text:
OHOT
Welcome to Bikeverywhere
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First Review- From a Friend
A Long Time in the Making
Cover Design by Mayfly Design, LLC
Bike and rider photography: Jana Freiband
The bike comes from the Rydjor Bike Shop in Austin, Minnesota. It is a 1973 Peugeot PX10E. This is how it is described on the Rydjor Bike Collection website.
This bicycle is a one owner beauty originally purchased in Postville, Iowa in 1973. Dan Ulwelling, co-founder of Rydjor and avid collector of vintage bikes, acquired the bike in 1999. It has a completely French made component mix including Super Champ rims, Maillard hubs, Stronglight cranks, Simplex derailleurs and Mafac brakes. This model was called the PX10E and has the distinctive Peugeot colors.
The rider, Ryan Beard, is an employee at Rydjor Bike Shop in Austin, Minnesota. He displayed an amazing patience and willingness to help out as we made him climb a gravel hill repeatedly in hot August sunshine.
The jersey is a Vintage Molteni cycling jersey similar to the one worn by racing legend Eddy Merckx. From the Rydjor Bike Shop Collection.
The vintage leather cycling helmet is from the Rydjor Bike Shop Collection.
1967, Spring 3
1970: Madison, Wisconsin 7
Ma's Place 19
Surf and Turf 36
Bike Gear 58
Devil's Lake 77
Reflect 99
Zoo Kitchen 152
On the Road 162
Veterans 170
Prairie du Chien 196
Cabin Life 217
Hitchhiking 241
Reckoning 288
The Bike Shop 304
Wedding Days 316
June 1971, French Sundays 376
1970: Madison, Wisconsin
From the top of Observatory Drive, Delone could see most of Lake Mendota, including Picnic Point just off to his left. During the three years that he'd been on campus, he'd never ventured past Picnic Point, or paid much attention to anything beyond the kayaks and sailboats on University Bay.
Up here, he could ignore the anti-war protests on University Avenue and discount the Teaching Assistant's Strike that had crippled campus. He could pretend, sometimes, that he actually belonged on campus, that the difference between his background and that of the rich east coast kids didn't matter. He could pretend that campus was the great leveler, that education was the same for everyone.
But today, out beyond Picnic Point, he saw a fishing boat. Squat, gray, powered by a small outboard engine and hosting a lone fisherman, it symbolized his relationship to campus. He was on the outside, looking in, pretending that he had as much right to be here as everyone else.
He glanced at his watch, 12:45. Campus was shut down for Earth Day. Ecology "Teach-ins" replaced classes for the day. He was registered for a one o'clock session on an obscure topic titled the "Greenhouse Gas Effect."
Delone scanned Lake Mendota again. The fisherman was gone. He'd drifted out of sight to the other side of Picnic Point. Someday, he told himself, he would go beyond Picnic Point, beyond the edge of campus, to see what was out there. He mounted his bicycle and drifted down the serpentine descent of Observatory Drive.
Dr. Robert Hergass, tall, mid-30s, shoulder length strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes and an athletic build gone soft, strode to the podium and shuffled a few papers. He addressed a cluster of post graduate co-eds, some of the most beautiful women on campus, with a gaze that lingered below their necklines, then scanned the auditorium.
"Thank you for attending the first of what we hope will be an annual Earth Day observance," he began. "My name is Dr. Robert Hergass. I'm a climate scientist and I'll be talking about the Greenhouse Gas Effect.
"Greenhouse gasses trap heat in the atmosphere. Without them, heat from the sun would simply disappear into space, leaving Earth as cold as the moon. Too many gases, however, capture excessive heat, potentially warming the planet until it can no longer support life. But before we get into the causes and environmental consequences of greenhouse gases, I want to give a brief history of climate science.
"I'll begin with the Swedish scientist Svante Arrheius who calculated, in the late 19th century, the impact of CO2 on the earth's climate."
"What about Eunice Newton Foote?"
The question came from a short woman with dusty brown hair and a deep tan. She stood to be heard better, revealing powerful legs scarred by small cuts and scrapes.
"She proposed the greenhouse gas effect."
"Hello, Celeste," Dr. Hergass responded. "I should have known that you would bring out the contribution of women scientists.
"For those of you who haven't heard about Mrs. Foote, she was the first to define the effect of CO2 on climate in a paper presented in 1856 to the American Association for the Advancement of Science. Mrs. Foote, however, was not allowed to present her paper because she was a woman, so it was presented by Professor John Henry of the Smithsonian Institution.
"Thank you, Miss Goldman."
The beauty queens stole surreptitious glances at Miss Goldman, determined that she was pretty in her own way, but not in their league, and returned their gazes to Dr. Hergass.
"It should be noted," Professor Hergass continued, "that Mr. Arrheius and Mrs. Foote were building on a relatively new scientific principle. Prior to 1700, no one believed that climate changed. What you see today is what the earth has looked like since the Creation. Erratic boulders, marine fossils on hilltops and other phenomenon were easily explained by the Biblical flood.
"James Hutton proposed an alternate theory. In Hutton's theory, glaciers scoured and changed the shape of the land and small processes, such as erosion and floods, changed the face of the earth over a very long time. Those changes are still going on.
"So if glaciers could suddenly appear on the horizon where they'd never been before," Hergass continued, "what changed? Why did they come and go? That's the question geologists tried to answer throughout the 19th Century. Mrs. Foote and Mr. Arrheius were part of that discussion. If you want more details, sign up for my introductory class in climate science."
A tall brunette from the beauty queen cluster raised her hand.
Delone tried not to stare, but it was impossible. He'd never seen anyone as beautiful, or as out of his league. She was one of those co-eds whose hair floated in the wind as they sailed University Bay. He was the fisherman off Picnic Point.
"You have a question?" Hergass addressed her. "Please state your name."
"Brenda Larson," the brunette stated.
"What's the difference between a scientific theory and a conspiracy theory?"
Low laughter circulated through the auditorium.
"That's a good question," Hergass responded. "The answer is 'Not much.'
"The difference is in the approach to proving, or disproving, the theory. The best theories hold up to the toughest attempts to disprove them. In the world of science that process can be brutal, personal and infused with over-sized egos, but in the end it's the evidence that counts.
"Conspiracy theories rarely go through that process. They ignore contrary evidence and seek out only supporting evidence. They fall apart when all of the evidence is taken into account.
"So, Miss Larson." The professor's gaze lingered on her face and scanned lower. "The best answer to your question is that there is little to distinguish a scientific theory from a conspiracy theory or a religious theory. They are all just theories. The best stand up to rigorous testing."
Miss Larson smiled demurely, causing the professor to lose track of his thoughts. He never regained his rhythm.
It was obvious to the beauty queens that Miss Larson had won this round. Mirrors came out, make-up was applied and nails inspected. Hergass rambled. After listening to ten minutes of his nonsense, Celeste Goldman stood up.
"You are no longer making sense," she said directly to Hergass and stomped out of the room. Her protest galvanized a general feeling and the auditorium emptied.
Delone had more questions than answers, so he stayed to the confusing end. Hergass, however, had lost all interest in the teach-in and ended the lecture as soon as the allotted time expired. He took no questions and zeroed in on Miss Brenda Larson.
Anti-war protests resumed the next day with a matinee event designed for Walter Cronkite's evening news on CBS. Delone took up his usual perch on the lawn of the Chemistry Building, outside the protest zone, but close enough to follow the action.
Down on University Avenue, protesters milled around while National Guard troops stood at ease a block away. City police, geared up in riot gear and proudly displaying their PIG buttons (Pride Integrity, Guts), stood in small clusters.
Delone's mind wandered as the protesters waited for the TV cameras to appear.
"If the planet is warming dangerously and threatening civilization itself, what difference does it make if the Vietnam War ends today or goes on for another decade?" He wondered.
"Except, of course, that my draft number is 129. A quick wind-down will keep me out of the war. And what about those guys getting killed daily? What did it matter to them that the planet might be too hot for humans in a hundred years? And that pretty brunette? Was she there because she wanted to learn about conspiracy theories or to swoon over that oversexed professor?" It was the kind of dialogue that could swirl around in his head forever.
"PIGS!" The voice came from the knoll, several yards to Delone's right.
He glanced up to see three police officers racing toward him. They were grinning and scowling, and they had the pepper spray out. Delone jumped to his feet and bolted, but the pepper caught up. His throat burned and he could barely see through the tears. The incident was over in a minute, because the cops ran out of breath, but they managed to slap each other on the back and chuckle. They were just having a little fun at the expense of the hippies.
Coughing and blinking away tears, Delone shuffled toward the back of the building. He leaned against a maple tree and slid slowly to the ground. A shaft of sunlight pierced through his tears, doubling the pain in his eyes. He shifted to the shady side of the tree. He was still coughing and blind with tears when he heard a camera click several times, then a voice asked.
"I got gassed," he replied. He felt the light touch of a damp handkerchief dabbed around his eyes. He coughed hard, throwing his head directly into the finger behind the dabbing handkerchief. It poked his left eye. White flashes and floating purple blobs filled his vision. The finger pulled away quickly.
"Oh! I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was only trying to.. oh, are you OK?"
Delone's right eye cleared enough to see the Brunette hovering inches from his face.
"I'm OK," he said, but he wasn't. He wanted to retreat to a point deep inside his shell. Why did it have to be her? Why couldn't it be someone in his league or a guy who would say "Shake it off, man. It's just pepper gas. Tonight you'll be drinking beer and impressing the girls with protest stories."
"I'm OK. I'm sure you have other things to do." Delone said. It came out wrong.
"Are you sure?" She asked. "What happened? Were you in the front of the protest, or the back?"
"Neither," Delone said. "I was sitting in front of the Chemistry Building with a bunch of others, watching from a distance when three PIGS charged us. I got pepper gas in my eyes. I'll be alright." Delone got up to leave. Even through blurred vision he could see how beautiful she was. He had to get away.
"Wait," the Brunette said. "I've got water to flush your eyes. That'll help."
"I'm OK," Delone insisted.
"Can you at least tell me your name?"
"Delone."
"D_E_L_O_N_E?"
"Delone, just Delone. I've got to go."
He stumbled off quickly. In the background, a block away, he heard chants about war being bad for the planet. The TV cameras must have arrived. He didn't stop until he reached the bike rack at Memorial Union.
Standing near the water, staring at the rippling waves of the lake, he took a deep breath. Except for a few floaters, his left eye had cleared. The pepper gas was gone, along with the tears and scratchy throat.
He unlocked his bike, wrapped the cable around his waist and pedaled to the top of Observatory Drive. University Bay was dotted with a few sailboats, piloted by beautiful women and athletic men, all bundled against the April weather in sweaters and tight jeans, but Delone's eyes went to the far shore of the lake, well beyond the protesters and the sailors.
He pedaled down the west side of Observatory Drive and hugged the shore. Picnic Point came and went as did the graduate student housing just beyond. He kept the lake on his right, to act as a guide, bumped into dead ends and got forced out to University Avenue, the same road where protesters chanted on campus.
Out here it was an orderly street with free flowing cars, office buildings and small businesses. Out here, he was just a bicyclist, although one with long hair and a beard. No one asked questions or attached labels while he was on the bike. He could just ride. He could breathe.
Traffic dropped off and neighborhoods gave way to scattered clusters of homes. A tailwind pushed him along the north side of the lake. Long, deep inhalations of oxygen filled his lungs.
Picnic Point jutted into the lake. Behind it was campus and beyond that University Avenue.
"Is the protest still on?"
It was a fleeting thought.
He flew downwind, turned right onto a promising road that hugged the lake shore and stopped on a bridge to look at the water. A sign identified it as the Yahara River.
"The Yahara River," Delone mused. "Doesn't that run through Tenney Park? But that's near campus. Are they the same river?"
He rode on. Middle class houses gave way to mansions with views of the state capitol.
The capitol was no longer on the far side of the lake, it was down the shore. He'd already circled three quarters of the lake. Twenty minutes later he was at Tenny Park. He checked the name of the river, it was the Yahara.
The river churned as it escaped the locks of Tenney Park, then settled into a quiet flow through a man made channel connecting Lake Mendota and Lake Monona. Delone followed it.
"Get a car, Deloner!"
It was Dicky, his housemate. He was tossing a football around with Neal and Mike, his other housemates.
"Where you been Deloner? You were supposed to be here an hour ago. Didn't you see the note on the refrigerator?" Dicky asked.
"Sorry, I forgot." Delone responded.
"Hey baby, you're hot!" Dicky let out a wolf whistle at a passing coed. The woman moved on without acknowledging him. Delone and Neal exchanged eye rolls.
The roommates invited Delone to join in a friendly game of two-on-two. He declined, but they insisted. Dicky picked Mike as his teammate, leaving Neal to play with the inept Delone. The game was as lopsided as expected and wrapped up quickly.
"Sorry," Delone said to Neal. "I'm not much of an athlete."
Neal shrugged. "You look tired. Did you do a long bike ride?"
"I rode around Lake Mendota."
Neal looked toward the lake and took in it's circumference with his eyes.
"Damn!" He said. "How far is that?"
"I don't know. I don't have a speedometer."
"I started running." Neal patted his stomach. "I need to burn off this pouch. I probably ran less than half a mile, but I get that Aerobics stuff. There's a rush to it. I could see training for a marathon."
"Seriously? You're talking about running 26 miles?"
"Thinking about it. Are you riding back to the apartment? I'll run along if you don't mind." Neal poked his thumb toward Dicky at the far end of the field.
"It beats riding with him."
"He's gotten worse lately. What's up?"
"Dropped from the football team," Neal explained. "He hasn't said anything, but he stopped working out at the gym and doesn't go to practice."
Neal stopped running halfway to the apartment. He bent over, placed his hands on his knees and gasped for breath. Delone dismounted and waited. When Neal was ready to move again, the two of them walked together.
"Have you heard from Ted?" Delone asked.
"A couple of days ago. He asks about you, but you're never around."
"How's he doing?"
"Between you and me, I think he's losing it. He found a hilltop on the edge of town during one of his walks and wants to build a cabin up there. He thinks the farmer will just let him do it. Nobody in their right mind would let a stranger build a cabin on their land.
"I didn't say that to him," Neal continued. "I figure he's still got about a year and a half on this conscientious objector gig. If he can dream about building a cabin in the woods for a couple of those months, it might keep him sane for a little longer." He shrugged.
"Of course, I didn't think he'd pull off the conscientious objector thing, either. I thought he was headed to Cambodia."
"I'll call him," Delone said, "but not this weekend. I'm heading back home."
"You don't get there often, do you?"
"Maybe it won't be so bad now."
"Is your family still there?" Neal asked. Delone clammed up. He cursed himself for leaving that opening. Neal eyed him carefully.
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to pry."
'Police Attack Innocent Bystanders with Tear Gas, Mace' blared the Daily Cardinal the next morning. It was more of the same old stuff; breathless headlines about the war in Vietnam or the protests at home. Delone rolled up the newspaper and tucked it into his duffel.
He walked to East Washington Avenue and stuck out his thumb. Within a minute he had a ride to the I-94 ramp where he stood on a narrow dirt path worn in by college hitchhikers.
Ma's Place
Ma's place, on a dark stretch of highway near the edge of town, served beer only, which made it a legal drinking establishment for returning college students like 20 year old Delone Taylor.
Ma, the proprietor, stood about 5 foot 3 in her sturdy black shoes. Her voice, gravelly from three decades of working smoky bars, was still strong enough to silence a noisy tavern. A no-nonsense bar owner, Ma didn't provoke easily, but she ruled with an iron fist, and a broom handle when the need arose.
When Ma charged from behind the bar wielding her broom, the regulars stepped back, leaving a clear corridor to the offender of the night. She was fearless, but not foolish. There was always one lout in the building who could swat away the broom and lift her off the floor with one hand. It never happened, because Ma called the police before her charge. The wise offender offered a swift apology and a hasty exit. The ignorant received a star-inducing whack with the broom and a close encounter with the local sheriff, who probably knew his name and his parents.
Ma's place was the first stop for returning college students, soldiers on leave and wanderers. It was the place to catch up with neighbors and high school friends, check out the opposite sex and reconnect with people who stayed in town after graduation. For locals, it was a chance to see how the military or college changed those who left town.
Delone had changed. His beard went wild and hair long. Combined with the rail thin appearance of someone on drugs, he attracted attention, both good and bad.
The good came from Patty, who stayed in town after graduation. Bored with the bar scene, equally bored with staying at home, and clueless about alternatives, she slipped from a rowdy group of friends and pulled a seat next to Delone at the bar. He played to the University stereotype. She clung to his words, but Delone began a slow retreat. The bar scene never suited his temperament.
The bad arrived in the form of a burly drunk who stuck his head between Delone and Patty. He ordered a drink for himself and the "little lady," then draped his armpit over Delone's shoulder.
"Hey hippie, got any of that there merry wanna on you?"
He played to the three guys who egged him into harassing Delone, with the possible goal of picking a fight, and to Patty. The first audience snickered and elbowed each other in the ribs, the second rolled her eyes.
Ma placed a couple of 8-ounce taps on the bar with a stern warning.
"Don't start any trouble, Ron."
"Ain't no trouble at all, Ma. Just talking with my old hippie friend here." He placed 30 cents on the bar. Ma scooped it up and moved on.
"Hey, hippie, you into that free love stuff, thinking maybe you'll get a little here with Patty? She's a good girl, ain't you, Patty? And my friend Brad over there, he's got his eyes on her, so don't go trying anything funny or you'll find out what a real man can do to a skinny little shithead like you."
He bumped Delone hard on the shoulder as he staggered back to his buddies.
"You Fuckin' son of a Fuckin' Bitch!" Buddy One said as he punched Ron in the arm. Delone could see the action in the bar mirror, Ma's eyes behind her head. Brad, he looked familiar, stepped back from the group and stared at the mirror. His focus was on Patty. She glanced at the mirror, then down at her drink. Brad shifted his gaze toward Delone, who stared at the mirror vaguely, saw him indirectly and refused eye contact.
"Don't mind him," Patty said.
"Who?" Delone asked.
Patty's eyebrows furrowed.
"Ron, he's an asshole." She paused. "Who'd you think I was talking about?"
Patty took a deep draw on her cigarette.
"He's staring at you in the mirror."
She glanced up, then back at her drink.
"He's a pussycat," she said. "He tries to act tough, especially around those guys, but it makes him look stupid."
Ron and his buddies sauntered toward the bar. Ron stuck his head between Delone and Patty while Buddy One boxed Delone in on one side and Two stood directly behind him. Brad shifted toward Patty's side, but held back several feet.
"MA! A pitcher for me and my buddies. Hey hippie, this beer's on us! We was just havin' a little fun. No hard feelings, OK?"
"OK." Delone said, but kept his eyes on the mirror. It was the only way to see them all at the same time.
Ma shifted to the far side of the bar and picked up the phone. She had her back to the crowd, but her eyes scanned the mirror while she talked. She served a couple of customers at the far end of the bar, then filled the pitcher.
"Hey MA! Where's that beer? My hippie friend here is gettin' thirsty."
Ma placed the pitcher in front of Ron, he placed a dollar on the counter. She held the handle an extra second and glanced out the front window, then released it.
"Ron," she cautioned. "I don't want no trouble."
"No trouble, Ma. We're going to toast our new friend."
Patty covered her glass with a hand, but it wasn't necessary. Ron had forgotten about her. He overfilled Delone's glass, sending beer across the bar. Delone shifted back, but the stool wouldn't move. Buddy Two was tight against it. The beer flowed into Delone's lap.
"Shit man, you peed your pants! Hey! The hippie peed his pants!"
There was a commotion in the barroom. Delone saw Ma's broom handle swing in a compact, vicious arc and ducked instinctively. Ron crumpled as the handle cracked across his shoulder. Delone swung around on the stool.
"Ma, I can leave. I don't want to cause trouble."
"You got the same right to stay here as anyone," she said as three officers walked in.
"Ma got you good on that one, Ron," the sheriff said. Ma nodded toward the two buddies.
"Let's go boys. We don't want any trouble."
Delone slipped along the bar to the door, but one of the officers blocked his way.
"No one leaves," he said. Delone tried the Men's room, but the door was locked.
"Where you going, hippie?"
"He's OK." Ma said.
"You're OK, hippie. What's the rush? Ma said you can stay."
"Yes Sir, but one guy's got a broken shoulder and the others are going to sleep off a drunk in jail because of me. Those guys have friends in here."
"You one of Margaret's boys in the Hollow?"
"You the youngest?"
"No, the third."
"We never had any trouble with any of you, except him. He's OK, but has a streak in him."
"Yeah. Here they come." The officer pulled a high-powered flashlight out of his holster and shined it directly into Ron's eyes, blinding him.
"Stay in the shadows around back," he instructed Delone. "We'll have them out of here in two minutes."
Delone slipped out the door and squatted behind a 55-gallon oil drum.
Ma walked outside with the Sheriff. The two of them stood a couple of feet from the drum.
"Georgia, I've told you before. We have a whole county to patrol. We can't be stopping here every weekend."
"I'm doin' my best," Ma replied. "They're just kids letting off steam."
"You could've sent them outside to fight it out instead of calling us. The boys would have knocked that hippie kid around a little. He'd go back to college and we could get over to the Little Pines on 'P.' They've been having some problems over there lately."
"That hippie kid is part of the welfare clan in the Hollow. They're no trouble and Margaret needs a break. She got those boys through school. She doesn't need no more trouble."
"Your choice Georgia, but your beer license is up for renewal in two months and I have to file an incidence report for the City Council."
The squads pulled away from the parking lot.
Delone slipped through shadows to neighborhood streets, then assumed a quick, but casual, walk. He detoured toward Long Lake and hiked down the fisherman's path to shore. The moon came out from behind clouds and cast a beam across the lake.
"Welfare clan, Margaret's boys, Never had a problem, Hippie kid, Knock him around a little."
The words hung over the lake.
"…has a streak to him."
He walked the path, climbed a fence, dropped down on private property and walked to another hideaway. The words were supposed to drift across the water, not follow him. His breath tightened. He was suffocating, and only six hours after returning.
The words re-formed.
Delone leaned against a tree and clasped his hands behind his head. He should have known it wouldn't work. He had too much history, and too many labels, to overcome.
He'd seen a bigger world in Madison. He'd met smart and ambitious people who moved with confidence and goals. People who thought they could make a difference or get rich or start a family and live a comfortable life.
He didn't fit with them, either.
He let his hair grow and his beard bush out, but why? All it did was give him new labels: hippie, drugs, free love. He didn't fit that mold, either.
And there was no way he could get involved in a relationship while hiding so much of his past. That kind of intimacy was just too scary. He took a deep breath and let it out in a long slow exhale.
The moon cast its pale blue light across the lake and into the woods. Delone watched it play among the trees. He could still observe. He could do it here in the woods and he could do it on his bike. He could pass through those other worlds as a specter.
"You're home early," Margaret said.
"Nothing going on tonight. I'm heading back to Madison early tomorrow."
"You just got here. I thought you were going to stay for the weekend. Wally's working the night shift at the paper mill, you know. He said he'd stop by around noon."
"Something came up. I have to get back."
"What's wrong? You come home moody, you look like you haven't eaten for a week, then you say you're going to leave the next morning. Are you smoking that funny tobacco?"
"No, marijuana makes me feel stupid the next day. I don't like it."
"So you have smoked it."
"Everyone has. It's no big deal."
"It leads to heroin and out-of-wedlock sex. It's true. Oral Roberts says so."
"Right, I'm tired. Will you take me out to the highway in the morning or do I have to walk?"
"I wish you'd get a car, I don't like this hitchhiking. Your Uncle George has one that he'll sell cheap. We could go there tomorrow. And I can help with gas. I don't have much, but it would get you to Madison.
"I don't need money. Next week I start cooking at the Surf N Turf."
"But you're so…"
"Mom, was Dad violent when he was home?"
Margaret stopped mid-sentence.
"He never hit any of you. I made sure of that."
"Did he hit you?" Delone pushed. Margaret didn't answer. After a long pause, Delone followed up.
"I'm like you, Mom. There are things I don't want to talk about. I'm not on drugs. I'm not in trouble. I just have to figure out some things on my own. I know this, though. I don't belong here."
"You have family here, and friends. You had good friends in high school. Nice boys. They were smart. They didn't cause trouble."
"I'm not getting into that, Mom. How old was I when Dad left?"
"You were three and a half."
"Did he ever come back to live with us again, or was that it? He just left."
"He didn't just leave. I had to send him away. I wanted him to come back, and so did he. We talked about packing up and moving somewhere else, to get away from all the talk. We tried for two years, but you know what he's like. He just never got any better."
"I don't have a single memory of him when he was home, not one."
"You would hide behind a chair and plead with him to stop screaming," Margaret said. "I think you tried to block that out later, but you had nightmares and then you'd go away, just like you do now. Maybe if you went to see him, you'd see that he isn't dangerous. He'd like that."
"Why? So I can hear him say the same stupid things he always says?" Delone's voice was tense, exasperated.
"'I dug her grave. It was a hundred and five in the shade. God said I was going to live to a hundred and five. Hyup!'" He mocked, even imitating the cut-off laugh of his dad.
"We made wine from raisins. The ants beat us to it. We scooped them out and drank it anyway. God said it was OK. Hyup!"
"Don't say that about your dad. You know it's not his fault."
"Why not? Everyone else does. What am I supposed to say? 'Hi Dad,' then look at my feet like we always did when we visited him?"
"I had some very nice talks with your dad while you and your brothers played."
The headache returned. Delone pressed the bridge of his nose tightly between thumb and forefinger. It was the only thing that helped. His mother's voice faded as he drifted away.
"Don't stare," his mother demanded, but how could he avoid it? His dad's tongue popped out, searched his upper lip, slid to one side and nearly touched his cheek. It was massive. It flopped down to his chin, wandered aimlessly, then popped back into his mouth.
Margaret wiped down his mouth and chin with a handkerchief, then started talking to him as if nothing had happened. Delone couldn't watch it, and he couldn't not watch it. His eyes slid up the wheelchair, past the limp arm and the belly paunch. He tried to stop at the shoulders, but couldn't. He saw the tongue prowling inside the left cheek, then the right. His eyes climbed higher and caught his dad looking at him. He looked down with a start.
When Delone opened his eyes, Margaret handed him a glass of water.
"You went away again, Dear. Here, have a drink of water."
Delone sipped it.
"I've never visited him on my own," he said after a couple of minutes. "It was always the whole family."
"You're an adult now. You should visit your dad. He'd like that."
"Would he even know me?"
"Of course he would. When you kids played in the lounge or on the grounds, I'd tell him everything I could think of. He wanted to be your dad so much, but then he'd have another episode."
"I remember hearing a man screaming on the fourth floor. One of the patients wheeled up to Dad and said 'You were screaming pretty loud last night, Joe.' I looked at Dad and he nodded, like he was saying 'Yes,' then he dozed off. That's the first time that I realized he was crazy. I asked you about it and you finally admitted it."
"I wanted you to figure it on your own. I didn't want you to put a label on him before you knew who he was."
"OK. I get that. Our family collects labels all the time. But I don't know anything about Dad, except that he sat in a wheelchair and slept a lot. And, of course, that tongue. It has a mind of its own."
"Don't blame that tongue on him. They have him on some pretty heavy drugs."
"I'm just telling you what I know about him, and it isn't much."
Delone yawned. He'd successfully distracted his mother from the wisdom of Oral Roberts and all that other stuff, but he had to talk about his dad in the process. Stupid idea to come home. It just brought up everything he worked so hard to hide.
"I'm tired," he said. "Will you take me to the highway in the morning or should I walk?"
After 10 minutes at the highway, Delone walked to his mother's car and leaned on the window. "It could take an hour to get a ride," he told her. "And you're not helping by parking 20 feet away. I'll call when I get to Madison."
"Are you sure you'll be OK? I could buy you a bus ticket."
"I'm OK, but I won't get a ride with you so close by. Just go home so I can get a ride."
Margaret made a U-turn and drove a block away, then parked. Delone knew she was watching him in the rear view mirror.
His first ride pulled up. He opened the door, glanced in and froze. If he slammed the door and ran, the smart move, his mother would see it. He took a deep breath and said, casually.
"Hi, I'm going to Madison."
"I can get you to Point," the driver responded.
Delone slipped in, closed the door and kept one nervous hand on the door latch. The two drove south in silence for a couple of miles.
"Where you taking me?" Delone finally asked.
"I told, you, Point."
"Where's the rest of your group?"
"Hung over. Ron's got his arm in a sling. Ma whacked him pretty hard."
"I wasn't trying to make it with your girlfriend. She sat next to me."
"Who said she's my girlfriend?"
"That Son of a Bitch!"
"Actually, he said you've got your eye on her," Delone clarified. "She already knows that."
Brad glared at Delone. "How do…" He dropped the question and drove in silence. Delone took his hand off the door latch. At 60 miles per hour, he wasn't about to leave the car abruptly.
"Will Bengston get the Packers to the Super Bowl this year?" He asked, seeking neutral ground.
"Hell, No! He's no Lombardi," Brad replied, then lapsed into silence. The air was thick. Delone cracked open the window, but the tightness around his throat prevented a deep breath.
"He's an asshole," Brad mumbled.
"Bengston?"
"I wish Ma had broken his jaw instead of his collarbone."
"He was trying to help you out."
"Fuck he was. He wanted to fight, but you didn't have the balls to take it outside, so Ma had to do it for you. Is that how you hippie-welfare-druggies fight? What are you going to do when you don't have Ma to fight for you? And where's your old man? He used to stand on the front porch and scream at people, even when no one was around, didn't he? He's in an insane asylum, isn't he?"
Delone lunged for the steering wheel, forcing it hard left, then right. The car swerved into oncoming traffic, then back to the right shoulder.
"Fuck Man, what are you trying to do? Get us killed?"
"Yeah! I'm going to kill us both! Stop the car right now or I'll do it again." Delone lunged for the wheel. Brad blocked with his shoulder and slammed on the brakes. Delone's head hit the windshield hard, cracking it. Brad pulled to the shoulder. When the car stopped, both men fell back on the seat. Delone was breathing in tight, constricted gasps.
"Here," he said as he pulled out his wallet and threw a dollar on the car seat. "It's all I got. I'm sorry about the windshield." He grabbed his bag and opened the door.
"I don't want to fight."
"Wait," Brad said. "I said I'd drive you to Point."
"I don't need your ride."
"Look, Delone."
Delone paused. "You know my name?"
"Yes. I was two years behind you. You were a Junior when I was a Freshman. I was lost that first day of school. You found my locker for me and showed me where my homeroom was. That made you late at your own homeroom. You spent an hour in detention after school because you didn't say why you were late. I'll always remember that."
"It was probably someone else."
"No, it was you. Why didn't you say anything to Mr. Horn?"
"I don't remember it, OK? And if I did do it, I wouldn't have said anything because no one believes a hippie-welfare-druggie."
"You weren't a hippie then."
"People like us collect labels."
"Are you going to close the door?"
"Yes." Delone stepped outside and shut the door. Brad leaned across the seat and rolled down the window.
"I meant it as an offer," he said.
"I don't need favors from my fan club." Delone said, then leaned on the door with both hands.
"Patty is looking for someone different. If you want to get her attention, stop acting like the other jerks in town."
"Thanks for the free advice," Brad sneered. "Here's some for you. If you want to get anywhere in your life, including your big city college town, get rid of that world class attitude of yours. It ain't you, and you know it."
Brad spun the wheels, kicking gravel into Delone's face and made a screeching U-turn on the highway. A puff of black smoke belched from his tail pipe.
"Point is the other way," Delone said sarcastically, then realized he was the only reason Brad was going there.
"I saw that," Karma said.
"I hate Karma," Delone replied offhandedly. He stood on the shoulder of the highway in a black funk.
"I hate Karma," Delone said 20 minutes later. It seemed as if a hundred cars had passed him.
"I HATE Karma!" He repeated after another 20 minutes.
"I hate Fucking Karma!"
"I hate it. I hate it. I hate it."
20 more minutes passed.
"OK, Karma, you hate me too. You win. I'm a loser, a fucking hippie-welfare-druggie loser. You've broken me. Brad, you hear me? I'm sorry. I was a jerk, a world class jerk. I hope Patty falls in love with you. I hope you get married and have a large family and all your kids adore you."
Another 20 minutes passed.
"I'm a jerk and a sarcastic ass," Delone admitted.
"Brad, thanks for the ride and yes, my dad is in an insane asylum, but it isn't his fault and I didn't inherit it." Delone yelled, as if Brad might actually hear him.
"That's it, Karma. That's all I got." Delone sat on the shoulder and opened his bag, hoping his mother had slipped a sandwich in. He saw the Daily Cardinal and opened it to the front page.
"Police Attack Innocent Bystanders with Tear Gas, Mace"
He recognized himself in the photo below the headline. He was sitting on the ground, back against a tree and eyes dripping with tears. The article gave his first name and said he refused to give his last.
"She wasn't interested in me at all, she was after a story." He felt lighter after that realization. Women like her are in a different class, a class above his station. It's best to avoid them if you don't want to get hurt.
Delone sat on the shoulder of the road, crossed his legs and read the story. It was well written, and it included interviews with others who had been gassed on the sidelines. So she was just doing her job. He didn't have to panic, but women like her do that to him. It wasn't a rational thing.
Delone checked the byline to the story. It read Lee Jones. Lee Jones was almost famous. He'd seen the byline multiple times in the Cardinal. That didn't make sense. He was sure this woman had identified herself as Brenda. Brenda something. He couldn't remember her last name.
The panic resurfaced. Was Lee Jones standing nearby? Did he hear everything they said to each other? And if Lee Jones wrote the story, why was this stunning, rich, beautiful Brenda woman so interested in him?
Did he really want to go back to Madison? What would he do if he saw her again? It wasn't rational thinking, but he understood why Hergass, the climate professor, turned into a rambling idiot in her presence.
A semi, hauling a load of heavy equipment, downshifted and pulled onto the shoulder just ahead of Delone. He stuffed the paper into his duffel and jogged to the truck.
"You look like you need a beer," the driver said as Delone climbed into the cab. "Cooler's behind the seat. Grab one for me, too. Sign says you're headed to Madison. I can get you there. Hell, I can get you to Nashville if you want. Haulin' some Caterpillars down there for the city."
"My family lives near the Caterpillar Plant. They send those rigs all over the world, don't they?" Delone asked. If he could keep the discussion to topics like this, he could make it to Madison in one ride.
"I've hauled them to Duluth, Milwaukee, Chicago, Seattle. They put them on ships and send 'em off to God knows where. Heard the military even sent some off to 'Nam so they could clear out the jungle and take hiding places away from the gooks.
"You go to school in Madison? I'll bet I've seen you on Cronkite marching in those anti-war protests. Ever get tear gassed? I used to think those protesters were a bunch of rich bastards going to school on Daddy's money and avoiding the draft." The driver said in a run-on paragraph.
"The school's full of rich kids from the East Coast." Delone offered. The conversation was veering into dangerous territory.
"Then my son, he came back from 'Nam and said he doesn't know why we're there. The war messed him up. He was a good kid, played on the football team, decent grades, not college stuff, but a hard worker and some day he'll be a good family man, but right now he's messed up on drugs and won't get a job. Military says he's got PTSD or something like that. War does that to you. Sit around bored half the time, next thing you're battling for your life with bombs and rockets and gunfire going off everywhere. Makes you do things you'd never imagine doing as a civilian."
"My dad is a World War II vet. They were island hopping in the Pacific, fighting Japs in bunkers." Delone said.
"He told you about it? Most soldiers don't talk. They just want to forget."
"He's in Tomah, the vet's hospital. He's crazy. He says things, strange things, like making wine from raisins on the beaches, and scooping out the ants. I figure that was from his soldier days."
It was more than he'd revealed to anyone in his life. He regretted saying it, but he had to. He had to tell someone and he would never see this guy again, so it seemed safe.
The driver set his beer down and drove in silence for an interminable time.
"I hope that's not Nick's future," he whispered.
"Is Nick your son?" Delone asked
"Yeah." The driver turned up the radio, a country western station, and focused on the road. Delone stared ahead, but couldn't resist an occasional sideways glance.
"I was a World War II vet," the driver said softly. Delone strained to hear him over the combined sound of the radio and the truck. The driver rotated the knob counterclockwise until the radio clicked off.
"I saw men like your dad. They come out looking good. No injuries, lots of praise for being a vet, but they never adjusted to civilian life. They called it shell shock back then. They're better at treating soldiers now, but some won't make it. I'm sorry about your dad."
Delone inhaled deeply and let out a long, slow breath. "I hope Nick gets better," he said.
"What do you think about Bengston?" the driver asked. "He's no Lombardi. I'll bet they can him by the end of the season."
Madison greeted Delone with a barrier of burning dumpsters. Protesters filled the street behind it and National Guardsmen stood stiffly on the other side with riot shields in place. An occasional rock flew from the protesters' side. TV cameras rolled.
The scene had the familiar ring of tension and street theater. If it ran the usual pattern, the protest would last another hour, the students would disperse until the 6 o'clock news, then gather in dorm commons and apartments to see if Madison made it on Cronkite.
Delone trudged home, ignored his housemates and disappeared into his room. He opened the Daily Cardinal to finish the story. The byline, Lee Jones, still confused him.
The University gave up a few weeks later and announced that all students, except engineers, would receive pass or fail grades for the semester, nothing more. Delone returned the favor. He gave up on University, and started his job at Surf N Turf.
He felt flush after cashing his first paycheck. On an impulse, he stepped into State Street Bikes.
"How far is it around Lake Mendota?" he asked Phil, the bike guy. Phil shrugged. "No idea. The club never rides that way. Might be interesting to try it someday."
"I did it a couple of weeks ago. I want to know how far I rode."
"Do you know how to measure it on a map?" Phil asked. He pulled a map of Dane County from behind the counter, then opened another drawer and pulled out a worn leather case vaguely resembling an arrow head. "Hoffritz New York Germany" was inscribed within a diamond shape on the outside. Inside was a precision measuring tool with a large round dial calibrated in inches and feet. A short holding stub projected out of one end of the dial and a small wheel out of the opposite end.
"What route did you take?"
"Rathskeller, Lakeshore Path to… what's that place where graduate students live?"
"Eagle Heights, but hang on a second." Phil ran the wheel along Lakeshore Path. The pointer moved methodically around the dial.
"Cool!" Delone said. "What is that?"
"It's an Opisometer. German made in the 1940s. It's a map measuring tool. My dad stole it from a dead German soldier. Which roads did you ride through Eagle Heights?"
"I don't remember. I just tried to keep the lake on my right so I wouldn't get lost."
"Creative," Phil murmured. "So this will be an estimate." He rolled the wheel along a route that followed the shoreline, precisely turning it at each intersection. Delone followed along for a couple of minutes, but he got ahead of Phil's measuring tool. "Is that the Yahara River? I remember crossing that bridge. I must have gone around this little bay and.."
"Hang on," Phil said. "You just bumped the tool."
"Oh, sorry. I never paid much attention to maps before. Can I get one?
"Look, Delone, that's your name, right?"
"Yeah, Delone."
"Delone. This route looks sort of interesting. I might want to try it sometime. We usually ride west."
"Over here, where all the squiggly lines are?" Delone pointed to western Dane County.
"Yeah, the Driftless Area."
"The Driftless Area. The glaciers missed it. Do you want me to finish measuring your route?"
"OK. The best I can guess is that it's about 23 miles. Looks interesting. I might try it someday, although the club probably won't be interested. Too much residential stop-and-go over here by Maple Bluff."
"Here's what you need," Phil continued, pulling out a Lucas cyclometer. The device consisted of a steel mounting bracket attached to a numbered cylinder.
"Put it on the front fork and attach this little clicker to the spokes." Phil said. "Make sure the clicker catches the teeth on this gear wheel each time the wheel turns. Would you like me to put it on for you?"
Phil attached the cyclometer and spun the wheel to make sure the clicker activated the meter. Delone peppered him with questions about riding in the "Driftless Area" until Phil drew a route from the shop to the small town of Paoli. Delone protested.
"Don't you have a route to this town?" He said, pointing to Mt. Horeb. "Or here?" Barneveld. "That's where the twisty lines are."
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I've cheched my temps and it doesnt seem to be the cause of the problem.
I dont know if it is the psu who causes the problem or it is the new gpu. I have reinstalled all drivers for the gpu so it shouldnt be the problem either.
Full PC specs will help to diagnose your situation, specially your PSU exact model.
You should also try without ocing your CPU.
Finally, did you use DDU to uninstall your previous nvidia drivers? if not give it a try.
I've lowered my oc to 4.17 and havent had a crash in a few Hours. Funny Thing is there Can go up to 5 hours between the crashes so i cant tell for sure if thats the case. Last time it crashed was during a Msi kumbustor stress test.
I havent tried the uninstall tool but i have deleted all nvidia files and Keys.
Do you know what the error code means?
The code 0x0000009c usually refers to some hardware failure which can be given by so many possibilities, drivers issue, overheating, DPC issues and so on.
Lets see how it goes after using DDU.


Sebum is a substance that your skin's sebaceous glands secrete. It's made up of triglycerides, waxes, free fatty acids, squalene, and cholesterol.
We often only think of sebum and sebaceous glands when we think of acne but sebum plays a vital role in maintaining your skin's health and longevity. It produces antimicrobial compounds, protects your skin from inflammation and scarring, keeps it supple, and transports essential vitamins and antioxidants throughout your skin.
LenKa Skincare products compliment your skin's sebum, helping it remain healthy and glowing.


On Monday, The Gleaner's Flair Magazine honoured 25 esteemed women via their annual event, dubbed 'The Distinguished', held at the Spanish Court Hotel in St Andrew.
These phenomenal superwomen, accompanied by their support team, sponsors, and other specially invited guests, turned out in high fashion, putting their best foot forward in formally accepting the recognition.
Here are the highlights by photographer Rudolph Brown.
The grand ceremonial opening of the new session of Parliament was held on February 14, 2019, at Gordon House.
The opening marked the beginning of the legislative year and featured the traditional delivery of the Throne Speech by Governor General Sir Patrick Allen.
Highlights by photographers Ian Allen, Gladstone Taylor and Shorn Hector.
Revered guest and well-wishers took over a section of The Jamaica Pegasus hotel on Wednesday, February 20, 2019, for the 2018 RJRGLEANER Honour Awards.
The gala, the first of its kind, had a mixture of fine fashion flavours and savvy style as honourees revelled in success.
The highlight of the evening was the Jamaica Defence Force walking away with the RG Platinum Award for its sterling service to nation-building.
Photos by Gladstone Taylor, Kenyon Hemans and Shorn Hector.
All the glitz and glamour from the RJRGLEANER Sports Foundation National Sportsman and Sportswoman of the Year awards ceremony held at The Jamaica Pegasus hotel on Friday, January 18, 2019.
Highlights by photographers Gladstone Taylor and Kenyon Hemans.
Phillip Paulwell's birthday celebration has become a staple on the social calendar for many.
On Saturday night, Fort Charles in Port Royal came alive with family and friends wishing the man of the hour the best for the days to come.
Here are highlights by photographer Shorn Hector.


text:
A Winning 200th Race For Rea At Assen
Jonathan Rea completed his 200th race in the WorldSBK class today at Assen in Netherlands and finished in style with another race win, his seventh of the season so far and his 11th at the famous circuit known as The Cathedral of Speed.
In a thrilling finish Rea crossed the line a mere 0.025 seconds ahead of Kawasaki team-mate Tom Sykes. Chaz Davies (Ducati) came home in third. The win now takes Jonathan onto a total of 195 points in the 2017 standings, 64 ahead of Sykes in second place.
It was a day of important statistics for Rea as it was his 45th WorldSBK career win and his 30th win on Kawasaki machinery. It was also a hit-trick of doubles at the Dutch circuit as Rea his won every race here since he joined Kawasaki in 2015.
The next races in the series will take place on Saturday 13th and Sunday 14th of May, at the Imola circuit in Italy.
Jonathan Rea, stated: "It has been an incredible weekend of racing. I have been especially happy with Superpole yesterday because the lap I made then was maybe the best lap I have ever made on a bike. I am really proud of that. Of course the race wins were really nice to take away. Today was a race of two halves. In the first half I raced hard until I got a warning so in the second half I just managed things to try and be safe and bring her home. I had a little bit left at the end but the biggest problem was the wind today. I was pulling a gap but then I had a huge front slide in T11, and my foot came off the peg, at mid-race distance. I decided just to ride and save something for the last laps after that. I had a big wobble coming out of 11 again near the end and I then just tried to be clever in the last lap and cover the last corner. My line was probably not the fastest way around there but it covered any move up the inside and I made it to the line first."

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


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More than 1,000 golden clay bees have been handmade, fired and painted locally in Kelso. Young people from Kelso High School and surrounding primary schools have worked alongside their teachers, local community, politicians and business leaders to create 'The Golden Swarm'. The bees will form an installation that celebrates the collaboration of the local community and is the product of the Golden Swarm project which began over one year ago.
2018 marks the 40th year of the Antiques Roadshow being on our screens. Over the years the show has visited some fabulous locations around the UK and the current series is no exception with a selection of beautiful settings, including Floors Castle.
Myhotelbreak is all about that ideal hotel getaway. Whether that's a city break or an escape to the country, we have the ideal hotel for all occasions. What else adds to the perfect weekend away you ask? Having breath-taking attractions near to where you're staying, obviously. It's worth taking time out visiting Floors Castle, an unbelievable tourist attraction nestled in the Roxburghe Estate. Immerse yourself in the collection of fine arts, newly restored tapestries, superb views and grand rooms. Enjoy fresh walks and generally watch the world go by in the informal gardens where you can sit and relax.
March is still a busy time of the year in the gardens at Floors Castle. During the winter and early spring much preparation occurs to ensure the gardens look impressive during the summer. One plant that needs more preparation than most are our Chrysanthemums which are used for decoration in the castle when they are flowering.
Time is ticking down until Father Christmas climbs down the chimney to deliver presents to those who have been good boys and girls. But have you found the perfect gifts for loved ones yet?


text:
Sat, Jun 12, 2021 page3
COVID-19: Foundation questions Medigen vaccine
'FALL-BACK OPTION': The National Policy Foundation said that because Taiwanese vaccines are not fully tested, they should only be used as a backup for foreign ones
By Shih Hsiao-kuang and Jonathan Chin / Staff reporter, with staff writer
The Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT)-affiliated National Policy Foundation yesterday questioned the safety and effectiveness of COVID-19 vaccine candidates from Medigen Vaccine Biologics Corp, citing a lack of phase 3 trials.
Foundation deputy director Huang Hsin-hua (黃心華) made the remarks in an online news conference a day after Medigen unblinded data from its phase 2 trials.
Although Medigen increased the sample pool of subjects in its phase 2 clinical tests in a bid to secure emergency use authorization, an expanded phase 2 is no substitute for phase 3 trials, Huang said.
A worker at a Tri-Service General Hospital branch in Taipei prepares doses of Medigen Vaccine Biologics Corp's COVID-19 vaccine candidate in an undated photograph.
Photo provided by the Military News Agency
The lack of phase 3 studies sets the Taiwan-made vaccines apart from those that have obtained international certifications, he said, adding that the nation should use its vaccines only as a backup to imported ones.
United Biomedical Inc, the other local firm developing a COVID-19 vaccine, has said it expects to complete the unblinding process this month.
The government has ordered 5 million doses each from Medigen and United Biological.
As indigenous vaccines are not fully tested, Taiwan should use them as a backup for when better-proven vaccines are not available, Huang said.
Vaccine evaluation, procurement and distribution are processes that should be regulated by professionalism, which government officials have failed to display, he said.
The government should show more transparency, use accredited evaluators and keep full records when evaluating domestically developed vaccines for emergency use, Huang added.
"It was curious that Medigen's principal investigator was not at the conference to unblind the trials," said former KMT legislator Arthur Chen (陳宜民), who was formerly vice president of Kaohsiung Medical University.
Chen asked why the government ordered vaccines before trials were unblinded and why the emergency use authorization criteria were announced by the Food and Drug Administration only a few hours before Medigen published its data.
Medigen's and United Biomedical's vaccines are designed around strains of the virus found in Wuhan, China, and the US, but the UK variant is predominant in Taiwan, Chen said.
"The entire world is watching a democratic state giving emergency authorization to vaccines still in phase 2 trials that conducted tests on fewer than 4,000 people, and jabbing 5 million to 10 million people with them," he said.
Virus positivity rate high among overseas arrivals
RULES TIGHTENED: Passengers arriving from Sydney and Los Angeles tested positive for COVID-19, while passengers arriving from Seattle all tested negative Seventeen of the 217 passengers who arrived on long-haul at Taiwan Taoyuan International Airport yesterday morning tested positive for COVID-19, the Central Epidemic Command Center (CECC) said, adding that the positivity rate was higher than expected. Yesterday was the first day that the government enforced stricter health guidelines for the testing of passengers arriving on long-haul flights. They must undergo a polymerase chain reaction test immediately after arriving at the nation's international airports. Those who test positive are sent directly to hospitals to avoid spreading the virus to people working in and around the airports and at quarantine hotels. Victor Wang (王必勝),
Chinese pop song souring ties: MAC
'NEW YEAR GIFT': While the MAC called the song propaganda, China's Taiwan Affairs Office said that it addressed the homesickness of 'Taiwanese compatriots' A pro-unification pop song aired on Chinese television earlier this month would only further sour Taiwanese sentiment toward China, the Mainland Affairs Council (MAC) said on Wednesday. The music video for We Sing the Same Song (我們同唱一首歌), which aired on China Central Television, features Chinese artists performing alongside Taiwanese singers Jam Hsiao (蕭敬騰), Ouyang Nana (歐陽娜娜) and Chen Li-nong (陳立農). The lyrics were reportedly written by Taiwanese lyricist Vincent Fang (方文山), known for his collaborations with Jay Chou (周杰倫), to music composed by a Chinese musician. Sung in Chinese and Hoklo (commonly known as Taiwanese), the song is about three Taiwanese siblings who
By Chen Yu-fu and Kayleigh Madjar
Taiwan eyes joining US' economic pact
President Tsai Ing-wen's (蔡英文) administration is seeking to join an Indo-Pacific economic framework being planned by the US, a senior official said. The government is paying close attention to the regional economic pact being touted by US President Joe Biden, although too few details have emerged from Washington for Taipei to make specific plans, the official said, speaking on the condition of anonymity. The US is expected to launch the Indo-Pacific economic framework next month after negotiations with Australia, India and Japan, the official said. The economic initiative is to tackle trade facilitation, standards for the digital economy and technology, supply-chain resiliency and
By Lee Hsin-fang and Jonathan Chin
Eating, drinking allowed on trains for now: TRA
'CHAOS': Victor Wang, the CECC's on-site commander at Taiwan Taoyuan International Airport, said testing of arrivals has sped up in time to meet holiday demand For now, people are not banned from eating and drinking on trains, despite the rise in locally transmitted cases of COVID-19, Minister of Transportation and Communications Wang Kwo-tsai (王國材) told reporters on the sidelines of a meeting of the legislature's Transportation Committee yesterday. "On Sunday, the Central Epidemic Command Center (CECC) announced that the nation would remain on a level 2 COVID-19 alert until at least Jan. 24. So we will follow the center's disease prevention guidelines for passengers on public transport systems," Wang said. However, bus and train depots have been asked to disinfect facilities more frequently, he said. The center's new


Republican debate: Romney doesn't hurt himself, Bachmann introduces herself.
Romney's strong performance is helped by his opponents' reluctance to attack him.
Newt Gingrich likes American Idol. Tim Pawlenty is a Coke fan. And Mitt Romney, demeanor notwithstanding, likes it spicy. These tiny gleanings emerged at the first major Republican debate, when moderator John King asked whimsical this-or-that questions before the commercial breaks. The two-hour forum raised a few of those types of questions itself: Current field or Rick Perry? Obamneycare or Minnesota mumbles? Michele Bachmann or Sarah Who? Is it me or is it hot in here?
Scorecard analysis or thoughtful collection of paragraphs? Romney won the debate in that he didn't lose. There was nothing spicy about Romney (despite his answer), but he didn't hurt himself by seeming on all sides of the issue. Indeed, his explanation of the health care law he signed as governor of Massachusetts was one of his best yet. It was not likely to satisfy the National Review but likely to satisfy voters who want to get back to talking about the economy. When Romney's opponents were given a chance to wallop him on his flip-flops on abortion, no one took up the chance. "Case closed?" asked John King. "Case closed," said Herman Cain.
The entire gang competed to offer their vision of a country where Medicare, Social Security, and government regulations were pared back to unleash the private sector and trim the budget.
Twenty-three foster children or national bus tour? If you didn't watch the debate, Michele Bachmann will be by later to tell you she has taken in 23 foster children. She mentioned it three times during the debate. It makes two points: She's generous, and she puts her money where her mouth is. Candidates strive to introduce themselves in these debates, and Bachmann did the best job. She conveyed both a sense of personal conviction while also speaking to the issues Republican voters care about, such as repealing the health care law. She was also smart enough to announce her formal candidacy in her first answer, ensuring that she would be at the top of every story covering the event.
Her one-liners about making Obama a one-term president and the repeal of health care will get repeated in Republican circles. She will benefit not necessarily because people think she will be president, but because they want her out there advocating for the ideas they support about limited government. "I fought behind closed doors," she said of her opposition to the unpopular TARP. "Sometimes that's what you have to do, you have to take principle over party." She presented herself tonight as a more capable and plausible spokeswoman for Tea Party activists than Herman Cain or Sarah Palin. Bachmann's only devastating moment came when she was asked her this-or-that question—Johnny Cash or Elvis—and she said both. All right-thinking Americans know, of course, that the answer is Johnny Cash.
Is this gimmick getting old or should I press on? Pawlenty did not have a great night. In addition to introducing themselves to a wider audience, candidates need to impress the people they're going to be calling to ask for campaign donations. That's the audience he has to worry about, and they matter for the next 16 days—the amount of time left before the reporting period ends for this quarter. Romney will do very well. The other candidates, like Pawlenty, need to show that they did, too.
Boasting about a big fundraising number sends a signal that you are a viable candidate. And debates matter, because a common fundraising tactic is to call donors afterward and brag about your candidate's great performance or send around a clip of a pundit praising a big moment. It's ephemeral and sometimes silly, but it gets checks.
One of Pawlenty's problems, say strategists in Iowa and New Hampshire, is that he's not a forceful presence—"not tall timber," as one GOP veteran in New Hampshire put it. Pawlenty had a chance to show he was tough and capable of beating the GOP field, but he missed it.
Later, Pawlenty gave strong answers on a question about labor unions and an answer about the role of religion in public life that he could put in a YouTube clip and send to his evangelical voters. But the buzz coming out of the debate was about how he flinched. Buzz is fortunately meaningless in a lot of cases, but not to the people who write campaign checks.
Pawlenty can recover with voters because they're in a shopping mood. In a recent Gallup poll, for example, where Romney was the front-runner with 24 percent of the vote, only three in 10 of those people said they are certain to stick with him. Pawlenty has time, but he'll need money to keep going and to compete. His pitch on the phone for the next two weeks is going to be harder after the debate performance.
When asked about his controversial comments about Paul Ryan's plan for Medicare, Gingrich was honest, though he probably didn't help himself. "If you're dealing with something as big as Medicare and you can't have a conversation with the country where the country thinks what you're doing is the right thing, you better slow down. Remember, we all got mad at Obama because he ran over us when we said don't do it. Well, the Republicans ought to follow the same ground rule. If you can't convince the American people it's a good idea, maybe it's not a good idea." This is called common sense. It's also what someone who has thought about how a president actually governs might have to go about things. And, not incidentally, it leads to the conclusion that the approach being followed by House Republicans is the wrong one.
Like all early debates, this was not a night for soaring visions of America. There were the usual bromides, of course, but the candidates mostly focused on the nightmare of the Obama presidency. After two hours, it was a little repetitive and dreary. If the next moderator asks sunshine or rain, candidates who aspire to follow in Ronald Reagan's optimistic footsteps have to find a way to do more than bemoan the clouds.


Sid Smith and Jim Bicknell-Knight's online pavilion, The 15 Cmdments, includes an original work by Molly Soda. Inspired by the Apple computer keyboard shortcut Command-S (save function), Soda's work HUGE! GIF HAUL! (2017) imitates the style of popular YouTube haul videos as the artist displays recent additions to her desktop GIF hoard. To view the online exhibition and Soda's work, click here.


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The Bison Hunter from New York
Ian de Silva
News, Game, Big Game, Adventure, Lifestyle
Arriving at 3 o'clock in the morning in a strange town and knocking on the door of an irritable innkeeper and asking for a bed is not how you do a hunting trip—especially if you are from New York City and have just arrived in a remote town in the West.
Yet that's how, in September 1883, a 24-year-old New Yorker began his first Western hunt. The young man was Theodore Roosevelt, and he looked nothing like someone who could handle a hunt in the rugged terrain near what is now Medora, N.D. Bespectacled, svelte and looking rather studious (after all, he had been educated at Harvard), he received chuckles from the hardy locals when he announced he wanted to hunt bison. The man didn't look like he had the stamina to stalk a limping tortoise, never mind chase the American buffalo in the Dakota badlands.
A photo of a young hunter taken in 1885, is titled "Theodore Roosevelt in his first buckskins." Photo credit: Library of Congress
Despite that awkward debut into Western hunting, Theodore Roosevelt became one of America's most acclaimed hunters. In fact, he was the most accomplished outdoorsman ever to occupy the White House.
This January, we commemorated the 100th anniversary of his death. He was only 60 years old when he died on Jan. 6, 1919. Yet, just as his death came early, so had come his presidency. He had been the youngest person to become president—at age 42. It's a record that still stands. (Despite popular belief, John Kennedy was not the youngest president. Kennedy was the youngest to win a presidential election, whereas Roosevelt actually became president at a younger age due to the assassination of William McKinley, when Roosevelt was the vice president.)
Intermittently basing himself on the banks of the Little Missouri River in North Dakota in the years 1883 to 1887, Roosevelt hunted extensively in the West. He also became a cattle rancher, owning several thousand head of cattle, and earnestly adopting the strenuous life of a cowboy. This ranching and hunting life transformed him from a New York dude into a rugged man. He always acknowledged that it was his time in the American West that was the most influential factor in preparing him for the presidency: "If it had not been for what I learned during those years that I spent here in North Dakota, I never in the world would have been president of the United States."
And that learning began with the hunt of September 1883.
Ignoring the sneering reactions from the locals (some called him "four-eyes" since he wore spectacles), he convinced a local guide to take him hunting. The hunt began about 50 miles south of Medora, N.D., on the banks of the Little Missouri. His quarry, the bison, was then on the verge of extinction as millions had been killed in the 1870s due to uncontrolled hunting, and Roosevelt knew this was his first and probably last chance.
The hunt was fraught with trouble from the beginning. The hammer broke on his .45-caliber Sharps rifle, but he found a local man who lent him the hammer from another Sharps. Though he generally favored Winchesters, he wrote that the Sharps "are excellent for very long range work, being good for half a mile and over" when in the right hands, though his own shots would be far shorter, mainly due to his poor eyesight. Still, he complained his own .45-120 Sharps "had a vicious recoil" and "was very clumsy."
The first day was rainy, and his guide suggested they wait until the rain stopped, but Roosevelt insisted they go, and off they went searching for bison. They came across a blacktail deer. Within 200 yards, Roosevelt fired, but missed. As the deer cantered away, his guide took aim and fired—and dropped the running deer. Roosevelt threw his gun on the ground in envy, saying "By Godfrey, I'd give anything in the world if I could shoot like that!"
The rain continued for a week, yet Roosevelt and his guide set out in the mornings, but got nothing. The weather finally cleared and they ventured further afield in the Dakota badlands. They found a bison bull, stalked him for miles amid the coulees and buttes, but it managed to elude them.
Later they spotted three bison, and in approaching them Roosevelt said "we had to lie flat on our bodies and wriggle like snakes; and while doing this I blundered into a bed of cactus, and filled my hands with the spines." At 100-150 yards, he fired his rifle. "It was the first time I ever shot at buffalo, and, confused by the bulk and shaggy hair of the beast, I aimed too far back at one that was standing nearly broadside on towards me." Though hit, the bison ran off.
Roosevelt and his guide jumped on their horses and followed the wounded bison some 8 miles. As the sun dipped below the horizon, unfazed by the fading light, Roosevelt ran his horse to within 20 feet—yes, 20 feet!—of the wounded buffalo and shot again, "but the darkness, and especially the violent, labored motion of my pony, made me miss," he wrote.
A bison bull stands as part of a herd that roams Theodore Roosevelt National Park, the only national park in the United States named after a president.
The bull then wheeled around and charged him, and his pony spun quickly out of the way, and in the process the pony's head hit the rifle, which in turn hit Roosevelt's forehead, giving him a gash. Blood poured into his eyes. The bull, having missed Roosevelt, charged his guide instead, but the guide escaped unharmed. Nevertheless, Roosevelt ran after the bull on foot, but the bull got away.
That evening, finding no tree or even a bush to tie their horses to in the barren badlands, they tied them to their saddles, put the saddles on the ground, using them as pillows, and went to sleep. They were jolted out of their sleep later that night—the horses were darting off, the saddles being dragged behind them. Suspecting that Indian horse-thieves had scared off the horses, they quickly took to their rifles. False alarm. In the moonlight, they made out the intruder—a wolf that had briefly ambled near their campsite. The threat gone, they began tracking the horses in the moonlight, following the drag marks of the saddles. Luckily, they found the horses unharmed.
As if that wasn't enough, at dawn they found themselves sleeping in blankets drenched by a steady rain. His guide, who had only reluctantly agreed to the hunt in the first place, was increasingly frustrated with the rainy misadventure. But Roosevelt was unfazed. "By Godfrey, but this is fun!" said Roosevelt.
That morning while it was still raining, they saw another group of bison. Roosevelt crept on his hands and knees on the muddy soil until he was within a hundred yards of one bison cow. He described what happened next. "I now made one of those misses which a man to his dying day always looks back upon with wonder and regret. The rain was beating in my eyes, and the drops stood out in the sights of the rifle so that I could hardly draw a bead; and I either overshot or else at the last moment must have given a nervous jerk and pulled the rifle clear off the mark. At any rate I missed clean."
His bad luck finally changed on the 10th day. First, the weather cleared. Then, crossing into Montana Territory (neither North Dakota nor Montana was a state at the time), they were riding along some buttes when both horses raised their heads and snuffed the air, a sign they were smelling something. Roosevelt got off his pony, and he walked only a short distance before he noticed a bison's hoof prints. Moments later, he saw the animal itself, a mere 50 yards away. It was a magnificent bull: "His glossy fall coat was in fine trim, and shone in the rays of the sun; while his pride of bearing showed him to be in the lusty vigor of his prime."
His guide pointed to a spot behind the shoulder—and Roosevelt's shot connected. The bull began to run, and he put two more shots into the beast as it lumbered up a ridge and disappeared. Soon they found him down, "stark dead." Roosevelt could hardly contain his excitement, and he pranced around the animal, imitating an Indian war dance—much to the amused disbelief of his guide.
Roosevelt and his guide savored the meat. He wrote, "the flesh of this bull tasted uncommonly good to us, for we had been without fresh meat for a week." They later shared the meat with a local ranching family as well.
The bison was the largest animal in America and was an accessible big-game trophy, especially to hunters from the East, if they were willing to travel west. By the 1870s, bison hunting was all the rage, and the animal was being devastated by hunters descending on the West from everywhere. The major culprit, however, was uncontrolled commercial hunting (for its skin, tongue, etc.). The government essentially winked at the carnage, since many officials thought that wiping out the bison would convince Native Americans, given their historic subsistence on the animal, to relent fighting and submit themselves to life in reservations.
Foundation stones are all that remain of Roosevelt's Elkhorn ranch, north of Medora, N.D., part of Theodore Roosevelt National Park.
We can debate whether his hunt for bison at a time when they were near extinction made Roosevelt himself complicit in their plight, but such debates are exercises in futility because we did not live in that world. In fact, it is just as arrogant for us to make armchair judgments of Roosevelt's time as it would be for a future generation 140 years from now to make such of our time.
Nevertheless, certain facts remain. Before the westward settlement of America, an estimated 20 million to 60 million bison roamed free. But by the late 1800s, they were nearly extirpated; an 1889 estimate put the total number at less than 1,100 in all of North America. Of those, less than 100 were left in the wild in the U.S., the rest in protected herds, private herds, and zoos in Canada and the U.S.
Fortunately, thanks to intense conservation efforts, some initiated by Roosevelt himself after becoming president in 1901, today the North American bison population numbers about 400,000—still a fraction of their former number. Of those, only about 30,000 are wild; the rest are in private herds, many of which have been hybridized with cattle at some point in the past. The largest wild bison herd on public land lives in Yellowstone National Park, where 4,500 bison roam our first national park.
In any case, the head of the bison bull from that historic 1883 hunt is preserved today at the Roosevelt home (Sagamore Hill) in Oyster Bay, N.Y., on Long Island.
The base for many of his Western hunts was a ranch called the "Elkhorn," situated on the banks of the Little Missouri, about 35 miles north of Medora, N.D. There is now nothing remaining of the ranch house, except the foundation stones. Nevertheless, the place is still a placid spot, with the same cool breezes that Roosevelt enjoyed when he lived there.
Theodore Roosevelt's trophy room, including the shoulder mount of his bison bull, graces Sagamore Hill in Oyster Bay, N.Y., his home from 1885-1919. Sagamore Hill still stands, and is run by the National Park Service, which offers tours regularly. Photo credit: Library of Congress
The ranch site and 70,000 acres of the surrounding area now comprise the Theodore Roosevelt National Park—the only national park named after a president. It's a fully deserved honor, considering that he did more for conservation than any president before or since. During his presidency (1901–1909), he aggressively implemented conservation measures, ranging from protecting the Grand Canyon to establishing what became the national wildlife refuge system. In total, he put some 230 million acres of land under federal protection. He vociferously advocated for the right balance between hunting and conservation. Having lived in the wilderness, he knew firsthand the necessity of having to chase and shoot his dinner; hence the responsibility of making sure there was something left to chase and shoot.
Roosevelt was a Republican, but this is an inconvenient truth today, given our biased media and revisionist education system, and therefore is hardly mentioned. Thus, many Americans are unaware of the Republican Party's legacy of conservation. Moreover, in recent decades many Republican office-holders have allowed themselves to be sidelined on conservation issues, thus facilitating the myth that Republicans don't care about the environment.
Roosevelt would be turning in his grave if he saw this state of affairs.
Theodore Roosevelt, Theodore Roosevelt Hunter, Western Hunt, Bison Hunt, Theodore Roosevelt National Park, Hunting, History, Ian de Silva
David Crockett: Son of Tennessee, King of the Wild Frontier
Literature: The Lionized Tiger Hunter
The Hunts of President Grover Cleveland
History: Seeking Better Game
The Mountain Man Who Opened the West


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18th Tir (8th of July) Message From Muenchen-Germany
Posted: Fri Jul 09, 2004 12:37 pm Post subject: 18th Tir (8th of July) Message From Muenchen-Germany
IN MEMORY OF THE HEROES OF 18th Tir (8th of July)
The 8th of July repeats the anniversary of the two uprisings which were both quashed on the 18th Tir of the Persian calendar by the brutal regime of the Islamic republic.
Outraged about the terror regime of the mullahs, high ranking officers of the Air Force planned a Coup d�Etat for the liberation of Iran shortly after the revolution. After its failure, hundreds of officers and civilians were arrested, tortured and executed in the most brutal manner.
The big student demonstrations 5 years ago can more easily be remembered. On Friday, the 18th Tir 1378 (8th of July 1999) the dormitories of male and female students of Teheran University were invaded by vasalls of hardliners of the Islamic terror regime in the middle of the night.
Numerous students were so badly injured and beaten up, they had to be hospitalised. Some of them were even thrown from the upper storeys of the student home and plunged to their death. Many were imprisoned and brutally tortured.
The Iranian students had dared to demonstrate against the prevalent deplorable state of affairs and dictatorship within the country and for a minimum of social freedom. In those days as well as nowadays, the mob was deliberately used by the dictatorial clergy to quash any uprising with relentless brutal force.
The sacrifice that the heroes of both uprisings made for the salvation of the people from the dictatorial clergy is annually honoured by the Iranian nation under the name �18th Tir�.
Prior to his first election as state president of the Islamic republic reform promising Khatami made indeed many promises to the Iranian people especially the youth, which up to age 25, make up 60% of the population. His stance against fundamentalism made him gain a great voter majority of the people in those days. But even after his second period in office, it is clear that he kept none of his promises and that he fully supports the fundamentalists.
During his term of office neither the ones responsible for the student attacks nor the perpetrators of serial murders directed at politicians, writers and the opposition were held responsible and punished. The oppression of the people did and will continue to carry on during his entire term of office.
The kind of way in which the alleged parliamentary elections were conducted show the true face of the Islamic republic.
It is totally irrelevant who is in charge of the government, be it religious leader Khamenii, or the former state president Rafsangani or the current state president Khatami.
This year marks the brutal squashing of the great uprisings on 18th Tir (8th of July). For this reason, we have gathered here today to make the public aware of the terrible suffering of the Iranian people under the inhuman regime of the Islamic republic. Today demonstrations by Iranians are being held all over the world for this reason.
The Iranian people expect the German government as well as the EU commission to cut all direct and indirect support of hardliners of the Islamic republic for as long as it prevents a democratic leadership as well as liberal policies and brutally violates human rights.
We support all liberal movements of the Iranian people in favour of democracy and freedom. The Iranian people strongly reject this inhuman regime and is not being represented by this government.
Ansewerable: Badredin Dayani, P.O.Box 15 05 05, 80044 Muenchen-Germany


This piece was contributed by Dr. Syd Johnson. Learn more about her here and here.
Disorders of consciousness (DOC), including the vegetative state/unresponsive wakefulness syndrome, and the minimally conscious state, have long fueled legal and ethical debate, and are also a source of considerable anguish for families forced to make life and death decisions on behalf of their loved ones. Particularly contentious are decisions concerning the withdrawal of life-sustaining treatment for patients who have a poor prognosis for further recovery. Implicit assumptions about the value of life in a state of impaired consciousness often inform decisions, but persistently unanswered questions about the quality of life of persons with DOCs remain a source of uncertainty and distress. Yet, despite the importance of quality of life in end-of-life decision making, there are no validated methods for assessing quality of life in this population. A significant obstacle to doing so is the inability of these patients to communicate.
Quality of life is inherently subjective, and while there are numerous instruments for assessing and quantifying quality of life in specific populations, most rely on patient self-report and self-assessment of the measured aspects of well-being. This presents particular challenges for assessing patients with brain injuries, who may have deficits in the ability to communicate, as well as in self-awareness and self-insight, all of which can impair self-reporting. Research on quality of life for persons living with brain injuries shows, however, that even the most profoundly disabled can confound expectations by reporting good quality of life, sometimes comparable to the well-being reported by healthy persons. Thus, there is reason to be cautious about relying on proxy informant reports of quality of life, or on the norms, preferences, and presuppositions of the general population. There is a danger that common and widely held assumptions are simply wrong about the subjective quality of life of persons with severe and disabling brain injuries. If they are wrong about the quality of life of brain-injured persons, they may be equally wrong about the quality of life of brain-injured persons with DOCs. Because quality of life has such a prominent place in beliefs about whether life is worth living for DOC patients, finding reliable and valid measures of quality of life in this population is a matter of the ethical urgency.
Recent neuroscientific advances, particularly in functional neuroimaging, might shed light on quality of life in DOCs. Indeed, there is propitious synergy between emerging neuroimaging paradigms that promise to enhance diagnosis and prognosis, and those that might objectively assess quality of life in DOCs, e.g. by examining such basic quality of life domains as the potential for pain and pleasure. Both improved diagnosis/prognosis and quality of life assessment would inform and enhance decisionmaking on behalf of DOC patients.
Quality of life research in DOCs would require an innovative, multidisciplinary approach and should consider both how and what to measure in persons with DOCs. To start, an alternative conception of quality of life, one sensitive to the functional status and interests of DOC patients is needed, because existing conceptions of subjective well-being, scaled to the norms and preferences of the general population would be inappropriate. Due to the low level of cognitive and physical functioning of DOC patients, they would always have an unacceptably poor quality of life on standard measures. It may, in fact, be true that their quality of life is unacceptably poor, but whether it is true remains an open question, and one that urgently needs answering.
Aside from the compelling need of decisional surrogates to have quality of life questions answered, what life is like for DOC patients is a critical piece of information about the potential burdens and benefits for them of treatment options. It is also needed to justify research because DOC patients are a highly vulnerable patient group, unable to consent to research participation. The success or failure of research into experimental treatments that might alter the cognitive or physical function of these persons—including such "halfway technologies" as deep brain stimulation and drug therapies (e.g. zolpidem)—cannot be adequately assessed without knowing how they affect the well-being of research participants. That requires being able to measure their quality of life both before and after experimental treatment. Just as it cannot be assumed that prolonging life is always a benefit to a DOC patient, it cannot be assumed that all changes of cognitive status, e.g. increased environmental or self-awareness, would necessarily enhance subjective well-being in patients who were previously shielded from potentially distressing truths by their condition.
Because we do not know what it is like to be in a state of severely disordered or diminished consciousness, we engage in a kind of substituted judgment, based on the values, desires, and interests we have as conscious persons capable of assessing our own well-being. We do that because decisions must be made for those who cannot speak for themselves, and as a practical matter, whether our beliefs and presuppositions are true or false cannot be verified. But there is an ethical imperative to know, to find out what can be known about the quality of life of persons with DOCs. If we make decisions based on false beliefs about quality of life for DOC patients, or about what constitutes an improvement or enhancement of their well-being, we deny these persons the tiny bit of self-rule, exercised through their surrogates, that remains to them.
This entry was posted on June 12, 2013, 7:00 am and is filed under brain imaging, consciousness. You can follow any responses to this entry through RSS 2.0. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.


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Melissa Gorga Shares the Moment That Was Almost Too "Heavy" to Share with Fans This Season
October 25, 2017, 10:02 AM ET
"Everybody's devastated at the time when it happened," the RHONJ mom said.
When viewers tuned into this current season of The Real Housewives of New Jersey, Melissa Gorga, Teresa Giudice, and Joe Gorga were in the midst of a family tragedy. They had just lost Antonia Gorga, the family's matriarch, who died back in March at the age of 66. It was an event that definitely brought up a lot of emotions for the relatives, as well as changes for the tight-knit group, including the fact that their 74-year-old father, Giacinto Gorga, had moved in with Teresa and her daughters.
When The Daily Dish recently spoke to Melissa, she shared what it was like to let viewers into that emotional time in their lives — and how hard it was to watch her husband deal with the pain of the loss of his mom. She also revealed how her father-in-law is doing these days. Check out what she had to say above.
And you can check out what's next for the family on RHONJ every Wednesday at 9/8c. Check out a preview, below.
Melissa Gorga
Teresa Giudice
The Real Housewives of New Jersey
Joe Gorga
Melissa's First Reaction to Joe Opening a Restaurant
Teresa Says Her Mom's Passing Is "Like a Bad Dream"