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Jake Teeny
Recalling the Cold
by Jake Teeny
long with their tray of food for the day, came a pistol. It slid across the cracked concrete of their jail cell like the sound of a rake against an icy sidewalk. None of the three men noticed it at first; each sat with his back against a different slate wall, no cots, just one bucket, their eyes, all bloodshot and purpled in degrees of retaliation, were closed, their chins against their chests. Praying? Trying to sleep? For them, there wasn't much difference. If a Gestapo peered through the square cut in the upper third of their door, he would have seen James against the left wall, Raymond against the back, and Harold against the right. The scarred wooden tray holding three tin cups of mashed potatoes and three tin cups of coffee—all certain to have another cigarette butt floating in the middle of them—remained a few feet from the flap at the bottom of the door. Motionless.
Although none of them had seen it yet, the gun would be recognized as a revolver. An Enfield Mk II. A British made pistol more commonly known as the No. 2. The Germans fancied Allied guns, not too unlike the Indians' collection of scalps. The No. 2 had a thin walnut handgrip and weighed less than two pounds. From barrel to butt, it was eleven and a half inches long with an iron, six-round cylinder. At the base of the handgrip was a small steel ring a soldier could use to attach it to his belt. And if any of the three men had scrutinized the gun (which none of them ever would) they'd have seen its serial number read O9624, the number issued to British infantryman Charles Cartwright, an unextraordinary solider shot by an elderly German civilian whose finger had accidentally, tremulously pulled the trigger on a rifle.
Now, that pistol lay in the middle of their cell.
Harold's stomach growled, and his eyes opened, not because a new sound had broken the routine—flap slaps open, tray slides in, flap slaps close—but because one cup of mashed potatoes might trick his stomach into thinking, Enough. It never did. Harold was nineteen-years-old and had enlisted on July 14th, 1943, exactly thirty days after he had graduated from high school (a stipulation his mother had begged of him) and sixteen days (his lucky number) after he had asked his girlfriend since sophomore year, Betty Dawson, to marry him. She had said yes. Harold wore his blond hair as fashionably as the army would allow him, short on the sides, long on top, which complemented his lovely blue eyes, blue eyes always twinkling like birthday present watches. Now, however, only one of those eyes could open, the other like a large moldy grape sewn over the socket. He didn't know it, but the German's fist, Niklas Fleisher's fist, had actually fractured Harold's cheekbone, the same blow that had severed half a dime's worth of tongue as Harold bit down in pain. The loosed pinch of flesh, sliced off in one snap, had rolled over the back of his tongue and caught in the back of his throat as he tried to swallow, gasp out a scream. Days later, and Harold's raw hook of muscle still exploded with pain every time he tried to eat, but the moaning of his stomach was apathetic to such discomfort.
Harold's good eye peeled open wider to stare at the revolver. He closed it. His mind must not have fully unglued from the darkness. He opened it again. The revolver was still there. The unintentional click of his throat summoned James' attention across from him. James. He was twenty-three with hazel eyes, a venerable depth to them even as a child, both painted, now, with yellowy bruises. His nose was swollen, red, and crooked down the bridge, but before it had been dismantled, you could have seen the destined structure for his eldest daughter, Sandra, in it. His other daughter, Carolyn, was still too young, but James had hope. His nose had always been something he secretly prided himself for, and it was his nose, or so he told people, that had caught him his wife, Marie. He told it as though he had followed her perfume like a pink nimbus wafting the dance hall, his nose informing him he was in love before he even knew what she looked like. And when he had seen her, spotlighted in that yellow shoulder-strap dress, alone, between jitterbugging couples, he was prepared to get down on one knee right then. Imagining that story, now, however, just made him realize how much it would hurt his knee to shove it against the concrete. Imagining that story, now, and he didn't even care if he had tracked her down in that dance hall at all. With his left hand—every finger but his thumb on his right hand, his dominant hand, broken in ghastly contortions—he brushed some of his long black hair off his forehead. The lice loved the length of his hair, gnawed and gnawed and stabbed at his scalp, but he had no scissors to cut it. They wouldn't give him any. Tell us who planned it, they said. Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank, serial number. Tell us! The three prisoners all wore the same outfit over their slimming bodies: beige button down collared shirt, beige cotton slacks. Their clothes reeked of sweat and dirt, the stuffy, oniony smell of a moldering body. Before the three of them had been placed in this jail cell, when they were outside in the P.O.W. camp with the other Allied forces held in Stalag Luft I, where they could stare off at the Barth forest of beech trees, English oaks, pine, stare off at the flying "V" of geese, the lone herons, they could have traded cigarettes for soap. They could have traded enough cigarettes for someone else's clothes. But in here…How many days was it now?
Raymond, the eldest at twenty-nine, gazed through slit eyes at the revolver on the floor between them. The square of flat ashen light from the door, filtered once through wintery clouds, again through the filthy window opposite their cell, told Raymond nothing about how many days he had been dragged out, interrogated (beaten), thrown back in, dragged out, interrogated (tortured), thrown back in. Raymond had come to judge how long he had been in there by how well he could remember the crunch of frosted grass beneath his boots. Time measured through the sharpness of memories: a crooked yardstick but a yardstick nonetheless. Raymond had sienna hair and sienna eyes. He wasn't married, not because he didn't want to be, but because he always intended to move out of Vineyard, Utah first. Before the war, though, he had just never got around to doing it. Silence rarely bothered Raymond (uninterrupted thoughts were an invaluable freedom), so even when a revolver suddenly slid into their cell, he appreciated the quiet. The three men never discussed plans for escape, didn't ask what happened when they were individually pulled away. Harold used to blather on about his hometown of Portland, Maine, about his beautiful fiancé Betty Dawson, about the house they planned to buy, about his plans to go to college, about the names for the five children he'd have, the names for the three dogs he'd have—And then the incident with his tongue. Back with the other men, you were always hesitant to complain about your tragedies because there was always some poor devil worse off than you. Out of these three, though, Raymond considered himself unmatched, unless of course Harold continued chewing off more of his tongue. It had been an uncontrollable, almost instinctual pleasure for Raymond when Harold had been thrown back into the cell, blood leaking from the corner of his lips, whining lowly, like the words of deaf people, when he had opened his mouth and shown them. No more Betty. No more children's names. Raymond had never wanted that, had never asked the boy to keep quiet or told him to shut up, but now that it had happened, there was nothing Raymond could do. Nothing he could have done. Still, that unfounded, cursed guilt for his initial thanksgiving burrowed trails through his stomach, and Raymond was helpless to fill them.
James had been on patrol with his good friend Ed Hathaway, before he'd been taken to Stalag Luft I. They had been walking the perimeter of their base in Obstgarten forest, snow everywhere, the boughs of pines, the wormwood, shoes, clothes, but it hadn't been windy so it hadn't been terrible. James was from Brunswick, Georgia, where winter just meant you didn't wear your sunglasses as often. He had never imagined that such a cold existed until he ended up in Germany. Such a ruthless, insidious chill. He had been about to remark on the cold for the countless time to Ed ("it's so cold my balls are up to my nipples!") when the Jerrys had stepped out of the brush. Everyone but the leader had a rifle leveled at them, while the German in charge had an American made pistol, a Smith & Wesson .38/200, aimed at them. It, too, was a revolver, one of similar design to the pistol that lay in front of them now. Intentional? Of course not. But James couldn't resist the anxiety at seeing such a similar weapon here.
The three men continued to stare at the gun, only glancing at the others when the others weren't glancing at them. Their meager food, usually retrieved and distributed seconds after the flap closed, was forgotten. And after another moment of precipitous silence, James reached forward and picked up the pistol.
To most, the revolver would have felt surprisingly heavy. But to James, it seemed surprisingly light. Something so inanimate, so uncomplicated—kinetic force of the hammer strikes the firing pin, firing pin ignites the gunpowder, gunpowder propels the steel jacket down the spirally grooved barrel—could end something so animate, so complicated as life. Back in Georgia, James had kept a pistol of his own in a shoebox at the top of his closet, far out of the reach of Sandra or Carolyn. In truth, he had never wanted the pistol in the house, but Marie told him it would make her feel safer. Anything for that. She was always so worried, as if she went out of her way to scour the newspaper or misinterpret gossip to have something to fret over. Once James had been drafted, he had had to talk her down from numerous plans of escape to Canada. She had cried so much. Sandra hadn't understood. Carolyn wailed because her mommy did. And all James could do was wave.
Raymond didn't like that James had grabbed the pistol first. Raymond was the oldest by five years or so, and even in the most mangled cages of the most dehumanized creatures, seniority meant something. But the revolver had been farthest from him. To scoot and twist, to wring the pain from him like brown water from a soiled dishrag wasn't worth it. Not when he could just sit there and breathe. James rotated the pistol in his one hand, twisted it this way then that, even stared into the barrel, something you were told never to do unless you were certain it was unloaded. Though such a decree was difficult to follow when you weren't always the one directing the gun.
Across from James, Harold wanted to ask, What is it? but knew that such a question was terribly stupid. A gun, you dummy!—What do you think? So he said nothing and waited as James examined the chambers. He found only one round. One bullet. Five clicks, one bang. James couldn't punch the cylinder out with just one hand to confirm this, but he was pretty sure. Damn, the fingers on his right hand. Name, rank, serial number. That's what the pain spelled. That, and the name, rank, serial numbers of the forty-seven men those Germans had stood in front of them and shot. The Germans had taken fifty men; he, Harold, and Raymond were the lucky three. The lucky ones. The fortunate guys beaten day after day but not killed. Struck in the liver and screamed at, fingers snapped backwards. But alive. Stripped naked in officer's quarters. Humiliated. Prideless. Worthless. Alive. And now this revolver. Given to them. Loaded with one slug. Either it made no sense or it made too much, and James was unsure which he preferred. So holding the gun for only another lingering second, he set it back on the floor in front of him.
There was a distinct difference between wanting and needing. Most people missed it, but Raymond didn't. And he was pretty sure at this moment he just wanted the pistol. Wanted to hold it. To touch it. To press its outline against his chest. But no matter how much Raymond wanted something—even needed something—he never begged for anything. Never. Anything. His father had worked at Geneva Steel. Raymond worked at Geneva Steel. Well, used to work there before he became a putrid solider. On the drive over to the military base—after Raymond had won the first lottery of his life—his co-worker, David Atkinson, had been telling Ray (not Raymond) how much they were going to miss his talents at "fixin' stuff" at the mill. His talents, that's what they'd miss. True, Raymond was a gifted millwright, inspecting, repairing, replacing, installing, adjusting, maintaining, all the mechanical equipment involved with ingot production, even the giant boilers that poured the golden sludge of molten steel. The heat, the long hours, the hard work. Always dirty and hot. Oily and hot. Sweating his soul into his socks and undershirt, all to keep himself above the poverty line. Raymond should have been a foreman, managing rather than being managed. Twenty-nine may have seemed young, but Raymond was smarter than the average twenty-niner in there. Hell, he was smarter than the average thirty-fiver. How else could he have been so successful as a millwright? But they, too, knew this ("that position's just not ready yet"), and they, too, knew ("we believe Dale's going to take over—he's got the years") that if Raymond went from laborer to foreman ("look at your pa; he's been grinding for decades") it would mean the others would wonder why they were skipped over. And in this jail cell, nothing had changed. He was still sweaty, oily, starving, while the others skipped over him; while he watched Harold's slender fingers pick up the gun next.
The first time Harold had held a gun was in Atlantic City. That's where he had conducted his training after enlisting. There wasn't enough room in the barracks, so they put him and a majority of the other enlisted up in hotels. It was the first time Harold had stayed in a hotel, too. Certain events bond people together, and when Harold had traveled on the bus out to the countryside, followed the drill sergeant to an open field with hay bales and targets on one end, a line of shooting stations and rifles on the other, was one of those moments for Harold and Kevin Lewin. Harold vaguely knew Kevin from high school baseball. Harold was the starting shortstop—wearing number sixteen—for his varsity team. Kevin, who Harold didn't remember at first, had been a bench player for an opposing high school. Through pure luck (destiny?) Harold and Kevin ended up side-by-side at the shooting range. Neither boy had much of a clue what they were doing ("how do you work the bolt?"), but through the smell of sulfur, the shoulder bruises from the rifle's kick, and the stories of high school sports, they became friends. Harold told Kevin about the first and only time he had tried a puff of a marijuana cigarette. Kevin, on a stroll one dark night, told Harold that his mother was Mexican (though Harold would have never guessed). But when they were deployed, Harold went one way, Kevin another. Harold still remembered the sound of Kevin's laugh when Harold told the story of how he got chased by a cat. Harold still remembered Kevin's squirrel-nosed look after he and Harold had their first meal in the mess ("you have to try my mother's enchiladas"). But the nostalgia was only a brief guard against the fiery pain in Harold's mouth. God, he hoped Kevin was all right. It was a selfish reason, but if Kevin was all right, then maybe Harold would turn out all right, too.
After what couldn't have been more than twenty seconds, Harold returned the pistol to the middle of the concrete. He wasn't sure why he had grabbed it—maybe because James had; maybe because there was nothing else to do—but he didn't feel like holding it anymore. The way Raymond had been watching him, even James… Maybe it was the attention after such paradoxical solitude. Maybe it was just the simple weight of the gun in his weary arms. No matter. Back on the concrete, no more cold wood or cold iron in his hands, Harold felt better. And across from him, James was already reaching to retrieve the gun again. But from the back of the room, Raymond's upturned palm extended toward him. Wanting.
This wasn't begging, merely fairness. James got a turn. Harold got a turn. Therefore… James laced gazes with his cellmate, and Raymond knew those secret hazel eyes shared an understanding. Raymond just wondered if James, too, had searched the floor for three slips of straw. Only one chamber blocked the light passing through the cylinder. Just one. James didn't break eye contact as he laid the pistol on the ground, his full left palm spidered over it. After a hesitation, he slid it forward. A sound like teeth scraped across brick. The revolver skated past Raymond's left foot and through to where the lower part of his right leg should have been, catching the pistol before it thunked into the wad of thigh removed above the knee. He judged how long ago he'd had an intact right leg by how well he could remember the sweat. The lice were always bad but they didn't stray from your head. The sweat…The sweat was everywhere. Inexorable. Not the runny kind of sweat, like the juices of a blueberry pie bubbling up in the oven. But the painful, stinging kind, like the sparks of burnt grease. On his shoulders. His abdomen. The backs of his hands. By the time he had been given to a doctor, he had lost a lot of blood from his wrecked knee. He had even distantly thought they could pour some of the blood that leaked into his shoe back into his veins, but he worried that it might be dirty blood, bad blood, if his feet had been swimming in it. On the surgery table—a butcher's long aluminum workbench still flecked with dried cow's blood—lay Raymond with one electric bulb, a forty watt, above him. Nothing too bright on its own, but surrounding that one light bulb were dozens of reflectors, repurposed Klim powdered milk cans, arranged in a geometrical cone. The doctor's head bumped the lamp at one point, and it performed a dazzling twirl of lights, like the way a lovely woman's dress bells out when she spins, and Raymond lay there stroking the cold table with his fingertips, entranced upward, as the Polish doctor prodded and mumbled at his knee. Do you want to be a legless son or a dead hero? Raymond couldn't remember his answer, but he didn't think it would have mattered to the doctor. Just like it didn't matter to the revolver.
Harold had to turn his whole head to watch Raymond examine the gun, his swollen right eye just a throb of ungodly pain. But his left still worked fine, and that was good enough. Secretly—Harold knew the other two would mock this idea—he thought they could use the gun for escape. Why else would someone have snuck it into their cell? He figured they could hold it up to that square at the top of the door and threaten the next Nazi who passed. You better open up or you'll eat a bullet with your forehead! But elaborating that plan to James and Raymond would cause his tongue far too much pain. He would just wait for one of them to suggest it, then nod as enthusiastically as his aching head would allow. Until then, though, his mind kept skimming, wouldn't settle, kept rippling like the water in a glass from all the footsteps around the house. He kept thinking about his golden retriever back home, Dice. His warm body. Wet tongue. If Harold closed his eye and thought hard enough, he could just about imagine that pillowy amber fur curled against him. Dice, three-years old at the time, had been there when Harold had first met Betty outside the bowling alley on Lancaster Street. At school, he had seen her in the hall outside his locker a couple of times, chestnut hair, heart-shaped face, fine calves, but he'd never had a reason to talk to her. Only weirdos talked to girls they had no business talking to, and Harold was no weirdo. But walking down the sidewalk on Lancaster Street, a beautiful spring day, something Bing Crosby might sing about, he had spotted her in the middle of the block. Immediately, he loosened his grip on the leash to fuss with his hair, when all of a sudden Dice bolted forward after a passing milk truck. Using all his strength, Harold slowed Dice before they crashed into Betty. They came close, though, and she giggled, Who's walking who? and Harold, so fuddled by the energy to restrain his dog, the chance encounter with Betty Dawson, said the first thing that came to his mind: I once bowled a 216, you know? Which, putting a "two" in front of his favorite number, resulted in a complete lie. It took him three months of going steady before he finally admitted the deceit, the whole time, not once taking her bowling.
Raymond continued to run his index finger all over that dirty iron before he popped out the cylinder and spun it. Someone had treated this gun well, oiled it, cleaned it. The cylinder spun fast, all the holes seeming to blend into one. Blend into one except one. But before the cylinder rested, with a flick of his wrist, Raymond snapped it back into the gun. Outside with the other men, there had been a German guard named Lukas Gottschalk, a slender man with dark hair and a narrow chin. Lukas had been a piano teacher before the war ("if you don't like classical music, then you have never listened to Debussy"), and spoke relatively fine English. There was something different about Lukas: he held his rifle more loosely against his shoulder; he smiled resignedly when checking count. You actually like being a Nazi? Raymond had asked once as Lukas shared a sip of toasty coffee with him. They stood obscured, or so they thought, at the base of a wooden guard tower. Me? A Nazi? No, I just do what I have to. You understand. Raymond nodded. Sometimes I get a student who I know does not like piano. Does not like me. But he pretends; he moves his fingers and taps his foot. He plays the notes for his mother. He does not feel the music. You can play notes without playing music. Raymond let the revolver rest on his lap; he should really slide it back into the middle but couldn't persuade himself to do so. Not while there was still the question. After his talk with Lukas, he didn't see the guard for two and a half months. When Lukas finally returned, his dark hair was now cloud white, his slender frame slimmer. When Raymond approached him, Lukas appeared as though he saw the world through turned around binoculars. At the time, Raymond couldn't bring himself to ask what had happened, but now, given the chance, he would have had one question for Lukas: did they give you a revolver, too?
From the moment Raymond had extended his hand—No. From the moment Raymond had staggered in after his first interrogation, James had known what Raymond would do with the gun. Raymond's eyes hadn't given it away. His slumped posture hadn't revealed anything. James had known what Raymond would do with that gun, because James himself wanted to do the same. That's why he had given it to Raymond, wasn't it? Let him spend the temptation. Rid James of the choice. Each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire, John 1:14. The solitary confinement cell of Stalag Luft I did not welcome God. James did not welcome God. But all those Sunday mornings with his mother, with Marie ("you should have given me that shirt earlier, I could have ironed it!"), had made it instinct to turn to Him. Not a conscious choice. He should say something to Raymond. Say something.But what could he say when the cold was only beautiful in memory? What should he have said to Ed? Ed Hathaway, his friend. Those Jerrys had come out of nowhere. Had James been the one to lead them down that trail? Hadn't he said the trees would buffet the wind better this way? He couldn't remember. Didn't want to. But James had said something then. With all those Nazi's jabbering at them in that spiky-balled language. James had told Ed to take his hand out of his breast pocket. Take it out! But I just want to give 'em some smokes. Show 'em we're alright, you know. Just want to—
Raymond knew the question, but not the answer. The answer. But that's how it worked. You weren't supposed to know the answer. Just the question. They had kept him, James, and Harold alive because of a question. Who was planning it? What did they know? Those greedy prisoners at Stalag Luft III, tunneling and digging and tunneling and escaping, had cost those in Stalag Luft I the lives of forty-seven men, ("German honor will not be affronted!") had cost them their own escape tunnels when the Gestapo had raided their living blocks, torn up the floor, upended mattresses, found the bunk-bed slats structuring the crawlspaces that led to life with invisible walls, not fenced or concrete ones. The only thing left for the Gestapo to upturn was those behind it. Who were the leaders? The question asked before forty-seven men were shot in cold blood. The question asked every time Raymond was dragged into the officer's quarter, interrogated (whipped), thrown back in. But if they still wanted an answer, why give the three of them a pistol? Why? Why? Because those Nazi bastards already knew the answer. They knew it from the beginning when those skinny Krauts with a working knowledge of English crawled under their living blocks and eavesdropped on their conversations. So as Raymond understood, it was never about the answer. Always the question. The question. The question. The question. Like the one right now. Which of these six chambers held the .87 inches of steel that would enter through the lower part of his jaw and exit through the base of his brain?
Harold's tongue clung to the floor of his mouth like a corpse at the base of the ocean. Seeing Raymond now, the jitteriness of his eyes, the way the gun kept moving slightly into the air, then back to his lap, angled up to his shoulder, then back to his lap, Harold knew that he needed to swallow the pain and speak. If he hadn't been so stupid. The gun wasn't about escaping, at least not escaping in the way Harold had imagined. This was a method of escape. Even a fine one considering the circumstances, but never a good one. Like the way Harold had been forced to exit his bomber. Shot down, just like everybody else. Jumped out, just like everybody else. The only option for escape considering the circumstances. Not a good one, but he hadn't any others. Raymond still did. He had to have a dog like Dice or a girl like Betty Dawson, or at least he had to know that there were other brothers with guns still out there. Harold reached out his hand. It was not nearly as firm as he would have liked it, soggy from all the punches into his bicep and shoulder, but it was out there. Calling. Please, thought Harold. Calling. Please.
Raymond judged how long ago he had felt safe by how well he could remember the taste of real eggs. They always served you real eggs on the day of an actual mission, not that powdered, yellowy rubber. He'd had his Sunnyside up, greasy and hot. The B-24 he'd been flying in that day, named Bad Luck 13—an attempt at jinxing a jinx—had been making a bombing run on Velgast, a city about eight and half miles south of Barth where he was held now. Raymond was the plane's engineer, his aptitude as a millwright supposedly qualifying him for the role. They had still been ten miles outside of Velgast when the German fighters flew in, tattering every Allied plane in the sky. The vroom of engines and air were quickly replaced with the patter of flak, the sound of a Spanish god rolling his "r's." The men in the hull, Clarence Wiggs, navigator, Fred Brinson, bombardier, Craig Furman, left waist gunner, Arthur Powell, right waist gunner, and William Sternberg, tail gunner, lost their footing as the plane rocked and swiveled to evade the anti-aircraft fire. Within seconds, a bullet pierced the right-side window of the cockpit, splattering the co-pilot's, Todd Greeley's, blood and brain matter against the side of Captain Jeffrey Ragland's face. Three feet back in the engineer's jump seat, Raymond screamed horrifically, barely able to hear Captain Ragland shout at him to retrieve their chutes. Cold air whistled through the hole in the thick glass, Raymond's fingers numb as he fumbled at the clasp on his waist. Open the emergency hatches! shouted Ragland into the radio. Open the hatches and prepare to—A triplet of flak tore through the cockpit's front windshield, burrowing two bullets in Ragland's throat, another in his chest. Nausea and fear. Raymond finally undid his seatbelt and staggered to the back. Bright morning light flooded through the open bombing bay as Wiggs and Brinson tried to shovel out as much of the explosives as they could. The target was still miles out, but with leaking gasoline, a hull crammed with explosives, and an onslaught of flak, any errant spark would turn this hulk of metal into a careening fireball. Raymond stumbled to the parachutes attached to the netting on the side of the plane, but two steps away, a round of flak burst through the floor, rocketed through metal, then cabin air, then the skin behind Raymond's knee, then his femur, then his lateral condyle, then his patellar tendon, then the skin on the front of his knee, then more cabin air, then back through the side of the plane. Raymond lurched forward—pain like a jagged bullhorn jammed and twisted in his knee—and reached for a chute. Somehow, he grabbed one. Shaking, crying, he attached it to the clasps on his suit, when all of a sudden the vertical stabilizers were shot, and the nose of the plane began to rise, Raymond beginning to roll toward the tail. Through the flashes of his spinning world, he saw Fred Brinson and Arthur Powell get sucked out the bay without parachutes. William Sternberg and Clarence Wigg clung to the sides of the plane. Then Raymond tumbled over the cold, ridged metal and into the nothingness of morning sky. He fell…Fell…Emptiness. Then his fingers behaved automatically, reaching for the ring on the front of his jacket and pulling. In a righter state of mind, however, he would have remembered to wait for his body to slow down before he sprung the chute. Gravity could only pull the human body at a speed of 125 mph, but coming out of the plane like that, he was moving close to 165 mph. The wide canvas sail snagged the air and jerked every strap attached to Raymond's body with the force of a high-rise noose. He screamed. The already severed tendons in his knee ripped further. Warm blood pooled in his shoe; his unstitching leg swung like a hypnotist's fraying pendulum. All this, pain, unconsciousness, helplessness, as he delicately floated down to earth. If he just hadn't grabbed that parachute in the first place. If he had just tumbled out with Fred Brinson and Arthur Powell. The parachute handle in his memory slowly transformed into a revolver. A No. 2. In his hand. Raise. Pull the trigger. What's the answer? Where's the chamber?
The slight paling in James' right hand had alerted him first. Paling and then a subtle reddening. He wasn't sure if the light whiffs, difficult to distinguish form the other noxious odors permeating the cell, came from his hand or not. Sickeningly sweet. Like whiskey with a hint of rotted tomatoes. The lack of blood flow from the horrific breaks in his fingers could be causing it. The gangrene. The dying, decomposition of his flesh. He couldn't be sure (could you ever be?), but he believed it was gangrene. A disease that spread if untreated. Do you want to be an armless father or a wartime hero? In a sick way, James wanted Raymond to pull that trigger. He wanted his ears to crack with the shatter of gunpowder. He wanted to hear it in his head, not feel it in his head. Because if Raymond didn't do it, if someone didn't dispose of that steel bullet, James was afraid he might. Afraid. Marie, Sandra, Carolyn. Metal to metal could end it all. The pressure, the stress, the weight. Life was so heavy—so heavy—while death was just…a scrap of parchment? a swimming leaf? a fluttering snowflake? Damn the cold! The revolver in Raymond's hand continued to rise—an iron finger accusing the heavens; Harold's arm reached outward, bent at the elbow. Limp. And what did James do? The same thing he had done for Ed. The same thing he had done when they shot those forty-seven men. But there was only so much you couldn't claim to know. Outside this cell, there had been a night where the guards had thrown them some bones from a dead horse. Grass soup with horse bones for supper! And afterward, after their cramping stomachs had been lightly patted, the men had drawn cards to see who would get to suck the marrow from the bones. They had given James the task of fanning the deck. If only he hadn't seen the bottom card he would have never been tempted. But his sticky eyes led to a sticky palm, and he and two others got to crack open the bones and slurp up the fat. Ice on the ground. A jacket too few. Plenty of spoons but not enough bowls. Pull the trigger, Raymond. Pull the trigger! Please (James couldn't say it, but he could extend his hand) please, Raymond. Please.
Harold saw James outstretch his hand, and Harold knew that Raymond wouldn't do it with both of them pleading otherwise. He couldn't. Harold hadn't told anyone this, but he had never killed anyone in the war. He had never even fired his gun. Working up in that B-17 as a navigator (a job of guessing and estimation; "the compass is vibrating six degrees that way then ten degrees this way—we'll call it eight"), his responsibility was to direct people. Never to release the bombs. Never to pull a trigger. After bailing from the plane and diving through the clouds, his parachute got tangled in the lower limbs of a beech tree. The gray evening, the ratatat of gunfire, explosions in the sky. Harold rustled and fidgeted—the German shouts always seeming to get closer—but his release latch was tangled in the cording attached to his sail. Unexpectedly, though, on his forth yank, the lines released with a woosh and he fell ten feet, crashing hard on his left ankle. Pain torched the outside of his foot and up the side of his shin. But before he could even consider the injury, a rustle came from the nearby brush. The dirt was damp and smeared with decomposing leaves. Harold fumbled at the revolver attached to his belt and aimed it at the sound. He had no idea where his other men had landed, where he was supposed to get back to. A rustle in a different direction. Harold scooted along the matted leaves—the wet ground soaking through his pants—till his back struck the trunk of the tree. He would wait for the man to show himself. Ally or enemy? A moment later, his question was answered. The dim, setting sun illuminated a figure in a knee-length dark coat, a Nazi symbol emblazoned on a red band around his arm. With Harold's back against the tree, he was silhouetted, hidden. He had his pistol surreptitiously raised at the figure (pull the trigger, Harold! pull it!), but no matter how much he tried to steady himself, his hand was too shaky, the gun felt too heavy. He had a clear shot. An easy point and…But he couldn't; he just couldn't. And instead, he did the last thing he should have ever done. He cried. The German startled at the sound, but quickly approached Harold. When he came close, however, he bent and said, Friendly, friendly, and pulled a badge from his jacket. He was a Frenchman with a zippy, bee-like accent, pale blue eyes, red cheeks. Steamy tears rolled down Harold's face—his ankle, this war—and he did his best to smother his sobs. Up in that plane, away from it all, distanced, separate. Now down here…Can you walk? We need to move. They are coming. We must hurry. Harold stuffed a sob back down his throat. My ankle, mister. My ankle. The Frenchman was confused at first, but then quickly turned and pulled back Harold's cuff, examining the injury. How you say? Not broke. Okay. Can you move? Harold wasn't sure. He didn't even know if he could try. Flashlight beams bounced through the woods behind them. Here, we put you up against—No, cut in Harold. Go. Just go, mister. The Frenchman hesitated, glanced up at the approaching slash of lights, then crouched down to face Harold. Carefully, he kissed Harold on both cheeks, and mumbled something in French. He made eye contact, hesitated again, then hurried off in the other direction. Minutes later, the Nazis found Harold, back against the tree, hands in the air. And now, in this jail cell, Harold again had his hand in the air, but he was beginning to worry it wouldn't save him this time.
When your whole body's cold, you can hardly feel the tip of a revolver underneath your chin. Raymond's eyes had been closed for half a minute now. He couldn't stand their looks, their outstretched hands, this cell. He hoped he could ride this bullet somewhere else. Ride it like a hitchhiker going wherever the driver headed. Somewhere different. His finger was taut against the trigger. The cell was completely silent, soundless, noiseless, a vacuum. It took an intentional amount of effort to make a revolver's trigger fire. The finger had to overcome steady resistance until it finally tottered—a tenth of a second; a flexed wrist—before squeezing so gently, so airily the rest of the way. A world decided by finger strength. They say your life passes before your eyes but for Raymond, it was just a random smattering of images. The flickering of his bedroom, closet lamp, three, four times before it finally turned on. The squawk of crows perched along the power lines as he walked down Amiron Way. The bruised Granny Smith apples Tuck Nicolson would sell for half the usual price. In the darkness behind his eyelids, in the mute cell, he could hardly distinguish his legs—leg—from the floor. The only difference between concrete and bones? You didn't bury concrete in a mass grave of bodies when you were done with it. Raymond wondered if he should say something. Some kind of final word. Something for them to—
He pulled the trigger.
Raymond opened his eyes, his breath heavy. An answer to the question. Both men across from him said nothing. Hardly breathed. Raymond had needed to pull the trigger mid-thought if he had wanted it to happen. If he had waited and tried to—
(screamingscreamingscreaming)
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Raymond raggedly exhaled through his mouth and nose at the same time. Like a racing horse beaten and whipped but still losing. The gun rattled against his chin. Five answers now. Five answers to his one question. The cylinder had spun, spun, spun so fast, when he snapped it in. What were the odds? Was this a sign? Should he—
He half-dropped, half-slid slid the gun back to the middle of the floor—the sound of a silver lighter clattering, skidding along asphalt—and broke into tears. Snotty, coughing tears. His chest thrummed, his grimy hands clutched his face. Why him? Why did this have to happen to him? The earth had flipped and flipped like a coin until it finally hit and jangled with his face up. His face. Him. Raymond. He deplored pushing that revolver back into the middle of the floor. One more simple motion with his index finger. That's all it would have taken. But no. No, no, no. Raymond never begged for anything. Was it fear? Was it cowardice? Was there a difference? Raymond had no answers, just tears and pain and guilt and his dirty hands shielding his dirty face, these teardrops the closest thing to a wash that Raymond had in…how well did he remember that loathsome crunch of frosted grass?
Across from one another, Harold and James made eye contact. The revolver again lay on the floor between them. Slightly closer to Harold this time. But just slightly. Both men did nothing for a moment—neither looking at Raymond, neither looking at the gun. Just each other. James had the feeling of a hundred tentacles all wriggling inside of his stomach. It was right there. Right there. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall, Isaiah, 40:30. James had seen how Harold had been looking at the gun. The boy didn't even want it. Didn't understand it. Didn't realize that James had given more than his name, rank, serial number when they started to crank that second finger back toward the top of his hand. Why break the rest when they had the answers? Why? Because it was never about the answers. Raymond knew that. Knew that a man not interested in answers could ask questions forever. What about Marie, Sandra, Carolyn? …But what about James? Having your body rot away while you were still alive seemed a high price for a scrap of metal pinned to your chest. Maybe Ed hadn't really wanted to give those Jerrys some cigarettes. Maybe he had just been tired of the cold. Maybe he had just been tired of seeing so many brothers die. Tired of every question those mortars asked. Every question those machine guns pattered off. Maybe, in the end, James was just tired, too. And when you're tired, nothing sounds better than undisturbed sleep.
He lurched toward the gun.
Harold reacted automatically. Just like in baseball, you had to wait for the batter to swing first. You could try to anticipate it, try to guess. But in truth, you always had to react. And reaction always meant starting a second, a half of a second, a tenth of a second behind. James' left hand reached the revolver first, and Harold's hand landed on top of it. Warm skin on warm skin. Just like the way he had been transported to Stalg Luft I on that train. Hundreds of strange, fetid Americans all crammed into a single train car. Flesh against flesh. Cordwood bundled, strapped together to be pitched to the flames. No room to sit, to lay, no room for claustrophobia, human waste on the ground, cold and gummy in their pants, the desire to scream, to push your way to fresh air. To openness. Bodies so tight against one another that a man could be standing dead beside you and you wouldn't even notice. Betty had stopped sending letters four months before they'd taken Harold. His mother hadn't stopped but Betty had. The last letter not signed, Love Betty. Just Betty. Harold's fingers clamped down on James', neither able to move the gun at first. Flesh, flesh, pistol, concrete. But James quickly began tugging, inching the gun closer to him, Harold equally fervent, back leaned forward, blood thunking in his head, his fingers trying to slip around that iron. Then—maybe James' left hand was clumsy, maybe he miscalculated Harold's dexterity, maybe he just grew tired of fighting—Harold wrenched the gun away. To the side, Raymond continued to sob, to bray terribly, but James and Harold ignored him. Both locked gazes. Both asked each other the same question with their eyes. But before any answer could be given, Harold aimed the gun and fired.
An avalanche of sound crashed about the room, and in the same instant, glass shattered, the bullet traveling through the square cut at the top of their door and out through the window across from it. The ringing in their ears took a moment to subside, Raymond's own sobs quieting along with it. Then all three heard it.
The whistle of wind through the broken glass, the call of geese flying high above them, the shouting voices of Allied men.
Jake Teeny has a B.S. in psychology and philosophy and is currently working toward a doctoral degree in social psychology at Ohio State University. In his spare time (if such a mystical thing exists) he keeps a weekly blog, continues to write short stories, and is currently in the final stages of submitting his first full-length manuscript for publication. More of his writing can be found at jaketeeny.com.
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When it has revisited the emblematic methods of the Laguiole brand, TB Groupe, top selling knife maker in France, found the perfect harmony between tradition and modernity. The chef knives from the Laguiole Evolution® range seduce as much for their contemporary elegance as for their quality of cut. The full tang blades of these Laguiole Evolution® chef knives are made of very high quality stainless steel. Manufactured in the respect of an ancestral French know-how passed down through generations, the Laguiole Evolution® chef knives are equipped with handles which designs are perfectly ergonomic. High-end, the Laguiole Evolution® knives impress by their design, ergonomics, sharpness and durability.


Mike LeBlanc mixes energetic, toe tappin' Country grooves with modern day outlaw influences from Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard and Travis Tritt. Originally from Moncton, New Brunswick on Canada's east coast, LeBlanc has called Alberta his second home since 1999 but he's back to his roots to the province of New-Brunswick.
Currently working on a new EP for 2019, LeBlanc returns with a new single, "Rich Man Poor Man", inspired by the gap between social statuses he observed on the streets of Toronto following a Canada music week showcase in 2014. "we are all the same. I came to the conclusion that we all need money and things to survive in this world. But how you treat people is the true value of who you are.." says LeBlanc.
Working with a new team, the single is produced by Johnny Gasparic (Gord Bamford, George Canyon, Bobby Wills, Hey Romeo) and was recorded at MCC Recordings in Calgary. Leblanc was forced to put music on hold after nearly losing his oldest son in a very serious car accident on Father's Day 2015. Despite the trying circumstances he's had to endure, Leblanc is back in the circuit.
"Wether you like country music or not, if you have one show to see this summer, Mike LeBlanc is a must" -Benoit Ricard, Le Courant.


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For the past decade Ukraine has been in the midst of a political tussle, or metaphorically a 'Geopolitical Football Championship'. Though, in all fairness, it is hard to see it as a unified team. As it appears more like a political trophy for two major sides. On one side, the EU aims to win Ukraine to make sure its gas is supposedly more secured and to continue its enlargement policy for both rational and questionable reasons. On the other, Russia aims to make sure it achieves its goal of restoring 80% of the defunct USSR's market for likewise a myriad of reasons; with Ukraine being the final element in the formation, as Kazakhstan and Belarus are already sitting in the dugout. In this post we will explore this contest with fresh insight from this week's MGIMO experts' discussion, which could not be timelier as next month we could see a key playoff at the Eastern Partnership Summit in Vilnius. In all, Please Enjoy & Feel Free to Comment!
------- Personal Note -------
A Pleasant Surprise:
I want to begin by outlining my own stance in this contest. I am not in favour of Ukraine joining the EU for several reasons, with most of them outlined by the experts that participated in this meeting. However, I will limit my own views as I grasp this is a controversial issue that may daunt a portion of my readers and colleagues. Also, my reference to Ukraine being essentially a match ball in a geopolitical game is not unfounded as it reflects much of the media and what now appears as academic opinion. I do wish to stress that although a lot of jokes about the Ukrainian dilemma can be made (as at least after this prolonged political football contest it will be more ready for the World Cup play-off against France), but in reality my metaphors serve a creative purpose and bid to entice feelings. It is well and true that political elites see this as a compelling game, but the Ukrainian people have bore the burden and they are tired of feeling like a trophy.
I also wish to give a word of thanks to MGIMO as it ran a very professional debate with an excellent panel. I must be honest my hopes were not optimistic at first. As upon arriving I had a very strange parking experience. I am not a 'LADA' type driver, but MGIMO's car park would not be embarrassed if it was in Monaco. After parking next to a very serious looking madam in a Range Rover to my left and to the right a G-Wagon full of burly blokes [with my hunch saying they were not students], I made my way into the debate hall. As I walked into the room I was greeted by «The Ukrainian Week» magazine that is co-jointly published with «The Economist». As I flicked through the pages snippets like "Kremlin's Bluff", "New Attack from Russia" and "Neo-Imperial Rus" struck me. I was naturally apprehensive as it showed the bitter debate that encircled this topic. But, as the event started one of the speakers, Dr. Andreas Umland, outlined that he intentionally brought this 'mag' to stress the extreme nationalistic tendencies manifesting in parts of Ukraine; with much of it being exaggerated by vested interests. At that point I felt more assured that this meeting will not end up a one sided affair of bashing either party.
------- Dr. Andreas Umland (Kiev-Mohyla Academy) -------
Association Agreement – A Mere "Associative Membership"
If we recall the push for Ukraine's integration into the EU begun in 2008, due to a string of events like the UEFA Football Championship in Ukraine, its WTO entry and the Russo-Georgian War. Then pro-West President Viktor Yushchenko believed that these events would endow real impetus. Since '08 Ukrainian diplomats even tried to include a written membership clause into the agreement, but rhetoric aside, EU has resisted as the feeling of momentum was not mutual. Umland did not wish to sound insultive, but he outlined that the EU just does not see Ukraine as a vital enough player to pull for its entry. In fact, EU does not even view the association agreement as that critical, it is mostly the mass media that has exaggerated the gravitas of November's meeting. Even if signatures strike the paper there will be a long ratification process by all the EU members and Ukraine - which will likely see new elections beforehand. In essence, there are a lot of likely decisions or calls in the coming years that could derail the process. Also 90% of all free trade benefits and 50% of political concessions, what ever these are in the vague EU system, will only kick in after all members ratify the Vilnius documents. Even then, it will not mean membership as that will require EU's Article 49 to be met. Still, this agreement is more vigorous than others of the same type signed previously by the EU. If we look at the Balkan's association agreements they did not go as far nor have as many preconditions. Moreover, these also did not include membership clauses yet many states from the area joined the EU meaning that it is a stepping stone towards entry if all goes uninterrupted.
Slicing & Dicing Ukraine:
It is dangerous to talk about state's sovereignty or notions of splitting it. However, as Kiev based Umland points out there are a lot of people in the West that either see Ukraine as just a part of Russia or as too internally divided. Even some Ukranians call for a split, so that the perpetual problem of two souls in one body can be resolved. But even hypothetically, this is problematic as there are no clear boundaries. The lack of boarders increases the chance of civil war that will unevenly divide Ukraine into two if events in the future unfold unfavourably. For example, if Russia squashes the association or the more progressive membership talks by imposing economic sanctions, which will make pro-Russia citizens take up arms. Umland sees Russia's control over Ukraine as too strong as it can "suffocate" its smaller brother via its economic might. At this point he sensed a rise of tension in the room, so he remarked that he was not russophobic, but he did publish a report on this issue to his colleagues in Brussels so that the EU can create contingency plans. He believes that by having such plans it could avert a serious and devastating crisis. In response to these views a person from a state ministry and an ex-European Council affiliate, took to the microphone from the midst of the hall. He gave a long and interesting speech, but lambasted Umland by a phrase that clearly hit a nerve - as comments about sanctions were deemed as "academic propaganda". I will leave my readers to decide whether you agree, but I tend to swing towards the notion that Umland's comments were incorrect as Russia would not shoot itself in the foot in such a way as to undermine its overall trade with the West. Also, by writing to Brussels it only further pushed EU-Russian relations in opposite directions. I would encourage all to refer to my post on social sciences, as this is an example of what I talked about.
Open Buffet or "New Model":
The current agreement could serve as a model for Moldavian, Georgian and even Armenian aspirations to join the EU. Umland believes that Armenia may not be entirely lost to the Russian Customs Union, even after it rejected moves from the EU (See: Euractiv, 2013). It could even be a model for Central Asia. I have to come in at this stage and say this is getting somewhat absurd as we know that this area has always been a burden on the USSR, so why the EU or EU taxpayers will want such enlargement is very questionable. No gas prowess of the Central Asia, which as my earlier post outlines is owned by China anyway, makes up for the huge issues that will be incurred by the union. On the other hand, if Moscow's Central Asian populace will flock to the EU instead and free up some of the traffic problems and high apartmental prices, I may reconsider my stance.
Is Turkey On The Table?
Still, participation of Central Asian states in the EU may not be as radical as Turkey's, which Umland sees bearing fruits after original attempts all the way back to the 1960s. He does anticipate that such membership will result in huge changes in the EU's structure, mentality and in fact nature. As Turkey is both an Islamic and Asian state, plus it will be the biggest member in the EU with a huge population and quickly growing economy. Thus, if Turkey joins the EU, the union will need a new agreement in place as reforms will be needed, which is admittedly risky, but EU's integration has always been about political risk and crisis as this academic points out. If we recall the union has been built in crisis, as one took place, reforms occured and that is how the body has moved forward.
What About Russia Behind the Table?
Umland says that although this seems utopian now we could see Russia joining the EU in the next 20 to 30 years. At the end of the day, if EU adapts to Turkey, why not to Russia? I will add here personally, I think this is incredibly utopian and if Turkey does join it will only push Russia further away, that is if the EU still continues to exist as we know it today. A further reason why I think Russia will not join the EU is because of the sovereignty issue. Umland does not connect the dots, but he agrees that every EU member voluntarily and unavoidably looses some of their sovereignty upon joining as it is a result of any union participation. For instance, if Ukraine ratifies this accord it will need to create a new council where 50% of the members will need to be from the EU. If we now think about Russia, it has always prided on being an independent state. If we reach a time when Russia asks for a EU membership, quite frankly a civil war seems more likely then, than in the Ukraine's case discussed earlier.
------- Dr. Oleg Barabanov (MGIMO) -------
Presidential Legacy Factor & A Trojan Horse:
All presidents, especially in the 2nd term, aim to leave a mark on history by doing something that will be remembered and in the case of the Russian President Vladimir Putin, the situation is no different. As Barabanov recalls, Putin has famously once described the collapse of USSR as the biggest geopolitical incident of the 20th century and it is his ambition to restore the positive aspects of that union. Still, it is crucial to stress that Ukraine is not a unique aim according to Barabanov, as Russia's geopolitical aims are vast - as with most great powers. As a result, Barabanov adds that Russia's goal insofar as Ukraine is geopolitical, but we still should not forget that it would not be pursued unless it also made economic sense. Interestingly, according to Barabanov it would be a welcoming sign for those advocating equality and more fairness if Ukraine actually joined the Eurasian Union, as Russia's power will be more diluted with a new member. It would essentially be a trojan horse in the direct dominance of Russia, but it will make the union more progressive. In all, Barabanov argues that as closer Ukraine will move towards the EU, the more of a rift there will be with Russia, but it will never get to an extent of explosive Georgian-Russian relations.
Image – You Just Ain't Got It:
Barabanov makes an interesting argument, which actually mirrors what has been said recently by the "PR guru" of the Russian oligarch Roman Abramovich (WR Forum, 2013). Basically, Ukraine's choice has not been mostly about political or economic factors, but it was based on image and PR. Russia is loosing the PR battle to EU and NATO in most cases as our PR is not 'sexy'. In 20 years Russia has not been able to turn around and wipe off its USSR's stains. I am going to personally add here by saying that it will be interesting to see if Russia's recent approach to the Syrian crisis has helped its image, as we cannot deny that its less hawkish conduct could have struck with many. As certain powers from the West have lost touch with wars that have been deemed illegitimate.
EU's Motive – Politics, Politics & Politics + 'Glowing' Economics:
Barabanov argues bluntly, that if we abandon our political alignments and look at reality, then we must admit that Brussels wants Ukraine for almost entirely political reasons. If it attains its goal, it will be a sizeable diplomatic coup which will undermine Russian diplomats in what has been seen as their part of the woods. At the end, EU has always keenly jumped on criticism of what in their eyes was a berry picking bear, but this could be the biggest jump yet.
To a distant secondary degree the EU is motivated by economical factors as Ukraine does have a large market with nearly 45 million people. However, it will be specifically the Poles who will see the biggest returns due to their heavy vested interests in this country – a view which was supported by one of the polish visiting speakers. Unfortunately, for Ukraine, association agreement and even full entry will open up the floodgates to much more competitive and mature EU businesses that could easily take on their weaker counterparts. For example, Ukrainian metallurgy will take the biggest hit. The nuclear industry will also see a lot of development as the association agreement will allow EU to increase its presence in Ukraine's nuclear waste disposal industry. The Chernobyl Zone may once again grip the headlines as the EU is considering an option of dumping its nuclear waste in this area. Again, this will be a political blow to Russia, as one of the major nuclear players in Europe, Rosatom, will be less likely to enter the market with more preferential terms being granted to French companies; as we all know that business is conducted via formal, but also less formal mechanisms that can facilitate this. At least lightning never strikes twice in the same place, so a bit more waste cannot hurt Chernobyl, but I shall leave that for my readers to decide!
Future Membership Uncertainty is Risky Business by the EU:
It was a risky calculation not including a clause in the association agreement about the potential Ukrainian membership. If we recall when EU made a remark about it ending its expansion after the Croatian entry, it stirred regional political turmoil. The entire Balkans split into EU and Non-EU members, with the latter being cherry picked up by other major regional powers. Turkey, which then also felt mistreated about its party invite, even spoke about restoring its regional area of influence in neo-imperial style with Ottoman boarders – as its Foreign Minister said. So today we are still faced with a major question: who is more dominant in the Balkans, Brussels or Ankara? Also, we may see a similar situation with Brussels and Moscow.
Oh, Almost Forgot…
The fate of Tymoshenko according to Barabanov and Umland depends on the EU and Ukrainian deal, as to sign the agreement she will need to be freed. In all, both Umland and Barabanov predict that all will be signed in November and Tymoshenko will get a get out of jail card. However, the former scholar expands by adding that Tymoshenko will also become a viable contender in the 2015 Ukrainian Presidential Elections. Also, perhaps to no surprise if there was an election now Russia would not back Yanukovich, who it previously pinned its hope to restore the two nations' relationship. In essence, what we will see is Yanukovich being marginalised as he will not see support from either Russia or the West, as Tymoshenko will pick up the battle standard to push for EU.
------- Concluding Remarks – Cheeky Smile Says It All -------
In the opening first few minutes MGIMO's head-chair, Tamara Shashikhina, said that everyone hopes for cooperation between the EU, Ukraine and Russia, however as she said the words I could not ignore seeing the pacing smile across the faces of the panel. I think everyone on the panel and the audience in the hall had their reservations and this tournament is far from over. If we will see this agreement signed next month, this will not be the final game, by a long shot. However, unlike in a game of football, the Ukranian audience are unlikely to enjoy watching any more of the action, they are tired and hope for a solution, which ever way it goes.
In all, there are many opinions surrounding Ukraine and many of them are conflicting, but we must be rational and calm without intense nationalistic tendencies like the ones exhibited in the magazine mentioned at the start, as it only ruins the entire game. At this point I would suggest having a look at my older post over at Oil&Gas Eurasia, which was also based on this issue and with similar style, but it focused more on the energy aspects, which unfortunately and surprisingly were not discussed this week. I want to also recommend having a look at other RIAC bloggers, although we may not all agree politically, we must still be objective, which is why I recommend looking at Martin Lukac's and Andras Radnoti's analysis.
Thank You for Reading & I hope You've Enjoyed this Post!
Igor Ossipov
M.A. University of Kent & Higher School of Economics, Oil/Diesel Broker and RIAC Blogger.
Blog: Casing Point
OTHER RECORDS
Energy Outlook 2035 - BP
Breaking the Ice: The Northern Sea Route
The Arctic Frontier - Armed with Cooperation
Gas, Conference, Russia, E.U., Central Asia, Turkey, Geopolitical Mistrust, Social Sciences, Vested Interests, August War 2008, Media Bias, USSR, Association Agreement, Ukraine, Tymoshenko, MGIMO,
Poll conducted
Korean Peninsula Crisis Has no Military Solution. How Can It Be Solved?
Demilitarization of the region based on Russia-China "Dual Freeze" proposal
Restoring multilateral negotiation process without any preliminary conditions
While the situation benefits Kim Jong-un's and Trump's domestic agenda, there will be no solution
Armed conflict still cannot be avoided
Stonger deterrence on behalf of the U.S. through modernization of military infrastructure in the region
Toughening economic sanctions against North Korea
TOPICS REGIONS PROJECTS EXPERTS
PUBLICATIONS LIBRARY COMMUNITY
ANALYSIS AND COMMENTS THEMES
© 2017 RIAC | All rights reserved
The opinion of publishing author not always coincides with the opinion of editorial staff. The use of materials of RIAC on electronic resources is permitted only by specifying the name of the author, the status of "RIAC expert" and the presence of active and open for indexing hyperlinks to russiancouncil.ru. NPMP RIAC does not grant the right of publication to third-party resources photos and illustrations placed on the portal russiancouncil.ru with the exception of photos and illustrations published in the official account of NP RIAC on Flickr.com. To use materials for printed publications, please, contact via welcome@russiancouncil.ru
Публикации Библиотека Ридеры Досье Дайджесты Стажировки
Новости Публикации Библиотека Досье Эксперты Проекты Сообщество
О Совете Ридеры Досье Эксперты Образовательные проекты

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


Health insurance is a type of insurance policy where the insurer pays for the insured's medical and surgical expenses. How payment is administered varies depending on the individual plan. For instance, with some plans, the insurance company pays your medical expenses directly to the provider. Other plans require the insured to pay for the whole amount out-of-pocket and then get a reimbursement from the insurance company. In medical insurance terms, the word 'insured' is used to refer to policy owner or the person covered under the health insurance plan. The word provider, on the other hand, is used to refer to the health care practitioner, doctor, hospital, clinic or pharmacy.
Everybody needs coverage- sooner or later. The affordable health care act makes it compulsory for every American citizen to carry some form of health coverage, after all. Failure to carry the mandated level of health coverage will result in penalties. At some point in your life, you will need medical attention. In the United States, there is no universal health care coverage. Healthcare coverage is sold privately by insurance companies, and in many cases, it is included in the employment package as a working bonus.
How Does Health Coverage Work?
With the costs of healthcare skyrocketing, coverage has become a necessity. It will help you cater for the expenses culminating from getting preventative care, acquiring prescription drugs, hospital stays, physician appointments and so on. Before your policy kicks in, there is a certain amount of out-of-pocket amount you have to pay towards your medical bill referred to as the deductible. After that, you will be required to pay 20% of the total costs (coinsurance) till you reach your policy's maximum out-of-pocket costs.
What Are The Different Types Of Healthcare Plans?
Each of the above coverage types comes with a unique set of advantages and disadvantages. One of the major benefits of health coverage makes sure that you get the necessary medical help when you need it instead of worrying about whether you have the ability to deal with the bills.


If Bible characters won Oscars, she would win Best Actress in a Supporting Role.
She's in soooo many scenes, but never takes center stage. She is content to play her part. Intriguing, sometimes stormy, ubiquitous — yet in the background. She's in Mark 1, Luke 5, Matthew 15, and John 21. She is always there, prompting the narrative along. She is a beautiful accompaniment to the story, but never the star.
I met her last week, and she was beautiful. She was breathtaking. I was star-struck to be in her presence. I nearly trembled.
Her name is the Sea of Galilee, a star we recognize but to whom we never give full credit.
And there, splashing about upon her still, strong surface, a couple dozen boats. Fisherman and tourists simultaneously soak her in. For some, the Sea of Galilee means livelihood. For others, a single visit will mark their memories forever.
Your livelihood or your daydreams — she is worthy of both.
Jesus dictated to her waves and taught from her surface. Simon Peter fished her depths to scratch out a living and walked upon her waters. She was criss-crossed during the ministry of Christ dozens of times. She saw it all.
When I sat in the boat, guided by a man named David who looked the part of a first century fisherman, I was surprised to see that I could see every edge of the Sea. Over there is where the pigs spilled over the cliff, invaded by demons. That's the hillside where the Feeding of the 5,000 took place. There's Magdala, home to Mary. And there's Capernaum, over there, home to Peter & Co.
It's visible — all of it — from the boat on the Sea. In that way, her size is unimpressive. I thought she would be bigger, what with the events she played host to. But she's manageable. Digestible. You can take it all in from a single, small boat in the middle. How can a body of water be both underwhelming and overwhelming, all at once?
That's what actresses in a supporting role do, of course.
Jesus is the star of this show. The Sea plays a respectable wing man, but Jesus is running point. In that way, we are all the Sea. Maybe that explains my affection for her. Maybe we're a lot alike, she and I.
Without Jesus, we're at best a recreational lake. Our size is unimpressive. We're insignificant.
If Jesus doesn't do what He does, the Sea of Galilee is the Sea of Chinnereth, mentioned once in the Book of Numbers and nothing you and I would ever care to visit. If you needed a place to water ski, it'd be a decent choice. Otherwise, who cares?
But Jesus did what He did. He walked on the water. He pulled in a record catch when the pros couldn't get a bite. The Sermon on the Mount, countless miracles, signs and wonders — it all happened on her shores. Read the Gospels and you'll conclude that someone with a decent arm could throw a rock into the water from where Jesus did all this stuff. His ministry was centered here, largely. Jesus told the waves to shut up, and they did. When he rose from the dead and came to see his old friends, Peter got so excited he swam from his boat to the shore to have breakfast. Jesus has a way of doing that — he takes a mediocre scene and elevates it to new heights. He excites.
He takes a nameless, faceless, insignificant lake and turns it into one of the most moving places on earth.
He takes nameless, faceless, insignificant fisherman and turns them into biblical heroes.
The Sea was happy to play host to it all.
Like the Sea, may I simply be a platform on which Jesus can do what He does. May He walk upon me, teach from me, and fish my depths. May I surrender a record catch. May I bear witness to His wonders and, like the Sea, may I remain content to stay in the background.
We are the Sea. Our definition, our value, our purpose comes not from our shores or our villages or our waves, but from the Man who instructs us to be still, to sit back, and to enjoy the show.


text:
Apple iPhone XS Max vs Honor View30
Apple iPhone XS Max Honor View30
Apple iPhone XS Max Honor View30 -
iPhone XS Max View30 -
Tk 122,500 Tk Upcoming -
GSM / CDMA / HSPA / EVDO / LTE GSM / HSPA / LTE / 5G -
HSDPA 850 / 900 / 1700(AWS) / 1900 / 2100, CDMA2000 1x EV-DO & TD-SCDMA HSDPA 800 / 850 / 900 / 1700(AWS) / 1900 / 2100 -
LTE band 1(2100), 2(1900), 3(1800), 4(1700/2100), 5(850), 7(2600), 8(900), 12(700), 13(700), 17(700), 18(800), 19(800), 20(800), 25(1900), 26(850), 27(800), 28(700), 29(700), 30(2300), 38(2600), 39(1900), 40(2300), 41(2500) LTE band 1(2100), 2(1900), 3(1800), 4(1700/2100), 5(850), 7(2600), 8(900), 12(700), 17(700), 18(800), 19(800), 26(850), 34(2000), 38(2600), 39(1900), 40(2300), 41(2500) -
HSPA 42.2/5.76 Mbps, LTE-A (3CA) Cat9 450/50 Mbps, EV-DO Rev.A 3.1 Mbps HSPA 42.2/5.76 Mbps, LTE-A, 5G (2+ Gbps DL) -
- 5G band 1(2100), 3(1800), 41(2500), 77(3700), 78(3500), 79(4700); SA/NSA -
Super AMOLED capacitive touchscreen, 16M Colors IPS LCD capacitive touchscreen, 16M colors -
6.5 inches, 102.9 cm2 (~84.4% screen-to-body ratio) 6.57 inches, 104.2 cm2 (~84.5% screen-to-body ratio) -
1242 x 2688 pixels, 19.5:9 ratio 1080 x 2400 pixels, 20:9 ratio (~401 ppi density) -
456 ppi pixel density - -
12MP, f/2.4, 52mm, 1.0m, OIS, PDAF, 2x optical zoom 40MP, f/1.8, 27mm (wide), 1/1.7", PDAF, Laser AF
8MP, f/2.4, 80mm (telephoto), 1/4", PDAF, Laser AF, OIS, 3x optical zoom
8MP, f/2.4, 16mm (ultrawide), no AF -
7MP, f/2.2, 32mm 32MP, f/2.0, 26mm (wide), 1/2.8", 0.8µm
8MP, f/2.2, 17mm (ultrawide) -
Quad-LED Dual-tone Flash, HDR (photo/panorama) LED flash, HDR, panorama HDR -
[email protected]/30/60fps, [email protected]/60/120/240fps, HDR, stereo sound rec. [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], (gyro-EIS) [email protected] -
Front/back glass, stainless steel frame Glass front, glass back, aluminum frame -
Space Gray, Silver, Gold Ocean Blue, Midnight Black, Icelandic Frost, Sunrise Orange -
September, 2018 February, 2020 -
Available. Released September, 2018 March, 2020 -
iOS 12 Android 10.0; Magic UI 3 -
Apple A12 Bionic HiSilicon Kirin 990 (7 nm) -
64GB, 256GB, 512GB 6GB, 8GB -
4GB 128GB -
Non-removable Non-removable Li-Po -
Wi-Fi 802.11 a/b/g/n/ac, dual-band, Hotspot Wi-Fi 802.11 a/b/g/n/ac, dual-band, Wi-Fi Direct, hotspot -
3D Face ID, accelerometer, gyro, proximity, compass, barometer Fingerprint-side-mounted, accelerometer, gyro, proximity, compass -
- Fast battery charging 40W (70% in 30 min) -


The installation data collected during an install is in proprietary format so I can't easily search through it. I would like to be able to search through all the installations for a particular file so I can uninstall something which added spyware, virus, PUP. Please make this function available to the user.


Nottingham Trent University is to invest £10.3 million to establish further facilities devoted to science, technology, engineering and mathematics (STEM) disciplines.
This latest investment will enable us to further innovate in our curricula delivery, in partnership with business and industry.
The centre, which is being established at the University's Clifton campus, will involve a new build and refurbishment of existing facilities and is expected to be completed during the 2016-17 academic year.
The announcement comes as it was confirmed that the University would receive £5 million – the maximum bid for any university – as part of the Higher Education Funding Council for England's (HEFCE) STEM teaching capital funding. The University will provide the remainder of the project cost.
The government funding is intended to ensure that universities respond to the increase in demand for STEM studies, by developing facilities that will support an increased flow of highly employable graduates into industry.
As well as enabling students to work across the range of STEM subjects, ISTEC will allow them to engage in more technical, teamworking and industry-relevant activities, helping to increase their skills and knowledge for industry.
The plan is to also create a seamless transition between university learning and employment, improving students' employability and further enhancing industry-university collaborations.
ISTEC will also offer bespoke outreach facilities for science engagement, such as an inspiring showcase of students' project work.
Nottingham Trent University Pro Vice-Chancellor, Professor Yvonne Barnett, said: "The investment from HEFCE is in recognition of the growth in number over recent years of students studying our high-quality and industry-relevant science and technology undergraduate and postgraduate courses.
"This latest investment will enable us to further innovate in our curricula delivery, in partnership with business and industry, and to provide study opportunities for more students to enhance their skills and experience for employability."
Vince Cable, Secretary of State for the Department for Business, Innovation and Skills, said: "Inspiring young people to take up STEM courses is vital to the success of the UK economy. This investment will mean world-class teaching facilities to build tomorrow's skilled workforce."
Madeleine Atkins, Chief Executive of HEFCE, said: "This funding is badly needed by universities and colleges to meet the increased interest in science and engineering. It will also ensure that students benefit from state-of-the-art equipment and laboratories, and are thereby equipped for the workplace of the 21st Century.
"I am particularly pleased to see successful projects across all parts of the country, and the degree to which institutions are focusing their investment to support their local economies and key industry partners."
HEFCE is investing £200 million, shared between 73 universities and colleges, towards STEM teaching capital projects during 2015-16.


Unique Bowling Experience unlike any you've seen before!
Let us help you be a hero for your group! We guarantee your company, organization, or private gathering will have an extremely fun enjoyable experience!
Below is a list of some popular types of parties/events you can have and share with your friends, family, co-workers, and more at Humdingers.
Surprise Party! EZ PZ in our awesome Gathering Room. They'll never know a thing until he/she walks through the doors! With total audio/vidio presentaton.
Company Team Building Event – Let us plan and coach this for you!
BIZ Lunch – Regular time lunch with some irregular fun!
Fill out the information below and our reservations office will get back to you pronto.
Or please come see what all the fuss is about. We promise you it'll be a humdinger!
How long is an average BD party?
Birthday Parties are 2 hours on average.
How long is an average Group Event?
Group Events are from 2-5 hours long, usually about 3 hours, although events can be tailored to your group's requests such as short & long lunch events from 1-2 hours.
How much deposit do you require for a party or event?
Birthday parties are usually 50% of the total. Company and group packages are the cost for the minimum amount of guests required.
Contact us ASAP once you know you need to change the date. We will work the best we can to accommodate you.
Can I bring in any food?
We do NOT permit outside food. For Kosher or special dietary foods, please sepak with our Event Planner as we have options avaliable. We have provided an extra food menu, should you wish to order anything additional. Additional food orders must be ordered 4 days before the party.
We do supply you with fun birthday party ware. However, if you have a certain theme in mind you may bring that in. We recommend bringing in your party ware before the party so we can set it up. Latex balloons are NOT allowed. You MAY bring in Mylar balloons. Please, no confetti!
Who is my contact the day of the event?
The Party and Event Manager.
If you cancel at least 2 full weeks in advance, we will return your deposit in full. Since we cannot re-book your space so close to the party, it is possible you may lose your deposit if you cannot reschedule. If we are able to re-book your time slot however, we will return your deposit.
What happens if I'm late for my party?
Not being late is the best policy. However, emergencies do arise, weather, etc. Parties are very well coordinated and timing is critical as it affect many people and other bookings. If you're not late by more than 20 minutes or so, the first decision would be to cut that time off the party and make up some time by starting right away (The staff working the party cannot stay later unless they are able, in which case there is a charge for their additional time as well as all support staff for the party – kitchen, cleaning, management).
Will my lanes for my party or group be together?
Is there a minimum for birthday parties?
We require at least a 10 child minimum to host a party.
What is the maximum number you can accommodate for birthday parties?
While there are sometimes maximums due to other center activities, we usually can accommodate as many as the space will allow.
If we book now, can we drop our head count as we get closer to the event, since we do not know how many guests we will have since we do not have RSVP's yet?
Please consult our Party Reservations Office for more info.
When do I need to let you know the final head count?
Please call us 4 days prior to your party with the final quest count. This will allow us enough time to ensure enough cake, adequate table size and the number of lanes is correct. The number of children confirmed for the day is the number paid that day unless the number of the children increases. We also recommend bringing a list of the expected quests and shoe sizes for your host on the day of your party. Please note: There is a 10 child minimum on all parties.
What is included in my party?
Two personal party hosts, Paper goods, Set-up & Clean-Up, Free Humdingers Classic logo T-shirt for the birthday child.
We book parties Monday – Sunday.
We recommend booking a minimum of 2 weeks in advance.
Due to events, having been scheduled in advance, times cannot be changed on the day of your party. Please be prompt.
Due to unforeseen circumstances or delays we may reserve the right to change or substitute the scheduled order of events.
A 50% deposit is required at the time of booking. Cash or credit cards only.
Arrive 15 minutes before guests.
Party barn in not private and may other parties in room with you. Don't worry, we try to keep activities and eating as separate as possible.
Seating is for the children. We will try to accommodate the adults, but no guarantees!
Confirmations must be made 5 days in advance to guarantee the correct number of lanes & food.
The number of children confirmed for is the number paid unless number's increase the day of the party.
Payment is due upon arrival by credit or cash, sorry no personal checks.
Other than a special cake or cupcakes, no outside food or beverages are permitted in the facility.
Latex balloons are not allowed however Mylar balloons are ok.
Your party will include two personal hosts to guide the kids from activity to activity.
Refund/Cancellation Policy: (Includes weather related issues): Your deposit is refundable up to 14 days in advance of your reserved party time. No penalty to reschedule, pending availability.


text:
Paul Van Steenberge (Smeerebbe-Vloerzegem, 1 april 1884 - Gent, 9 augustus 1962) was een Belgische bierbrouwer, hoogleraar en politicus.

Levensloop
Hij was de zoon van Victor Van Steenberge (1848-1930) en Eugenia De Wandel (1849-1928). Victor Van Steenberge was molenaar. Hij was ook gemeenteraadslid en schepen in Smeerebbe-Vloerzegem en na de gemeentelijke fusie van 1913 in Geraardsbergen.

Paul Van Steenberge was gehuwd met Margaretha Schelfaut (1889-1971) de dochter van Jozef Schelfaut, brouwer en eigenaar van brouwerij De Peer in het Oost-Vlaamse Ertvelde. Deze brouwerij was in 1874 opgericht door Jean-Baptist De Bruin en Angelina Schelfaut, de oom en tante van Jozef.

In 1922 nam Van Steenberge de leiding van de brouwerij over. Hij stond aan het hoofd van het bedrijf tot zijn overlijden in 1962. Dit was een periode van expansie die door de opkomst van het pils-bier wordt gekenmerkt. Hij veranderde ook de naam in Brouwerij Bios. Hij werd als brouwer opgevolgd door zijn zoon Jozef (1915-2011) en daarna door zijn kleinzoon die eveneens Paul heet.

Paul Van Steenberge was daarnaast ook ingenieur scheikunde en hoogleraar microbiologie aan de Gentse brouwerijschool Sint-Lievens en aan de Rijkslandbouwhogeschool (later de Landbouwfaculteit van de Universiteit Gent). Tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog verbleef hij in Nederland en werkte in het Laboratorium voor Microbiologie in Delft. Zijn collega-professor Martinus Willem Beijerinck was een oud-student van Louis Pasteur.

Naast zijn beroepsbezigheden was Paul Van Steenberge actief in de politiek. In 1921 werd hij voor de Katholieke Partij verkozen tot gemeenteraadslid in Ertvelde en trad daarmee in de voetsporen van zijn schoonvader Jozef Schelfhaut, die raadslid was van 1887 tot 1921. In 1922 werd Van Steenberge burgemeester en bleef in functie tot 1929. In 1921 werd hij eveneens verkozen voor de provincieraad van Oost-Vlaanderen, om er van 1929 tot 1946 te zetelen in de bestendige deputatie. Daarna was hij van 1946 tot 1954 namens de CVP voor het arrondissement Gent-Eeklo lid van de Belgische Senaat. Door zijn politieke functies was hij vaak afwezig en had zijn echtgenote de dagelijkse leiding van het bedrijf.

Hoogleraar aan de Universiteit Gent
Belgisch scheikundige
Belgisch senator
Bierbrouwer
Burgemeester van Ertvelde
Gedeputeerde van Oost-Vlaanderen
Belgisch ingenieur
Belgisch ondernemer
CVP-politicus

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


The director is best known for his action packed car campaigns and for his work on the critically acclaimed video game Dark Souls II. With over a decade of experience working on three continents, Pacciani has cultivated a global roster of clients including Mercedes, Audi, BMW, Ferrari, Nike, Toyota, Nissan, Jeep, Subaru, Honda and Samsung. His works have garnered assorted honors including a UNESCO award, as well as showcased at the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London. Prior to his directing career, Pacciani developed a strong foothold in design, animation, and visual effects. Those skills allowed him to establish his own signature look through blending digital technology and high-octane visuals with cinematic storytelling.
Chromista was founded in 2013 by Academy Award nominated director Aronofsky (Black Swan, The Wrestler) and partners Franklin, Sandy Haddad and Ted Robbins. Pacciani rounds out a roster that includes, Aronofsky, Xavier Mairesse, Marcelo Burgos, Kasra Farahani, Daniel Portrait, Rory Kelleher and Josh Cole.


Started working in glass in 1997 at the California College of Arts and Crafts (now CCA) in Oakland, CA.
Michelle Knox is originally a New Jersey native. She relocated to the San Francisco Bay Area in 1997, where she attended and graduated from The California College of the Arts in 2000 with a Bachelors of Fine Art, emphasizing in Glass.
For more than 15 years, Michelle has studIed art and specifically glass making at internationally recognized glass institutes such as Public Glass, Urban Glass, Bullseye Glass, Penland School of Crafts and Pilchuck Glass School.
Ms. Knox has studied under many notable artists like Clifford Rainey, Pamina Traylor, Therman Statom, Deb Cerzedsco, Silvia Levenson and most recently Gene Koss at Tulane University where she received her Master of Fine Arts degree on full scholarship in 2011.
Some recent venues for her work have included the Oakland Museum and The Museum of Craft and Design, along with numerous other fine art galleries nationwide. Michelle's work always upholds a sensual level of beauty while engaging the viewer in a corporal way.
Michelle currently lives and works in Oakland, CA and teaches at The Crucible Art Center.
This entry was posted in 1990s Artists, Artist Bio, California Artists, Conference Presenters by dale_beevers. Bookmark the permalink.


4.75 0.00 Big anthemic pop with rock flares. The lead vocalist's soulful voice is a powerhouse.
4.50 0.00 Like RJD2, The Avalanches and Kraak & Smaak, Alice samples a mix of old school hip hop, bright brass and head bobbing drum samples. She mixes in live vocals and bass during live shows.
4.50 0.00 A big brass-heavy modern instrumental band. Their songs range from EDM covers, to introspective mellow tracks all the way to joyfully raucous dance jams.
4.50 0.00 Introspective folk-rock singer/songwriter with a passionate gritty vocal over a mix of acoustic and electronic textures. Similar to Jack Garratt.
4.50 0.00 Electro-goth-pop from two cousins. It's got a sort of Depeche Mode meets David Lynch film thing going on.


text:
Q: compare a column from one table to another table and list the matching second table rows I have a strange issue.
I need to compare a column A from table 1 to a column B in table 2.
If the value match, then list the column A from table 1 and its matching rows from table 2
Please help with SQL statement.
I see duplicates in that column from both tables. Table 1 has 3850 records and table 2 has 750 records inclusive of duplicates. Due to the duplicates, the join queries are bringing hundred thousands of rows. I need the exact 3850 rows in result and matching rows from table 2. Please help.

A: Use Join..
SELECT table1.A FROM tableA JOIN table2 ON table1.A = table2.B

Hope this helps.

A: If I'm understanding correctly, this isn't strange at all; it's just a join:
select
    t1.columnA
    , t2.*
from
    table1 t1
    join table2 t2 on t2.columnB = t1.columnA

A: OR even simpler way would be
SELECT Colum1 FROM TABLE1
INTERSECT
SELECT Colum2 FROM TABLE2

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


I'm the Blue Water reporter at the Times Herald. And what is the Blue Water reporter?
I get to do all the fun stuff -- like cover parades and events.
I also get to look for the interesting people and things that make the Blue Water Area unique.
It's a pretty good gig. I've already met a lot of you and I'm looking forward to meeting even more.
I'm married, I live in East China and have a music teacher daughter who graduated from Marine City High School and a son who is graduating from St. Clair High School. A Mariner and a Saint -- Thanksgiving dinners can be real interesting at our house.


Posted by by gerald m. on October 04, 2008. Brought to you by openlist.
Red Door Studio was founded in 1996, and is located at 18611 Ne 20th Ave in Ridgefield. Additional information is available at www.reddoorstudio.com or by contacting Mike Anderson at (360) 887-7100.
Red Door Studio can be found at Ne 20th Ave 18611. The following is offered: Photographers. The entry is present with us since Sep 9, 2010 and was last updated on Nov 14, 2013. In Ridgefield there are 1 other Photographers. An overview can be found here.