80,059 ) 122,479 7,729 — 50,149
Operating margin (14.4 )% 22.1 % 1.3 % — % 9.0 %
Other income (expense), net (3,742 ) — — 12,257 8,515
Income (loss) before provision for (benefit from) income taxes (83,801 ) 122,479 7,729 12,257 58,664
Provision for (benefit from) income taxes 1,745 — — — 1,745
Net income (loss) $ (85,546 ) $ 122,479 $ 7,729 $ 12,257 $ 56,919
Net income (loss) per share (1) $ (0.41 ) $ 0.59 $ 0.04 $ 0.02 $ 0.24
(2) Other operating expenses include total employer payroll tax-related items on employee stock transactions of $2.9 million and amortization of acquisition-related intangible assets of $4.8 million.
Nine Months Ended October 31, 2018
Costs of subscription services $ 197,627 $ (19,170 ) $ (3,222 ) $ — $ 175,235
Costs of professional services 260,834 (27,278 ) (1,485 ) — 232,071
Product development 657,130 (167,068 ) (19,344 ) — 470,718
Sales and marketing 503,782 (74,618 ) (3,398 ) — 425,766
General and administrative 163,085 (63,656 ) (2,755 ) — 96,674
Operating income (loss) (221,888 ) 351,790 30,204 — 160,106
Operating margin (14.2 )% 22.5 % 2.0 % — % 10.3 %
Other income (expense), net (4,467 ) — — 25,992 21,525
Income (loss) before provision for (benefit from) income taxes (226,355 ) 351,790 30,204 25,992 181,631
Net income (loss) $ (232,122 ) $ 351,790 $ 30,204 $ 25,992 $ 175,864
Reconciliation of GAAP Cash Flows from Operations to Free Cash Flows
(A Non-GAAP Financial Measure)
Net cash provided by (used in) operating activities $ 114,296 $ 144,031 $ 356,145 $ 339,179
Free cash flows $ 58,869 $ 107,675 $ 198,510 $ 233,702
Trailing Twelve Months Ended October 31,
Net cash provided by (used in) operating activities $ 482,693 $ 448,910
Capital expenditures, excluding owned real estate projects (193,694 ) (137,755 )
Free cash flows $ 288,999 $ 311,155
To provide investors and others with additional information regarding Workday's results, we have disclosed the following non-GAAP financial measures: non-GAAP operating income (loss), non-GAAP net income (loss) per share, and free cash flows. Workday has provided a reconciliation of each non-GAAP financial measure used in this earnings release to the most directly comparable GAAP financial measure. Non-GAAP operating income (loss) differs from GAAP in that it excludes share-based compensation expenses, employer payroll tax-related items on employee stock transactions, and amortization of acquisition-related intangible assets. Non-GAAP net income (loss) per share differs from GAAP in that it excludes share-based compensation expenses, employer payroll tax-related items on employee stock transactions, amortization of acquisition-related intangible assets, non-cash interest expense related to our convertible senior notes, and income tax effects. Free cash flows differ from GAAP cash flows from operating activities in that it treats capital expenditures (excluding owned real estate projects) as a reduction to cash flows.
Workday's management uses these non-GAAP financial measures to understand and compare operating results across accounting periods, for internal budgeting and forecasting purposes, for short- and long-term operating plans, and to evaluate Workday's financial performance and the ability of operations to generate cash. Management believes these non-GAAP financial measures reflect Workday's ongoing business in a manner that allows for meaningful period-to-period comparisons and analysis of trends in Workday's business, as they exclude expenses that are not reflective of ongoing operating results. Management also believes that these non-GAAP financial measures provide useful information to investors and others in understanding and evaluating Workday's operating results and prospects in the same manner as management and in comparing financial results across accounting periods and to those of peer companies. Additionally, management believes information regarding free cash flows provides investors and others with an important perspective on the cash flows generated by normal recurring activities to make strategic acquisitions and investments, to fund ongoing operations, and to fund other capital expenditures.
Other operating expenses. Other operating expenses includes employer payroll tax-related items on employee stock transactions and amortization of acquisition-related intangible assets. The amount of employer payroll tax-related items on employee stock transactions is dependent on our stock price and other factors that are beyond our control and do not correlate to the operation of the business. For business combinations, we generally allocate a portion of the purchase price to intangible assets. The amount of the allocation is based on estimates and assumptions made by management and is subject to amortization. The amount of purchase price allocated to intangible assets and the term of its related amortization can vary significantly and are unique to each acquisition and thus we do not believe it is reflective of ongoing operations.
Amortization of debt discount and issuance costs. Under GAAP, we are required to separately account for liability (debt) and equity (conversion option) components of the convertible senior notes that were issued in private placements in June 2013 and September 2017. Accordingly, for GAAP purposes we are required to recognize the effective interest expense on our convertible senior notes and amortize the issuance costs over the term of the notes. The difference between the effective interest expense and the contractual interest expense, and the amortization expense of issuance costs are excluded from management's assessment of our operating performance because management believes that these non-cash expenses are not indicative of ongoing operating performance. Management believes that the exclusion of the non-cash interest expense provides investors an enhanced view of Workday's operational performance.
Income tax effects. We utilize a fixed long-term projected tax rate in our computation of the non-GAAP income tax provision to provide better consistency across the interim reporting periods. In projecting this long-term non-GAAP tax rate, we utilize a three-year financial projection that excludes the direct impact of share-based compensation and related employer payroll taxes, amortization of acquisition-related intangible assets, and amortization of debt discount and issuance costs. The projected rate considers other factors such as our current operating structure, existing tax positions in various jurisdictions, and key legislation in major jurisdictions where we operate. For fiscal 2019, we have determined the projected non-GAAP tax rate to be 17% after including our acquisition of Adaptive Insights, Inc., which did not have a significant impact to this rate. We will periodically re-evaluate this tax rate, as necessary, for significant events, based on our ongoing analysis of the 2017 U.S. Tax Cuts and Jobs Act, relevant tax law changes, material changes in the forecasted geographic earnings mix, and any significant acquisitions.
Additionally, we believe that the non-GAAP financial measure free cash flows is meaningful to investors because we review cash flows generated from or used in operations after deducting certain capital expenditures that are considered to be an ongoing operational component of our business. Capital expenditures deducted from cash flows from operations do not include purchases of land and buildings or construction costs of our new development center and of other owned buildings. We exclude these owned real estate projects as they are infrequent in nature. For the current fiscal year, these costs primarily represent the construction of our new development center, which is anticipated to be completed in fiscal 2020.
The use of non-GAAP operating income (loss) and non-GAAP net income (loss) per share measures has certain limitations as they do not reflect all items of income and expense that affect Workday's operations. Workday compensates for these limitations by reconciling the non-GAAP financial measures to the most comparable GAAP financial measures. These non-GAAP financial measures should be considered in addition to, not as a substitute for or in isolation from, measures prepared in accordance with GAAP. Further, these non-GAAP measures may differ from the non-GAAP information used by other companies, including peer companies, and therefore comparability may be limited. Management encourages investors and others to review Workday's financial information in its entirety and not rely on a single financial measure.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


Commander Abhilash Tomy who was under medical observation at Ile Amsterdam was brought to Visakhapatnam safely on board INS Satpura on 06 October 18. Vice Adm Karambir Singh FOC-in-C ENC briefly interacted with Cdr Tomy and inquired about his health condition and the rescue operation. Cdr Tomy has now been shifted to INHS Kalyani, the naval hospital of ENC for observation and medical assistance as required. The Commander-in-Chief also interacted with Capt Alok Ananda, the Commanding Officer of INS Satpura who lost his father while the ship was on operational deployment and diverted for the Search and Rescue operation.
INS Satpura after fueling from INS Jyoti arrived off the Ile Amsterdam and safely evacuated Cdr Tomy using the ship's helicopter on 28 Sep 18. He was thereafter provided the requisite medical treatment during the passage to Visakhapatnam. The ship successfully executed 'Operation Raksham' and brought Cdr Tomy safely to Visakhapatnam displaying Indian Navy's reach, mobility and versatility to responding to the challenges of 'Search and Rescue' mission. The event is another testimony of the Indian Navy being a credible 'Net Security Provider' in the Indian Ocean Region.


text:
the journal Nature
Ketamine — A New Drug Treatment For Depression?
Remember ketamine, the old veterinary (and sometimes street) drug? Apparently it rapidly and significantly reduces anhedonia in those with treatment-resistant bipolar disorder, according to a new study. Anhedonia, which is a lack of interest in activities that once gave a person pleasure, is a key feature of treatment-resistant bipolar disorder. According to a recent NIH-funded …
Ketamine — A New Drug Treatment For Depression? Read More »
Scientists Explore Shared Biology In Human, Fly, and Worm Genomes
Researchers analyzing human, fly, and worm genomes have found that these species have a number of key genomic processes in common, reflecting a shared ancestry. Three papers were published in the Aug. 28, 2014 issue of Nature offering insights into embryonic development, gene regulation, and other biological processes vital to understanding human biology and disease. …
Scientists Explore Shared Biology In Human, Fly, and Worm Genomes Read More »
NIH Funding to Study Sex as a Fundamental Variable in Clinical Research
I am popping up from my mountain of R01 drafts to bring attention to an important NIH news release. Yesterday, NIH announced it has devoted over $10 million in supplemental funding for 82 grantees to explore sex differences in their clinical and pre-clinical research. The news release states, "These awards are the latest round of …
NIH Funding to Study Sex as a Fundamental Variable in Clinical Research Read More »


Areas at risk include Pasture Lane, Taran Way North, and Ditton lane. Also at risk are properties off Reed Lane at Reedville Grove, Cornflower way and Bullrush Drive. Wallasey School, Leasowe recreation centre and some property on Twickenham Way..


GRAND PRAIRIE (CBSDFW.COM) — Authorities have identified the suspect responsible for a Christmas Day manhunt and shooting in Grand Prairie that left two officers wounded and the teenage suspect dead.
Mansfield resident Peyton Cole Barbour, 16, was identified by the Dallas County Medical Examiner on Thursday as the suspect.
Barbour was the subject of a near 10-hour manhunt that began on Christmas morning around 4:30 a.m. as officers attempted to make a routine traffic stop near Joe Pool Lake.
After a short pursuit, Barbour left his vehicle and fired multiple shots at officers. Officers returned fire, striking the suspect once.
The suspect fled, prompting authorities to establish a perimeter and call in a DPS helicopter and K-9 units for assistance.
Around 2 p.m., officers located Barbour and approached him, prompting the teenager to fire a handgun at officers. Two officers were shot — one in the hand, one in the foot. They have since been treated and released from Dallas Methodist Hospital.
Officers returned fire, striking the suspect multiple times, resulting in his death.
Residents in the area were warned of the imminent danger during the manhunt and were advised to use caution if they left their homes.
Barbour was a sophomore student at Mansfield Lake Ridge High School. The district plans to have grief counselors available for students and staff who may need assistance when they return from the winter break.
Mansfield ISD released a statement on Thursday.


text:
Victori+Mo Gallery Will Move to First-Floor Location in New York's Chelsea Neighborhood
By Claire Selvin
Claire Selvin
Associate Editor, ARTnews
More Stories by Claire
Phoenix Lindsey-Hall, "Never Stop Dancing," 2017, installation view.
COURTESY VICTORI+MO
Victori+Mo, a gallery previously based in Brooklyn, is relocating to Manhattan's Chelsea neighborhood. The outfit's new 750-square-foot space on the ground floor of a townhouse at 242 West 22nd Street will open on March 14 with an exhibition of work by Phoenix Lindsey-Hall.
Cofounded by Celine Mo and Ed Victori, Victori+Mo has been housed at 56 Bogart Street in Bushwick since it was established in 2015. The gallery's roster includes Amie Cunat, Langdon Graves, Leah Guadagnoli, Amanda Martinez, and Samuel Stabler, among other artists.
In an interview with ARTnews, Mo cited the planned L train shutdown—which has since been called off—as a factor for the move. (Victori+Mo's former space was situated right off the L line's Morgan Avenue stop.)
"We were growing out of the space a little bit, and I think the L train closing was a pretty big factor because it's already such a pain trying to get our clients out there," she said. "[The new space] will have that residential feel, which I think will be different than what people are used to."
Asked about the recent exodus of various galleries from Chelsea, Mo said that she and Victori are "going against the grain a little bit."
She quipped that Victori+Mo is "a speck of dust" within the larger ecosystem of Chelsea mega-galleries as it currently exists, and noted that the gallery's boutique size "allows us to be more risky in terms of the things we want to show." But, despite the move, the gallery will retain its original character, Mo said. "I want to keep our identity," she told me. "We really pushed our artists to explore the space in Bushwick, and we want them to keep doing that."
Victori + Mo
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text:
International Research Do's and Don'ts - Duke Researcher Fundamentals Session
Office for Research and Innovation, Duke Global Health Institute (DGHI), Duke Initiative for Science & Society, Duke Innovation & Entrepreneurship Initiative, Duke Institute for Brain Sciences (DIBS), Duke-Margolis Center for Health Policy, Fuqua School of Business, John Hope Franklin Center (JHFC), Kenan Institute for Ethics, Law School, Nicholas Institute for Energy, Environment and Sustainability, Nicholas School of the Environment, Office of Global Affairs, Office of Research Administration (ORA), Office of Research Support (ORS), Pratt School of Engineering, Sanford School of Public Policy, School of Medicine (SOM), School of Nursing (SON), Social Science Research Institute (SSRI), Trinity College
Associate Vice Provost for Global Affairs Eve Duffy, Ph.D., Associate Director of International Grants and Contracts Broderick Grady, and Director of Export Controls Dan Vick, M.B.A.
This in-person Researcher Fundamentals session is designed to provide faculty investigators with strategies and best practices for navigating the complexities of international research, from guidelines for relevant projects with a foreign component to ensuring projects meet applicable sponsor and federal regulations.  Featuring: Eve Duffy, Ph.D., Associate Vice Provost for Global Affairs; Broderick Grady, Associate Director, International Grants and Contracts; and Daniel "Dan" Vick, M.B.A., Director of Export Controls ⠀ For more information and to register, please visit duke.is/58c9j.  Limited seating available.  Researcher Fundamentals session part of Duke Research & Innovation Week 2023. Learn more at duke.is/m5555.  A new track of educational opportunities, Duke Researcher Fundamentals Sessions will familiarize faculty investigators with various research enterprise tools, resources and services to help facilitate their innovative research at Duke. Faculty and research staff across campus and the School of Medicine are invited to join their colleagues and subject matter experts in robust discussions about the challenges facing researchers in the post-COVID world.
Law, Business, Medicine, Climate, Energy, Entrepreneurship, Global, Engineering, Humanities, Natural Sciences, Social Sciences, Lecture/Talk, Training, Conference/Symposium, Workshop/Short Course, Research, Technology, Information Session, Free Food and Beverages, Giveaways


"I am, the best (Your Name) that there will ever be, because, I love, me some me"
BeShaun Leavell, artistically known as Shaun Judah, Is an emcee, poet, spoken word artist, writer, actor, doodle-sketcher, performer & teaching artist that has graced stages across the world with electrifying and thought-provoking performances. Every act ignites his audiences to think, reflect, and walk away with a new perspective of the world around them.
Having had the privilege and talent to work with artists around the globe he has a desire to use his gifts to inspire people to "be better than themselves".
Born in Louisville, Kentucky, raised in "Kentuckiana", San Francisco, California & Birmingham, Alabama, Judah was exposed to wide variety of people, cultures, music genres and art forms. Shaun realized his passion for performing after appearing in a school play as a child. During his teenage years, he also discovered talents as a wordsmith. Displaying a gift to freestyle Judah began to battle fellow emcees & rappers, then forming a Crew called (Jah Squad) in the early-mid 90's. A love for (spoken word poetry) soon developed after going to his first open mic in Birmingham. Over the years, Judah has held many monikers, from (Mainey B to Frog to California to Cali to Calico to ShaunLala resting on Shaun Judah)...he has also embodied a number of skills and styles going from battle participant to its Host, holding down different positions in entertainment from open mic performer to curator even holding down a Residency through the Alys Stephens Center.
After a four year stint in the ARMY, Judah's first job was as a mentor in an afterschool program in Hinesville, Ga. Working with grade school students, before returning to Birmingham the next year. Once back in The Ham, Shaun went to work for his father as a Boot Camp Instructor with S.H.A.R.E. in Birmingham & Jefferson County schools for the next 10 years. Four of those years Shaun also operated as a Mental Health Worker @ Hillcrest Behavioral Hospital, working with adults and adolescents .
Not limiting his gift of being able to engage children with just creative expression, he served as a one-on-one paraprofessional for Appleton, Inc. in Birmingham City Schools. There Shaun worked with children identified to have special needs.
Moreover, Shaun assists and empowers his "kids" in mastering daily functions in the mainstream school environment. His dedication to his role was recognized as the Appleton Aide of the Year for the school year 2015-2016. In 2017 he was hired on with Hoover City Schools serving as an Instructional Support Aide.


I know that this has been discussed elsewhere, but I'm curious if anyone has any current thoughts on the quality of the maritime law LLM at the University of Cape Town.
There is so much variety now, but spending a year in Cape Town and the fact that it's a major port has a great deal of appeal for me. I am currently a third year associate in a firm in North America that does marine law as one of its specialties.
Any thoughts on how Cape Town would stack up against the likes of Tulane or some of the English schools? Also, how do European companies/law firms view Cape Town LLM grads? Would there be interest from say a German forwarding company or a London law firm in this degree?
... but usually, the top schools for maritime tend to be the British ones - Swansea and Southampton, and Tulane is strong as well. I would think that if you were looking for a school that has a reputation with German or British firms, you'd want to stick to Swansea or Southampton. But you should look at the firms you're targeting and see if they've recruited UCT alumni in the past.
Any comments from recent grads? Where did you and your classmates end up in terms of work/life?
Hate to be a bumper, but would love to hear from any recent Cape Town grads.


Grace has Asperger's and her own way of looking at the world. She's got a horse and a best friend who understand her, and that's pretty much all she needs. But when Grace kisses Gabe and things start to change at home, the world doesn't make much sense to her any more. Suddenly everything threatens to fall apart, and it's up to Grace to fix it on her own.
Rachael Lucas books – published by Pan Macmillan.
Isla's got the designer clothes and dream job as head stylist at the most exclusive salon in Edinburgh. The fact that she's been so single-minded in this quest that she's forgotten to have a life has completely passed her by – until disaster strikes.
Find out more at the Wildflower Bay page.
Would-be gardener Daisy can't believe her luck when her parents announce they're off on a midlife-crisis gap year, leaving her in charge of their gorgeous garden. After a turbulent few months, a spell of quiet in the countryside is just what she needs.
Buy from Amazon UK here or from Amazon US here.
Sealed with a Kiss has been downloaded to over 150,000 Kindles worldwide!
Find out more at the Sealed with a Kiss page.
the gorgeous, Christmas-themed novella sequel – available as an exclusive ebook edition.
Kate has taken to life on the remote Scottish island of Auchenmor like a seal to water: she's given a new lease of life to the Laird's estate in her day job; she's befriended the once-nosy locals; and even young Laird Roddy is not quite so grumpy these days.
Better still, Kate has just had her best idea yet: they'll turn the castle into the most gorgeous wedding venue in Scotland. The pressure's on as the first wedding is booked in for Christmas Eve – just weeks away. But with a mismatched bride and groom, a hysterical PR on her case, her own relationship woes and a huge storm blowing in, can Kate pull it off in time?
For more information on Rachael Lucas books visit the individual pages for each novel.