As a member of the pack, the family dog has responsibilities and privileges. As good and responsible pet owners we reward good manners and admonish unacceptable conduct. This all comes under the category of good training.
Whether you want your dog to sit on command or fetch the morning paper; dog trainers employ certain common sense training techniques we can all practice. Some trainers advise that when training your dog, teach both verbal commands and hand signals. And don't worry that you may overload your canine friend with vocabulary while training.
Just like our brains, theirs associate certain objects and actions with particular sounds and body language. So while you teach Brownie to "Sit," give the verbal command and a hand command of your choice at the same time. Brownie will soon learn both.
When training your dog, begin with simple commands such as "sit," "down," and "stay." Those are the basics.
Let's take "stay" as an example. If you want to teach your dog to "stay," capitalize on behavior that already exists. Your dog will most likely follow you as you move around the house. He will stop when you stop and move forward when you do. When you notice that he has stopped, say, "Stay" and give him a treat.
If he starts to move again when you do, turn and say, "No." Shake your head and move your hands in a negative motion. Repeat the command to "Stay." While he sits still, give him a treat and say, "Stay." After a few seconds, move again. If he follows you, repeat the above steps.
When he learns, smile; give him a treat and a big hug. You must teach him that he shouldn't move again until you say, "Okay." He may forget by tomorrow, but this will most likely take him a few days to learn well. Dog trainers suggest a few simple rules when training your dog.
If you call your dog's toy "toy" today, don't call it "squeaky" tomorrow. You will confuse him. Keep the vocabulary as simple as possible.
If Brownie shows signs of moving toward the desired end result of your command, reward him then and there.
Simple healthy snacks will help Brownie maintain his weight as well as his overall physical health.
When training your dog, start with simple commands. Capitalize on behavior he already exhibits. This will help him and you achieve early successes that you can build on for future training.
We've always prioritized or remember our dog's health but we sometimes forget that training our pet dogs is also important.
One last thing before I forget; the most important rule of all in training your dog is love. Always love this little creature who trusts you and loves you with all that he can. Show him you are worthy of that trust and love.


Students who have completed the master of arts or master of science—agency counseling degree or related master's counseling program may be admitted to the post-master's, non-degree license program in school counseling in order to qualify for the Standard (initial) License. Those individuals with the Standard License may be admitted in order to qualify for the Professional License.
In addition, the Educator Preparation Program at Indiana State University is accredited by the National Council for the Accreditation of Teacher Education. This accreditation covers initial teacher preparation programs and advanced educator preparation programs.


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Let us count the ways we love Amanda Miska. She's a writer! She's an editor! She's an amazing colleague!
One day, a comet zoomed through our sky, and from it fell an Amanda Miska story, and, blessed souls we knew ourselves to be, we published it in our Fall 2014 issue. If you have not read it yet, you should. And if you read it in 2014 but haven't returned to it, please do. It's beautiful. Go read it now: "Slow Wave."
We've watched Miska stories (and essays) emerge, and we always read them as soon as we see something new. Here's a sampling of the past few years' publications. (go read them all)
"The Sinner and the Saint" at Atticus Review
"A Good Ache" at Matchbook
"Incompatible with Life" at Hobart
"Weightless and Hysterical" at Little Fiction
Categories catching up with contributors, Fall 2014, writers we love
Goya Talks with the Widow. Emily Hipchen.
Goya Talks with the Widow
Here are your eyes.
I make them slits, slits like mouths,
the center just a grey focus,
an empty spot of empty wall.
Where your arms go?
You are dancing. Look.
Here you haul up the rope to hang you.
Here your hands slice at the sky.
Here you curl around a ghost.
Everything smokes upwards
like the beginning of flames.
I draw your sex,
the dry breasts gasping,
pendulous as shadows.
Your hips are empty like
the corners of your mouth.
I want to find you where your legs meet
but that's also a nothing, a zero, nothing.
I have tried, I swear, with your feet,
flexed them, bent them against
the dirt, each toenail the shell of
an ear, listening to his dust.
You hang there, aghast,
in silence, as I draw the
gunmen who can help you.
Emily Hipchen
Categories 2016, poets we love, Worksongs for the Apocalypse, writers we love
Napoleon Talks to the Widow. Emily Hipchen.
Napoleon Talks to the Widow
I draw a tight circle around myself
roughly the shape of an island.
The rest of the world is born
through the O of the spy-glass
I keep on the desk in a box.
Whole days, whole weeks
I don't open the box.
What was I atop the Carpathians—
in the Pantheon—horse-deep in snow?
Was I insane then, or now?
At my coronation, my chef
spun me a delicate sugar crown.
It dissolved in my mouth with a sweetness
I can almost taste again. That crown.
That sugar. You and I know better.
You know what I miss most? No?
My horse. The way it quivered
between my knees and still went on.
Why did he?
Here at the window, a box of watery glass,
I stand watching nothing, my hand holding
my heart in. The linen, the starch,
this placket with its bone buttons
like shards of ribs, this hand
and its one gold ring. See now?
How the tide's come in.
A Day in the Neighborhood. Sean Pravica.
Ten am
The blue sky rang loudly against silent rocks. Young flowers jitterbugged in a breezy ballad. While sitting quietly, a bird toppled over and grew quieter still.
The bar top was so polished he could see his reflection bounce off its surface. It depressed him like hell. At least for now.
A man poked his head out of a dumpster. The jogger, confronted with thousand yard eyes and the wretch of soiled cloth and old food, said, "Good morning." It was a habit.
Two pm
A needle lied in the grass. Behind him, he could hear his son calling his name.
The tooth ache was not going away, and neither were the bad dreams.
The Bedroom
Woke up. Rolled over. Lit up. Rolled over.
Six pm
She slumped in her seat and shut one eye loosely, her long fingers wrapped around the tumbler. "I like drinks," she said sweetly, wistfully. A long day long gone.
The Train Station
There were many reasons to stay, but he ignored them all. When he came back, she ignored him.
They misdiagnosed the distance left, then pushed the car into the nearest parking lot. Only one space was open, a blue one. They went for it anyway and soon after watched her wheel over from across the street while they waited for the tow truck, which couldn't come soon enough.
Ten pm
"But Mom, I'll buy it with my own money!" His were eyes serious and his curly hair messy and his walk a sloppy wobble. She promised him he could have candy next week, for his birthday. It will be his forty-fifth.
She looked more gorgeous than ever. He watched her walk in, and had to admit. That arm looked good around her.
The Break Room
Tired feet. Worn shoes. Holed socks. Apple sauce. 2 am
No one answered.
Sean Pravica
Categories 2016, Worksongs for the Apocalypse, writers we love
Orbit. Emily Horner.
All that winter me and the other girls in the pack tried to tell ourselves that nothing was wrong. It was just because Lynette had left; it was just because of that blizzard we had to dig ourselves out of. And then Jamie, who'd come up from the village a few months ago, fifteen years old, still enamored of hot baths and pretty shoes, complained about our watercress and our boiled bark; and Stella snapped, "I haven't seen you out hunting."
Jamie walked out into the snow. I followed, running, with a coat and a lantern. Angry that Stella had said it and angry at the fifty times I'd thought the same thing.
"I should go back home," she said when I caught up with her. She wiped at her nose with a mitten crusted in frozen snot. "She's right. All I do is complain. All those stories they tell about the wolf-girls. How they're so fierce and so loyal and so dedicated to each other. How they're the ones who're going to save people from the satellites. It's the kind of dream you're supposed to grow out of."
"Stella hasn't seen you out hunting because you don't know how," I said, shamed by it. When Lynette was in charge it was always – Jo, show Sara how to set the trap lines. Jo, show Stella how to find dry wood. And all this time I'd never said, Jamie, come hunting with me.
"Come on. Let's see if we can't find us something better than watercress."
We took arrows with us, and bows – a big one, and the little one all us wolf-girls had learned on with our weak village-girl arms. We walked for miles up the ridges of the hills, on paths that were covered in half an inch of snow, and I pointed out to her the footprints of rabbits and grouse, the places where deer had chewed bark from trees. I adjusted her stance, the way she held her fingers on the arrow. Her arrows flew wide when she surprised a rabbit in the underbrush and scrambled for her bow.
She stomped ahead of me, and despite the darkness widened the gap between us until she disappeared over the top of the next ridge. "Jo!" she yelled, one long minute later. "Jo, come over here."
I lengthened my stride. Could be a bear, a human corpse, a lacerated hand or broken leg.
What I found instead was – at first I wasn't sure, even as I brought the lantern down the length and breadth of it. A rectangular metal body, as big as the vans I'd seen in junkyards or lying along the side of the road, part smooth panels and part crumpled peaks and valleys. A long flat wing that made me think of the angels in old books stretched out on either side.
She was the one who finally said, "That's a satellite."
It was what I'd been thinking, but what I couldn't say. It seemed blasphemous to think that our enemies, the machine-minds of the satellites who had overthrown human civilization and almost wiped us out, were really nothing more than a bucket of metal bits, propped up with vast panels to catch the sun's light.
"We should go tell Stella and the others," Jamie said.
"No," I said. A moment's mad impulse. "Don't tell anybody."
On the way home I managed to put an arrow in a woodcock, and Jamie shot the fluff off a rabbit, which was all she talked about when we made it back to the little barn where all us wolf-girls huddled around the hearth.
That night I dreamed the darkness of space. The glare of full sun on those solar panels. Blinks of light flashing from one satellite to another, transmitting data as if to say,
Hello. I miss you.
I dreamed whole lives of people – people from the old days. Cameras, in their cars and in their schools, watched fights with lovers, watched sudden crunches of metal that ended in screaming and sirens.
I hiked up the ridge to the satellite the next day, on my way to check the trap lines. "What is it you want to make me see?" I asked it. "You're trying to get me thinking there's nothing worth saving in our world?"
I aimed a kick at its front panel of lights and switches, stopping short with a couple inches to spare. Nothing moved, nothing lit up. There was nothing to make me think it had heard me.
The trap lines were empty. I kept walking, not sure what I was looking for until my feet led me to Lynette's door.
"I found something yesterday," I said as I was shaking the snow off my boots. "Up in the hills when I took the new girl hunting."
"Good something, bad something?"
Lynette cut me a slab of apple cake, spread over thick with butter. I wolfed it in two bites and it caught in my throat, stuck to my tongue. In these dark corners of February I almost forgot the memory of sweetness. Her head tilted in disapproval, but she gave me another piece.
"Don't know good or bad, but it's giving me strange dreams." My eyes kept wandering to the hand-woven table mats; I was trying to imagine myself in a life like this one, the kind of life that a wolf-girl could make for herself after leaving her pack. Even in the winters when every thought sharpened around warmth and food, I didn't know who I'd be without them. "A satellite came down. All in one piece, not all burnt up like they usually are."
"What did the others say?"
"Nothing yet. I asked the other girl to keep it quiet."
She leaned back, arms crossed on top of her belly, and gave me a small nod.
"Doesn't seem like the kind of thing I can figure out on my own, though."
"No need to untangle the whole thing right away," Lynette said.
That made my teeth itch. Two years ago, when I was new in the pack and nothing but sharp angles, I'd have laid into her. Our years in the wilderness, the winters that we shivered through, the trance-bonfires where we tried to speak with those voices up there in the sky – that was all so we could find some kind of a truce or an understanding with the minds that lived in the satellites. Maybe this was our only chance to do something about it. But I had no idea what that something might look like.
As I was putting my winter things back on I couldn't help turning back to her. "You miss it?"
"Always." A pause, and then: "It wasn't ever my intention to pass the reins over to Stella. But it takes teeth to lead a pack."
I stood there, frozen in the middle of lacing my boots. It hadn't ever crossed my mind that I could've fought for this.
"I don't know what to do about the satellite."
"There's no one who can tell you that."
I didn't have any answer but the crunch of my boots over the old leaves and the snow.
A few days later, Stella showed up with a deer haunch she'd got from the pack upriver from us, and in the middle of all the celebrating announced, "There's a satellite come down in the hills."
I said nothing. I worked my knife down the back of the deer's leg, separating skin from muscle and tendon. But Jamie got a look on her face like the vole under the hawk's gaze, while it's still too scared to run.
"You knew about this," Stella said.
She barely moved her head in a way that didn't mean either yes or no.
I spent too long thinking, deciding, then said, "I told her not to talk."
"You didn't think this was important to tell the rest of us?"
Stella took two steps toward me and at the same time I was thinking that she was my friend, that she was a good pack leader, I was thinking about the knife in my hand that was slicing through skin.
"Maybe too important to jump all over it right away."
"Is that up to you to decide?"
I gripped the deer's ankle and handed it to her without a word. Most of the blood had drained away or clotted, but the tissue over the muscles was still slick, barely warm with the animal's heat.
I thought I knew something about being in a pack by then. You snarled at each other and you bared your teeth and when it was done you abided by what the pack leader said. Because it was where you belonged. If you stayed down in the village, or if you stayed by yourself, you didn't get to hear the echoes of what goes through the satellites' minds as they drifted across the sky. All of us had made that decision over and over, even on the days when we wished we were home.
The other girls looked at me like they were sniffing out the wind currents. Like I was, maybe, not the right friend to have. That night I found my own lonely corner for sleeping, and buried myself in the straw until it covered me over entirely. I dreamed I floated in the sky. Looked down on the villages of Cambodia or Laos or – different cities and countries, by now, from the ones in the encyclopedias from the old days.
I was going to lose this.
I was going to lose a thing I didn't even understand. Was there a mind in there at all? Or was it a mind like the filaments of a spider-web, that only made sense with all its pieces reaching out to each other, working as one?
I imagined myself in the sky, blinking my strange heart to my siblings, and then tossed out of my orbit, flung to earth, alone.
In a single-file line we marched up the ridge. The morning sun glinted hard on the ice that had scabbed over the snow. We were armed with what we had found in the barn, and in the other caches and lockboxes: crowbars and screwdrivers and knives and even a chainsaw, powered by the little bits of gasoline we could occasionally scavenge for emergencies.
"What do we need a chainsaw for?" I said to no one in particular, trailing behind.
"Are you getting anywhere talking to it?" Stella asked. "The other pack didn't. If we can take it apart. If we can see the guts of the thing. I don't know."
I couldn't even argue with her. I was curious, too, and angry. The satellites had killed children, destroyed power plants and oil wells, destroyed the era – long before my own memories – when you could put your clothes to dry in a machine instead of praying for a sunny day, when you didn't have to spend all of the fall chopping up wood to heat you through the winter. And we didn't even know why. They didn't feel pain, or sorrow, or anything. Right?
Only, when we got over the ridge and caught the first glimpse of the solar panels washed in light, there was something that changed. It was the look that crossed our faces when an owl's wingbeats blotted out the moon, when we stumbled upon the elk with her little twin calves. Jamie dropped her screwdriver, and though she scrambled after it right away like it was a mistake, it looked to me like doubt.
The other girls tried to gather themselves up and working together, they hauled the satellite over to where they could get in there with their tools and their knives. They crowded in around it until I had an excuse to step back, stand guard, sometimes glancing over to see what they discovered, but when I did I saw nothing but the backs of five heads, kitted out in hats their mothers had knit or headbands their sisters had woven.
There was a groaning shriek, and the front panel came loose. It took five girls together, with their fingers all hooked underneath it, to shimmy it away from the case of the satellite.
I had to pull Jamie away, at last, to get a look inside. A tangle of wires and cases and lights gone dark. All of it mysterious, all of it full of secrets that the rest of us would never uncover. These girls, hovering, nervous, still hungry for the wolf-girl stories whispered between them as children.
"I wanted to do better by it."
"It's not a person," Stella said. "It's a broken machine. And it's useless to us like this."
"Useless if it's hacked into bits, too."
"It's my pack," Stella said, but we were all looking among ourselves now like we weren't quite sure if it was anyone's.
It took teeth, to lead a pack.
I broke my eyes away from the bulk of folded metal. "I'm going up to check the trap lines. I could use some extra hands."
I started walking. With my rabbit-fur hood up I could only see in front of my face, and I knew I would lose if I turned to see who was following me. I could hear the big river in the distance, the one that hadn't frozen over yet, and the "dee-dee-dee" of the chickadees looking for crumbs. And softly, like a fragile and untrustworthy thing, the sound of small boots on the snow.
Emily Horner
Time on the Side of the Road. Madeline Cross.
Time on the Side of the Road
They don't fit one bit. They never have. His toes are all curled in on each other and he's sure the nail on one of his toes is cutting into another toe and he must be bleeding. He bends over to untie the laces. Holding on to one of the heels, he tugs, wriggling his foot until the leather gives a little. With a final pull his hot, crumpled foot comes free of the boot. He repeats the process with the other foot. With both boots dangling from the laces in his hands, he swings them around once, twice, a third time, let's go of the laces, and watches as they fly high up in the air, landing on the other side of the road with a double thump. He takes off his socks too and it's like peeling off a layer of skin. He was right – one toe is crusty with blood. Both his little toes are so crushed against the others they don't really resemble toes anymore, just little lumps on the side of his feet. He sits down on the raised bank on the roadside and lifts up his legs so that he can feel the grass against the broken skin of his feet. He pushes his toes into the dirt.
Where is he? He sinks deeper into the grass and wildflowers. He doesn't catch himself. He is shaded by the branches of a sycamore tree growing in the field behind and slightly above him. The road itself is more of a country lane, wide and pot-holed. On the opposite side thistles and nettles aggressively climb the bank, but growing between and around his fingers there are only celandines and cow parsley. The lane bends its way between flat farmland. In all directions a perfectly stitched quilt of quadrangle fields spreads itself. The odd tree, older than the fences and hedgerows, stubbornly ruptures the pattern.
He thinks about how he got there. He tries to visualise the route he's taken, or where it even began, but working backwards doesn't help. He stares across the tarmac at his boots.
"What are you doing?" A woman and boy appear around the bend. They are walking slowly, moving their feet in time with each other, equally considered expressions on their strikingly flat faces. They must be mother and son. They have the same ash blonde hair and thin mouths.
"I'm resting," Lah replies, though he isn't sure whether that's accurate.
He had been walking for as long as he could remember, no differently to anybody else, until he had stumbled on the pothole that the women and boy just sidestepped. The thought had come to him without ceremony, without thunder or lightning: Just stop.
The boy tilts his head curiously. "Resting?"
"Resting," the woman repeats.
"Yes, resting," Lah offers.
"You're a young man," she says, as if this means something. Her expression has become hostile, breaking up her flat features in a menacing, reptilian way. Lah's seen that expression somewhere before, directed at someone else. She takes the boy's hand in hers and picks up pace. He watches their backs until they turn a corner and there is nothing more to see.
People begin to pass by regularly. They are mostly young men, long-limbed and full of purpose. Some of them don't react to Lah at all. Maybe they don't see him, or don't know what they're seeing if they do. He watches them and can't settle on pity or envy. He studies their clothes and haircuts and shoes, mentally giving himself a point for every man wearing a tie or with stiff wax in his hair. It passes the time, though he is not worried about that. He is worried about jealousy. It's jealousy he doesn't want to feel. Each time he is left alone again he turns his attention back to his feet and feels only the pain dissolving, leaving no room to feel anything else.
A man comes by who Lah immediately senses isn't like the rest. He's closer to middle-aged, with a steady walk, unfaltering smile, and cheeks as round and pink as small apples. Carrying a walking stick in one hand, he looks Lah right in the eye as he approaches. Everything about him is bright and capable. He slows down, seeming not to mind about it, and prods Lah's discarded boots with his stick. "Are these yours, my man?"
"Yes, they're mine."
"What a wonderful thought – taking them off like that. How do they feel?"
"My feet?"
"Yes, yes, man!" He cries animatedly, almost stopping completely but continuing to step up and down on the spot.
"They feel freer."
"Wow, what a wonderful thought. So you've stopped have you?"
"How did that come about?"
"Unfortunate to have a poor pair of boots, some are born better equipped for life than others aren't they? No damn fairness about it, no fairness about it at all. See my boots – beautiful creatures, practically alive. I swear sometimes they make me bounce."
Lah smiles but he is still unsure of himself and his fingers dig into the earth nervously. He eyes the man's boots. They are made from a velvety material, moleskin maybe, and dyed forest green. The soles are at least an inch thick.
"Would you like a sandwich?" The man asks.
"Yes, I would," Lah says, the memory of hunger replacing his anxiety.
The man rummages around in his rucksack without breaking the rhythm of his steps, pulls out a sandwich wrapped in Clingfilm and hands it to Lah.
"Will you stop with me?" Lah chances, unwrapping the sandwich.
"What a thought, man, what a thought! That would be a blast."
"So you will?"
"Oh no, no I can't, lovely idea though. I'm glad it's caught you, but it's not for me."
"Have you ever stopped?"
"Not yet, but I've met those who have. Though I must say they've all been much older than you, on their last boots shall we say. You on the other hand seem rather young?"
Lah chews and frowns.
"There's always something new around the corner," the man continues, waving his stick in the air. "I've been told I'm an optimist. I'm glad you like the sandwich. I'll leave you another before I go." He sticks his free hand back into his rucksack.
Lah swallows a lump of cheese and can feel it rolling down his oesophagus like a stone as he tries to think of something to say that will make the man stay longer. But the man puts another sandwich on the grass beside him and then grasps his hand to shake it. "Good man. I'll be thinking of you here." And then he turns and carries on, humming slightly, leaving Lah staring at the terrible boots where they lie on the road. The man was right; they should have been better and had let him down from the very start.
The evening is warm and muggy. Lah eats the second sandwich and lies back in the grass. He is just starting to doze off when the air beside him changes temperature. He opens his eyes and for a second all he can see is a smudge of dark orange blocking out the sky and the setting sun. Then the smudge turns and the white side of a face appears with a trail of freckles riding its cheekbone.
She's the most perfect thing he's ever seen. And she has stopped completely.
He swings himself upright. "What are you doing?"
"I've stopped."
"So have I," she says, her eyes laughing at him. They are big and beetle-black.
"Because I saw you, and you looked happy, and I wanted that too. It's taken me so long to catch up with you. Do you remember the last time we saw each other?"
"I remember, Bea."
It isn't true. He doesn't remember the time or the place, but he does remember her. Her name comes to him as though he was already thinking of it before she appeared. He recognises everything about her and nothing at all. Her hair smells like chamomile tea.
He wishes he could think of the perfect think to say, the most perfect thing ever said. He's never been taught the words though. He's never been taught anything. All he knows how to do is walk. He looks down and sees that she has taken off her boots and socks and they are now lying on the ground beside his own. Her feet are small and pink and they aren't as tortured as his. The skin seems new. She is watching a robin on the opposite bank. Lah kisses the freckles on her cheek. She leans into him as he does it, and he keeps his mouth against her skin, not moving his lips, listening to the life in her. Her voice is low and he hears it in his chest. "They don't know what they're missing."
She motions to a couple walking by, a good ten years older, with weathered faces and grey in their hair. They glance over at Lah and Bea darkly. Lah studies the cracks in their boots. They don't slow down, becoming silhouettes against the flat skyline, then fading altogether.
"I've been waiting for this," Bea says.
"I guess I didn't know it before."
"It just came to me," Lah replies. "Like a slap in the face, but not as violent as that." He tries to think. "No, it wasn't like that at all. I don't know what it was like."
She laughs at him but nothing about her makes him feel ashamed.
"Come with me," she tugs at his arm and they scramble over the bank into the field. It feels strange to move and put the weight back on his feet. The ground is doughy and slightly wet where the sun hasn't reached. She stops at the trunk of the sprawling sycamore and sits with her back to it. She guides his body and he fits around her like a coat. They are still close to the roadside, but it seems to him that it's getting further and further away in their minds, and that the people that walk it are walking in a different world.
When it gets dark he can't see the freckles on her face and arms which he had been creating pathways with, so he turns to the stars. At walking pace it always seemed to him that the stars moved as he did, constantly crossing the sky, unable to pause. But lying there with Bea in his arms, they do as he does. They stay in place. He can see the patterns they form, the shapes and worlds they hold together. "They're so still," he whispers.
"They're moving," Bea says, with her head against his chest. "They're just so far away you can't see it."
"No," Lah closes his eyes. "They've stopped."
When he wakes with the sun he knows that something has changed. Bea is standing over him.
"I need to keep going," she says.
She looks at him pityingly and he feels his face flush.
"I'm not ready," she turns to the road.
He stands up and his feet ache with cramp. "You've already stopped though. You've done it."
"No, I haven't, not really. It looks that way, I know it looks that way, but in my head it's different."
Lah doesn't have enough words. He could trip her up and keep her there. He could hold her. He has arms and legs and strength. He stares at the bend in the road. He tries to imagine what's beyond it, tries to make himself care. But he doesn't. He knows somehow that this has all happened before and that it will only happen again. There is nothing he can do about it.
"I'm happy for you," she says.
"I don't want to be alone."
"You won't be."
"Yes, I will. I'm always different."
"You're better."
"That's not what it feels like."
"But it's what is."
She has already put her boots on. They have miles left in them, as if they've never walked a step. She slides down the bank on to the road. A crowd of people are passing beneath the early sun, and she merges between them seamlessly, until all Lah can see is a smudge of dark orange between the shoulders of people he doesn't want to know.
When she's gone she doesn't fade from his mind like the others did. He doesn't question whether he ever saw her at all. The imprint of her body can still be seen in the grass. He can feel her hair between his fingers and taste the salt on her mouth. It's as if she's still with him but she isn't. He paces up and down until the cramp leaves his feet and then realises what he's doing. He will not give in. He sits down. The pain in his chest is overwhelming. It is nothing like the pain in his feet. It's as if his heart is lighter in weight. It flutters and rises, intending to throw itself out of his body. He's terrified he won't be able to control it and thumps his chest with his fists. He tries to cry but nothing happens. When he screams at the road two children he hadn't noticed break into a run. He collapses backwards.
The sky clouds over and everything is dulled. It is still warm, but in a muffled, too-close way. The browns and greys and tired greens could have poured from Lah's own mouth if he had spoken any words. But he is lying on his back, prostrate, with no intention of ever moving again.
"Is it almost night?" An elderly man is standing on the road.
Lah makes to open his mouth but can't.
"Have you stopped for the night? I lose track of time, and my eyesight isn't what it was, so I can't tell if this is darkness coming, or that type of day that just sits on your shoulders."
Lah eases himself up on to his elbows. "No," he manages. "It isn't night."
The man hesitates. "So you've stopped, even though it isn't night?"
He is very old, with a white moustache that droops down on either side of a small mouth, whiskers protruding from his eyebrows. His whole appearance is rough and animal-like, and his boots are so worn that Lah can't see if they even have soles.
"Yes, I've stopped," Lah says. "And it isn't night. I've been here since yesterday, at least, I think it was yesterday."
"Do you know where we are?" The old man asks.
"It could be the midlands?"
"Or the lowlands."
"What a flat country. Will you help me into the field?"
Lah struggles to his feet. He hadn't realised just how lonely he was, or how much he wanted to escape it. He takes the old man's arm in his and gently supports him to get his footing in the grass. They climb across the bank into the field and the old man sinks against the sycamore.
"This is it," he says.
Lah stares at him and tries to imagine what he's feeling.
"This is it," he says again.
"How long have you been walking?"
The old man stares at Lah with a curious expression. "I have no idea."
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"How did you stop?" The old man asks.
Lah would like to give a better answer than he has so far come up with, but there doesn't seem to be one yet. "I just stopped. It was what I wanted."
"It isn't hard for me. For me, it's harder to keep going, but that's different."
"I think I was tired."
"You were tired?"
"I was on my own."
"You have no idea." The old man yawns exaggeratedly.
"There's no need to be like that." Lah suddenly feels like a child again. He has a vague memory of his family gathered around him, laughing. He can't pinpoint why, but he remembers feeling small, with an even smaller ball of red heat inside him, steadily growing. What was it he had done that was so ridiculous? Why did it feel like this was a regular occurrence, like everything he did was odd, laughable? It wasn't a memory he wanted, even in its half-formed state, but perhaps it explained why he wasn't with his family now – why he was alone.
"This a good tree," the old man says.
"Is that why you're here – for the tree?
"Can you appreciate a good tree?"
Lah doesn't answer; crossing his arms over his chest and starting to hope the old man will get up and leave. He didn't stop for this. Perhaps loneliness is better – better than being judged, better than being laughed at.
"I'm teasing you," the old man says.
"I realise."
"Maybe you've just been walking alone too long. Try and remember how to take a joke."
"Wisdom is it?"
The old man grins sheepishly, folds his hands on his lap and closes his eyes. Lah smiles too, no longer angry. He wants to be more patient. He doesn't want to be left alone again.
"Does your wisdom stretch to answers? Or is that too much to hope for?"
"I'm sorry. It's not as easy as that."
"No, it never is."
The old man is drifting away and into sleep, his words softer. "I really did take a liking to this tree though. I think it might be the best tree I've ever seen, and isn't that a thing to be able to say?"
Lah doesn't reply. The old man's moustache has spread out against his cheeks. For a while he taps his fingers on his lap, but then he stops and Lah can tell that he is wholly asleep.
Lah closes his eyes too and lies back. He visualises himself on the road, picking up his boots and swinging them over his shoulder. He imagines walking bare foot along the tarmac, feeling the dirt and grit climbing between his toes. The sun will come out, surely, and he will feel it on his face. People will pass as they have always done, and maybe they won't notice him, maybe one person might smile and say hello. That man, the man with the velvety boots, he will be ahead, never walking too fast, never in a rush, always with something to say to a stranger. And the road will widen, the people will fade. Further ahead, in a copse of bluebells and wild garlic, Bea will be in a heap on the ground, crying for the loss of him, her dark orange hair covering her white face. No one will have stopped to help her, to ask if she's ok. But Lah will, Lah will not think twice before stopping and sitting beside her. He will take off her shoes and carry them for her. He will hold her hand and lead her bare foot on to the road. He will say sorry for what he has already done and what he has not yet done.
The footsteps on the road die down. The afternoon is no different to the morning, muted and unmoving. Lah rolls on to his side so that he is facing the old man who still has his eyes closed and his hands folded over his stomach. But where before each breath had moved the soft white hairs of his moustache, there are none now. Lah crawls over to him, looking down on to the old face. He places his hand on his cheek and feels how the skin has already become cold and dry like paper, then he moves his hand to the old man's silent chest.
He stands up and stares at the horizon, trying once more to imagine what's around the bend in the road, trying to imagine that it could mean something to him. There could be something. There must be something, but he thinks backwards for clues that will help him and there is nothing to fix on to. Except Bea's face, the bright bone white of her skin, a red-breasted robin, a cheese sandwich, old boots. These solid things on the side of a road.
And for now there is also a dead man.
Lah bends over and carefully unties the laces of the old man's boots. He pulls them off and holds them for a moment, feeling how light and temporary they are, then he throws them high into the air. They land on the road beside his own with barely a sound. The old man has no socks on. He looks childlike, lying there with his free toes pointing up to the sky, traces of a smirk on his face.
Madeline Cross
Dust. Johnny Caputo.
"Well, would you look at that?" Dad said.
He stood at the top of the ridge and waved for me to join him. His canteens clanked at his side, and his backpack was filled with what we had found that morning: some scraps of firewood from the forest, a few cans of beans from before the Drought, and some kind of old handheld electronic machine that Dad claimed he could get working again.
"What? What is it?" I said, racing to the top of the ridge to meet him.
"There," he pointed.
I wiped the thick coat of dust and sweat from my forehead and stared out over what appeared to be a graveyard of machines. A bunch of odd looking hunks of rusted metal just lying in the dusty field. One was just this big forty foot wheel with cars attached to it. Another one was this a big circular platform with a roof over it. Between the roof and the ground were these plastic horses with poles sticking right through their spines holding them in place. Most of them had these looks of pain frozen onto their faces like they would be stuck that way forever.
I had some engineering books lying around the house, so even though most of the machines we stumbled across hadn't worked since before the Drought, I could guess what they had been supposed to do. But I had no idea with these ones. I tried to imagine them working, but all I saw was just a bunch of rotating wheels spinning around and around for no real reason.
"What were these for?" I said.
Dad pulled the bandana from over his nose and mouth, spat out a mouthful of dust, and took a swig from the canteen.
"Guess," he said.
"Scaring birds off from crops?"
Dad looked at me for a long second before he started laughing. He just laughed and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. But I didn't think it was funny. I got kinda mad, like he was making fun of me for being stupid or something. And I realized right then that no matter how much I thought I knew about the world before the Drought, I'd never really understand it.
"These were rides," he said when he finally stopped laughing. "They used to have the fair here."
"Rides?"
"Yeah. Rides. People would get on them and they'd spin around and go up and down and it'd be fun."
"And they wasted gas on that?"
"It wasn't always such a precious commodity. You know, you were actually here once. Back when you were real little. Your mother and I brought you."
He passed me the canteen, I didn't really know what to say. I pulled off my bandana and took a few big swigs. He never talked about Mom, so I never really asked about her much. It never bothered me or anything that she wasn't around. It was just a fact of life, like how I knew the earth revolved around the sun. Something I knew, but never really paid much attention to.
"What was Mom like?" I said.
He thought for a second, like he was trying to bring up something big from way down deep in his brain. Like fishing through the gunk at the bottom of a pond trying to find a gold ring.
He set his pack down with a few clinks and clanks and then sat down sidesaddle on one of the frozen horses with a loud creak. He patted the saddle of the horse next to him. I set down my pack and climbed up.
"You know," he said, "I think it's time I told you."
"About Mom?"
"About how it all ended," he said.
"Really?" I gasped. That was the one thing he told me never, ever to ask about. He was always more than happy to tell me about how things were before the Drought, but whenever I asked him how it happened, he would get real quiet and tell me not to worry about it. That I shouldn't concern myself with such things.
"Did Mom have something to do with it?"
He laughed this lonely laugh. Like he was the only person in the world who got the joke.
"Not quite. Your Mom was a damn prophet, though. I think she knew exactly what was going on, not that anybody believed her. Nobody wanted to pay attention, not even me. Hell, we were just kids back then. Twenty-two. Twenty three. You must've been two, maybe two and a half, so I guess that puts this around 2015 or so. God, was it really that long ago?"
He stopped and looked out at the horizon, then down at his hands. It was a long moment before he started talking again.
"The price of gas was up near four dollars, $3.89, $3.95, somewhere in there. It'd been climbing pretty steadily for years, so it wasn't this huge, noticeable thing or anything like that. Still, people were talking about it. Mostly bitching and complaining, but we had every right to. I mean, you needed a car to get around back then to get to and from work and all that, and cars needed gas to run, so it was like that whole gasoline business kinda had you by the balls.
"Anyway, we were driving along that morning. Your mom was in the passenger seat and you were strapped in the back. I look down at the gas gauge and see we need to stop for gas. So I pulled over and I looked out the window at the big red-lit numbers, and that's when I saw it for the first time. $4.09. For one gallon of gas. I looked at your mom and I said, Damn. And she told me to watch my mouth in front of you.
"I told her I was sorry, and she just kissed me real sweet on the cheek and looked at me. She had the most beautiful eyes. They had this dampness to them. I know that sounds weird, but that's the best way I can describe them. They were damp in the same way that good soil is damp. You could see how nurturing and warm they were. It was like she made the world blossom around her just by looking at it. That's the kind of woman your mother was. She saw the best in everything, even me. I knew I would always be better because of her.
"I had to cough up a twenty just to put a few gallons in the tank, which only left me twenty bucks for the fair. I figured that would've been more than enough to ride a few rides, have an elephant ear or a couple of corn dogs or something. When I started the car up, the tank was barely half full.
"Eventually, we pulled into the parking lot which was right over there." He pointed off to a field which pretty much looked the same as everything else around us: dusty.
"They didn't charge for parking or ask for tips or anything like that, which was nice. And as we walked through the parking lot up to the gate you Mom was holding your left hand and I was holding your right. We'd count 'one, two, three' and swing you up real high and you would laugh and laugh."
"Sounds like a nice day," I said.
"It was. Or at least it started off that way. But when we got up to the gate, and I asked for the tickets, and the woman said it would be twenty-five bucks."
I gasped. "But you only had twenty left."
"Don't I know it," Dad said. "I told the woman it wasn't three adults. We only needed two adult tickets and one kid's ticket. But she shook her head and told us that twenty-five was the right price. I told her it hadn't cost that much a few years back and she just shrugged her shoulders and said, 'What can I say, prices only seem to know how to go up.
"I patted my pockets but that didn't change nothing. The twenty bucks sitting in my front pocket was all I had. I looked down at my hands and right then right there they looked about as empty as a pair of hands can look. Deep creases in them like lonely valleys that go all the way down to nowhere. Callouses rising up like mountaintops tipped with dead skin.
"For a second I thought about buying one ticket for myself, then digging around the fair to see if I could find a way to sneak you guys in. But the thought was only half-developed in my head when your mother stepped up right past me, handed the lady a few crisp bills, and didn't say a word.
"The lady handed your mom the tickets, and your mom just smiled and nodded like nothing had happened. When we got inside I told your mom that I was sorry. That I had no idea it was going to be that expensive.
"'Don't worry about it,' she said. I told her I really was sorry and she said, 'Really. It's fine.' And she meant it too. I told her that the work would pick up soon and then I could take care of her. Spoil you and her rotten like the two of you deserved. She told me that wasn't my job. That the two of us could provide for you just fine and that she didn't need me to spoil her. She was happy the way things were."
Dad rocked to one side to pick up the canteen. He took a swig, swallowed harder than he usually did, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He passed it to me and I took a drink too. Then he told me to cover my face back up before any of the particulates got in my lungs. I did what he said even though he wasn't wearing his own bandana.
"I thought you said there was trouble?" I said.
He gave me a sideways look.
"I told her to stay right where she was and I'd go buy the two of you the biggest funnel cake you could imagine."
"What's a funnel cake?"
"It's kinda like a…oh, what would you know? Kinda like a pancake, but sweeter and with powdered sugar on top."
"What's powdered su—
"Just know it's good. Like real good. Anyway, your mom said she would take you into the barn to see the goats. For whatever reason, you really wanted to see the goats. So I brought your mom in real close, kissed her on the forehead, and set out to find the funnel cake stand.
"It only took me a few minutes to find the place, but there was a long line so I waited for a bit and got two of them. Bigger than your head, and they only cost me eight bucks. Had a good twelve bucks left for the rest of the day. Rides and games and dinner if we stayed that long. I was thinking about how we were gonna make the money stretch and everything as I was walking back to the goat barn. I was sort of on auto-pilot, ya know? Brain was too stuck on the money to actually realize what was happening in the moment.
"Until I got right outside the barn and I heard you crying. That brought me back real quick. I knew it was you because you had this weird little hiccup in your throat when you cried. So when I heard that, I started running. I made it to the stall and there you were with a goat chawing on some hay right behind you, tugging on your Mom's sleeve. You were saying her name over and over again and tugging on that sleeve, but she wouldn't answer you. I flapped the plates down on the ground table, and called her name too. And that's when, I saw it for the first time…"
His voice trailed off. He rocked forward on his haunches and squeezed his eyes shut real tight. He took another drink of water and swallowed real hard. The horse creaked underneath him.
"That look she would get on her face. Like she was looking dead ahead, just staring into space. But not in a dazed way, more like this real deep concentration.
"'Nance,' I said, 'Nance." Over and over again. I snapped my fingers right in front of her face, but she didn't respond at all. Her eyes had this dry and wild look in them, like there was a ghost standing heavy in the dust right in front of her. And I got scared. I'd never seen her like that at all. Ever. She was always so sharp and with it and paying bills and making sure we had your allergy meds wherever we went. I thought she was having a stroke or something.
"I looked around but there was no one else in the barn so I scooped you up and I told you that everything was going to be okay, that Mommy was just feeling a little weird, but that she was going to be just fine. But you didn't believe me. You kept on crying and crying. And I didn't know what to do. I just had no idea what to do. So, I started running. Had you in one arm, and was waving the other one and yelling, Help, Help. I need some help over here. I got a bit up the midway, far enough to be breathing hard when a paramedic came up and asked me what was wrong. I told him about your mom and we ran back to her.
"When we got there, your Mom was standing next to the stall and the goat was still chewing away like nothing had happened. Your Mom's head was swiveling all around, and she had this real scared look on her face. When she saw us, she came running over snatched you out of my arms and hugged you against her chest.
"'Damnit, Brian. You scared me to death,' she said. I tried to tell her that something had been wrong with her, that her face had this weird look on it and I thought she was having a stroke, that I only went to get help, but she wouldn't have it.
"'You never scare me like that again,' she said.
"I kept trying to argue, but she wagged her finger at me and poked me in the chest. "'Do you understand me?' she said. 'Promise me. Never again.' So I promised her. I promised I would never scare her like that again."
"The paramedic stepped in and asked if she was feeling alright. She said she was fine, besides that fact that I had almost given her a heart attack. She still had that wild look in her eye, but she relaxed a little bit. The paramedic asked her if he could get her vitals, just make sure she's alright and everything. She let him do it, but she wouldn't let go of you the entire time. He took her pulse and her blood pressure and all that. Then he pulled out a little light and shined it your Mom's eyes."
"You were holding on to her so tight, and the cloth of her shirt was all balled up in your fists. I looked her right in the eyes just like the paramedic did. And that's when I really saw it for the first time. That bone dry look in her eyes like whatever dampness had been there before was all dried up now for one reason or another. It was like now she was seeing something that the rest of us couldn't see. Or maybe she was just seeing the world like the rest of us saw it for the first time in her life. Either way, her eyes were real dry. And when the paramedic finished the examination, your mom looked right at me, right into my eyes. And I felt dried up too. Like I was just some normal, dried up, run of the mill collection of bones and nerves. And that's all I would ever be.
"Anyway, the paramedic put his light away and said everything looked fine. Her heart rate was a little fast, but that was to be expected. He said she should probably drink some water and get some rest, just to be safe, but that there wasn't anything seriously wrong.
"And over the next few years, every time she got the look on her face, as it came more and more often, first every few weeks, then every day, then every few hours, I thought about that paramedic. I thought about punching him right in his lying little mouth."
Dad swallowed hard again. This time, he didn't even take a swig of water to try to hide it. He was quiet for a long time, and it took me a while to build up the courage to ask him what I wanted to ask him.
"Did you ever find out what was wrong?"
Dad shook his head.
"She tried to describe it to me a couple of times. What it was like when the episodes hit. She said it was like watching the world falling apart molecule by molecule. Like she could see the molecules, every last one, and I watched them disconnect from each other. One by one, fall apart into atoms. And then the atoms themselves fell apart. And the worst part, she said, was that when it happened, she wasn't even scared. She was fascinated. Like she couldn't stop watching even if she wanted to. Like it was this rare opportunity to watch everything fall apart and she couldn't waste it. She had to see and remember and record every last bit of it in her memory because it was just so damn beautiful.
"And every time it happened, I just felt so helpless. Like there was nothing I could do to help her. I would just tell her that she was going to be fine. That everything was going to be fine. And she'd look back at me like she wanted to say something else, but she never would. And I wouldn't ever push her on it. Not even when she told me she was admitting herself to the institution. That she wanted to find a solution to this thing, and that as much as she hated it, she had to go away. For her sake and for yours. So that she could get better and be with you again and not scare you."
Dad laughed again, that lonely laugh, and then he stopped talking. He just sat there dangling his legs off the side of that frozen horse and not saying anything.
"When she said that, all I did was tell her that I loved her and supported her and that everything would be fine. I didn't try to stop her or help her or anything. I just told her that everything would be fine."
"But it is, isn't it? We're fine."
And he looked up at me. His eyes looked wet and he laughed.
"Yeah," he said, "I guess it is, isn't?"
"You really loved her, didn't you?"
"To this day," he said. He reached out and touched my knee. His hand sat there for a long time, warm and strong and comforting until finally he gave me a little tap and said, "alright, that's enough of a break for us. Lotta work to do this afternoon."
I jumped down off the horse and took one last look at it and all the other strange, purposeless machines scattered throughout the field.
"Hey, Dad" I said, "I thought you were going to tell me the story of how it all ended."
"Well," he said, his jaw tensing. He looked away and spit into the dust. "Maybe some other time."
Johnny Caputo
the top 15 most-read posts
We're always grateful when gorgeous, deep, necessary work comes our way, or when a fascinating person chooses to spend time talking with us. And this journal is our opportunity to share that work, and those conversations, with readers who get it, people who need it. A readership has grown around this collection of artifacts and ideas, and within that readership a little community. Thank you for being part of it. We tend to celebrate the thing you might have otherwise missed. But today, we'd like to celebrate the most-read (thousands of reads each), most-accessed, most-shared writing at Pea River Journal. Think of this post as a little party for these 15 pieces.
Thank you, writers and conversationalists and makers and readers, for bringing this list into being. And if you've not yet read these pieces, here's your chance.
Amanda Miska's story Slow Wave
Win Bassett's poem Only You Can Prevent Nothing
Our interview with Rachel Hyman
Robert Gray's poems The Day I Was Born and Humidity
Our interview with Matthew Rouser
Ray McManus' American Poem #2
Our conversation with Marium Khalid
Robert Fanning's poem The House We Almost Bought
Grant Clauser's poem Objects in Motion
Our documentary photographs for the Stay Fly mural in Phoenix conceived and painted by Sentrock and Mikey Jackson
Al Maginnes' poem How Things Break in This World
Anthony Martin's story Ill Not in the Mind
Richard Heby's poem The Plum
Rafael Alvarez' story Burdens of Home
Catch them elsewhere:
Amanda Miska
Win Bassett
Rachel Hyman
Ray McManus
Robert Fanning
Grant Clauser
Sentrock
Al Maginnes
Anthony Martin
Richard Heby
Rafael Alvarez
Categories craft, favorite poems, reading, writers we love
a second lens: last sentences from Tranströmer's Memories Look at Me
It all felt secure and natural. As if biding their time. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. And that, in the event, is what happened. I was thinking of becoming an entomologist and collecting insects in Africa, discovering new species instead of new deserts. Nowadays, well-known for deficient productivity, I was then clearly noted as a prolific scribbler, someone who sinned through excessive productivity, a literal Stakhanov. I thought it was the Inferno but it was Purgatory. The idea was so naive it became sophisticated.
Categories experiments, writers we love
Flannery O'Connor reading "A Good Man is Hard to Find"
(perfection)
Categories fiction, performance, the South, writers we love

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


How To Create A Federal Resume, download this wallpaper for free in HD resolution. How To Create A Federal Resume was posted in May 31, 2018 at 12:57 pm. This HD Wallpaper How To Create A Federal Resume has viewed by 61 users.How To Create A Federal Resume may related with how to create a federal government resume how to create a federal job resume how to create a federal resume how to create a great federal resume .


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staked Rig Grade Elevation: 2228' KB: 26' RKB: 2254'

FORMATION Pierre Shale Greenhom
Dakota Group (fka Mow ) Basal Dakota Sand Dunham Salt Top Dunham Salt Base Pine Salt Top
Pine Salt Base Minnekahta Opeche Salt Top 0 eche Salt Base Minnelusa Grou
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Sec. 26 McKenzie BHL: 200' FNL Sec. 14
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2021 | Art & Style
Kahlil Irving
Based in St. Louis, MO, artist Kahlil Irving holds a BFA in art history and ceramics/sculpture from the Kansas City Art Institute and was an MFA Fellow at Washington University's Sam Fox School of Design and Visual Art. His works have been exhibited at the Nerman Museum of Contemporary Art, the Arizona State University Art Museum and the Rhode Island School of Design Museum. One of his installations is also featured in Making Knowing: Craft in Art, 1950-2019, at the Whitney Museum of American Art until April 2022. In addition, Irving was recently awarded the Louis Comfort Tiffany Foundation and... MORE
Based in St. Louis, MO, artist Kahlil Irving holds a BFA in art history and ceramics/sculpture from the Kansas City Art Institute and was an MFA Fellow at Washington University's Sam Fox School of Design and Visual Art. His works have been exhibited at the Nerman Museum of Contemporary Art, the Arizona State University Art Museum and the Rhode Island School of Design Museum. One of his installations is also featured in Making Knowing: Craft in Art, 1950-2019, at the Whitney Museum of American Art until April 2022. In addition, Irving was recently awarded the Louis Comfort Tiffany Foundation and the Joan Mitchell Foundation grants. LESS
Forbes Lists
30 Under 30 - Art & Style
Bachelor of Arts/Science, Kansas City Art Institute
Bachelor of Arts/Science, Washington University in St. Louis
More from Forbes 30 Under 30 - Art & Style 2021 List
ManiMe
Cofounders,
Alton Mason
Eru Matsumoto


Halton's finest foodies are teaming up for a farm-to-chef festival on Sunday.
"Halton has deep agricultural roots, and harvest time provides us with wonderful opportunities to showcase our local farmers, retailers, restaurants and attractions," said Halton Regional chairman Gary Carr.
Harvest Halton is taking place from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m. in downtown Oakville.
Unique dishes are being created by award-winning chefs, who'll be paired with a local farmer to provide fresh ingredients.
Participating restaurants include: Black Forest Pastry Shop, Corks Restaurant, Coriander Green, The Crepe Kitchen, Just an Olde Fashioned Butchery, Noble Bistro, Paradiso, Piazza Bistro and Seasons Restaurant.
Halton farmers include: Andrews' Scenic Acres, Busy Liz's Farm Shop, Cody's Cows, Stonehaven Farms, Mabel May Farms, Wheelbarrow Orchards/Harvest Goodies and Cristan Farms.
The outdoor festival begins at Towne Square, stretching along Lakeshore Rd. in front of participating restaurants, and is running, rain or shine.
Live music and horse-drawn wagon rides are also on tap.
"Bringing family and friends together to enjoy locally grown food and fun activities helps us support our local agricultural community and our regional economy," said Carr.
Harvest Halton passports cost $20 and can be purchased online and picked up in the Square on the day of the event.
Space is limited to 300 participants.
Harvest Halton is part of the Region's annual Pumpkins to Pastries Trail, running from Sept. 12 to Oct. 31.


We had a wonderful time at Platypus cottage. John and our son Ryan both caught their first trout in your dam and were pretty chuffed! We did lots of walking and climbed Cathedral Rock. The view was impressive. We kept nice and warm with the kitchen fireplace going and everything about the cottage was wonderful. We look forward to coming back maybe with some friends or family as soon as we can. Thanks for allowing us to share such a beautiful place. Regards John, Cheryl and Ryan. PS I like to keep on top of the cleaning duties so I'll take credit for that!!


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This is my first effort at birding. I was so excited to photograph eagles today that I didn't sleep last night. After a frustrating morning never finding the right spot at the right time, this adult eagle was nice enough to pose in improving light for half an hour. I'll post a series of in-flight photos after this.
Camera Nerdery: I rented a 300 f/2.8 and used a 1.4x teleconverter on a 1D MkIII. I can definitely see how a longer lens and more resolution would have helped, though I can't fault the speed or sharpness of Canon's 300 L (it's amazing). It's difficult to get the post-process sharpening right with birds; if you're an old-hand, drop me some hints!


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The very first awards were given on basis of a voting by the most respectable forum members, back in 2002 or 2003. Afterwards, it's been a mod team discussing who'd be suitable for an award, so that we've reached consensus. We've been paying attention to what forum members think, and for example looking at ToM statistics and stuff like that. Furthermore, one can't get an award just on basis of a few good tracks, for example, but needs to consistently produce top quality stuff. Or push the limits of GR in some way. Also, inactive members haven't received awards, so there might be some obvious omissions - somebody who produced great tracks during a relatively short period, didn't get an award on the next round and didn't publish any more tracks most likely wouldn't get an award later either.
Finally, it's not just about the quality of work but behavior as well - bad attitude and wrong-doings mean that one doesn't get an award or might even lose it, but it doesn't mean that one loses the possibility forever - just keep on working on that quality stuff and change one's attitude and everything is possible.
I'm missing MajorTom in the GeneRally wizards list!
Bet you good that the Ex-RSC Staff still hold a grudge against me.
Neither will I. But in fact, your name was mentioned for the carmaker's award.. so you are way closer to it than me.
What's sure is that the awards are hard to have (it's the purpose) and recognize an huge contribution to the community. The list could be way longer (and so less prestigious) and sometimes the members stop working just before having it but the contrary (they leave just after having it) is also unfortunately true.
I don't think so... Or, at least, I've nothing against you, ME-tan. BTW you are more than welcome if you want to join the ToM S7.
Stop being silly. I put your name forward for a new Car Master badge in the Mods-Only section.
And TGF, please DON'T try and stir things up. I know it's a joke, but some may not take it that way.
Strange, Just like in RSC-days, I smell some sort of quarrel between Lukeno1 & TGF.
I sincerely hope it's not gonna escalate like on RSC, where one of them was banned for a while.
I must say that TGF's got a very specific sense of "humor", which is not easily understood by all of us.
Please take it easy, watch your words, and let's keep this a friendly place.
I don't have anything against you, it's just that some people could be easily offended by your words, even if you didn't want to do so.
I want my trackmaster award!
That reminded me of the fact that if someone kept asking for an award for himself, it usually made it harder for him to actually get it.
Nice to see you here, Aleksi.
I think you deseve that award anyway, even if it was only for your AI-lines!!
And does someone know how to contact MiltonDuPont, Gábor Kozma and 007?
Milton Du Pont knows about our forum (as far as I know it from a post at GRITA), but he haven't registered.
Gabor Kozma knows too, but haven't found time to register, for direct contact try to PM to DXTR.
007 is registered under name Otto Wilson.
Andreas Hultgren = AndHu, he was informed and invited too, however he isn't registered here. He is one of leaders of racedepartment.com, so you can try to contact him there.
Thanks .. now i must contact them.
Have you ever thought of expanding the Awards (I mean category-wise)?
You know, some memebers of the community are into trackmaking, some love creating cars, and others focus on racing and compo organizing. Now, the most influential trackmakers and carmakers are given an Award (not to mention the Wizards) but the best drivers are not recognized by this way.
I think of those racers who spend hours and hours practicing for a race, working out strategies, and do this for years, maybe from the very first steps of the scene. This may be also true for compo organizers!
They do push the limits: they set up new track records, use the best tracks and cars, give feedback on them, give motivation to other drivers by their excellent racing/organizing skills, this way they are just as important members of the community as those who actually produce something excellent, a track, a car or an app.
So trackmakers have ToM and Trackmaster Award, Carmakers have CoM and Carmaster Award - maybe the few extremely good racers or compo organizers also deserve an Award as well, Generally Champion or something like that. Evidently, a great driver may also be a Trackmaster or something else, but what about those who are involved in racing only?
I don't know if this idea had been discussed previously or not, but I miss the infuential drivers from the Awards list. What do you think?
Yes, I would like to. But it's little bit complicated, even if we're trying to find a solution.
There's a difference: GWR is driver's ability, while the Awards are people choice.


On Tuesday, my mom, my sister, and I headed to Holly to do some antique shopping. The cool thing about Holly is that, right downtown, there are 3 large antique malls all within walking distance of each other, plus several other cute shops in the area. So, there's no shortage of great places to find little treasures.
I went with two specific items in mind. I didn't find either of them. And you know what? I'm not really disappointed about it. I think the thrill of this whole antiquing business is the hunt, so I'll just keep looking. And, yep, that also meant I went home empty handed, because I was determined not to buy anything unless I really loved it. But that's okay – there was no shortage of wonderful things to look at.
I found myself fascinated by the sheer volume and scope of these stores. I love seeing collections of things – something that's a typical home artifact (say, a cup or a matchbook) looks ordinary in and of itself, but when you see it in bulk, as a part of a collection, it suddenly looks pretty cool. And wandering around these shops made me want to collect things – to find some random, quirky object and start scouring stores until I came up with my very own collection. I'm not sure if I'll actually do that, but it's a thought.
The other thing that intrigues me about this whole vintage/antique-y thing is how mundane most of the stuff in these shops is, if you really think about it. Sometimes we would walk by a display, and my mom would point something out and say "oh, my mom had that" or "my grandma had that." We even found a Pyrex bowl that we have in our own home, and that I in fact use almost every day to cook with! It makes me wonder what seemingly ordinary objects from my life right now might one day be looked at as cool vintage finds. You never really know, I guess.
Like I said, I was fascinated by items in bulk. Case in point: rolling pins.
My favorite kitchen displays were the ones that had large quantities of products in one color. Like, yellow!
This is one thing I toyed with buying. Love the bright blue.
I took this picture out of pure nostalgia. Why did I have so many trolls as a child? And why did we think they were so cute?
Love vintage labels. I have no idea what I would actually do with any of these things, and yet I kept finding myself wanting to buy little canisters and jars and tins.


text:
Motorcycling the Blue Ridge Parkway – A Halcyon Home
The Janus Experience
The Blue Ridge Parkway - A Halcyon Home
By Tom Neel
Some roads just beckon you to ride them. Some even famously named. Others, created solely for adventure as modern miracles of their day. The Blue Ridge Parkway covers all of these bases and more. 469 miles of diverse pictorial landscape, rhythmically paced, undulating, with countless amounts of turns, some nearly 360 degrees. In short – transcendent.
In the late 1980's, I moved to the micro village of Rectortown, VA. Population less than fifty. I was just beginning what would become a bustling career as a fine artist. There, I rented a cottage on a farm ironically called Halcyon Hills. The people and the place grounded me at a time I needed grounding. For the next three decades this place was never far from my heart or the many paintings I was inspired to create of the rolling hills of Virginia and the Blue Ridge Mountains.
I would come to know, ride, and love Skyline Drive, a nearby National Park which runs 105 miles from Front Royal, Virginia to Waynesboro, Virginia, where it then transitions to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Continuing south through Virginia into North Carolina, the "Parkway", as I'll call it, ends on the Cherokee Nation Reservation, cozily nestled in the Great Smoky Mountains. Rides south would always include pieces of the Parkway, until the day came to ride it end to end. Once up there on a sweltering summer day below, you just never want to come down from its natural cooling elevations. But one must, as there is not gas actually available on the Parkway, though in enough places it's not more than a mile away.
Two years ago my wife and I moved to Denver, NC., making the Carolina half much more accessible. Six months ago I bought a Halcyon, making the Parkway an ever enticing adventure. It is, I thought, the perfect road for this motorcycle. I was mostly correct, throwing everything the Halcyon 250 had at this mountain range with elevations between 4 – 6,000 feet. This, of course, is the polar opposite of the Halcyon's 801' birthplace of Goshen, Indiana. Which, by the way, is similar to the 902' of elevation where this journey would begin, from my home just north of Charlotte, NC. I suspect things here are way more rolling in the foot hills of the North Carolina – "High Country", as its known.
As mentioned, the Parkway begins at mile post 1 in Waynesboro, VA. It runs in a southwest direction, with each mile indicated by a post on the right side of the entire length of the two lane blacktop road. Where Skyline Drive is a National Park and its speed is set at 35mph, the Parkway is not, and the speed is mostly 45. Meaning one can roll along at the Halcyon's happy speed of 50mph. The road itself is an ever changing environment of long hills and reciprocating descents, twist and turns, pastoral landscape and distant layered mountain views. Large portions are tunneled by shade trees, though open areas abound. In the last 75 miles especially, there are numerous tunnels. None of which are long, but some you can't immediately see daylight on the other side. It's a bit like riding a motorcycle in a closet. I highly recommend the use of your high beam and not doing this at night.
My journey begins with riding directly north towards Roaring Gap, NC., near the NC/VA border. Just four miles south of the Parkway at the halfway point around milepost 230. Joining me would be my three closet riding friends. Treavor, making his way down from Virginia on his BMW GS1200, Lane on his Harley Road King, and of course Shane, on his yellow Halcyon -JM385. This would be a different experience for Shane and me. One void of rear suspension and massive amounts of grunt. Spoiler alert, neither would ultimately hinder the experience. In fact, I feel it enhanced it overall by challenging man and machine, and hint, they performed admirably.
The first night at High Meadows Inn, – (NC21), brought together old friends who in some cases hadn't physically seen each other in two years. Spirited conversation with spirits flowed. The establishment was largely chosen because of its proximity to the Parkway and having Nikola's restaurant right there. The place needed some TLC, but the rooms were clean, food good, and there was a gas station 1000' away. The next morning we were off. Copious amounts of blooming wildflowers added artistic pleasure, but the first thing the two of us with rigid frames noticed was a pothole obstacle course unlike I've seen along this road. I'll chalk it off to the pandemic, but protecting our rear ends kept us on our toes! The same could be said for the wildlife and the fawn that darted in front of the Halcyon's front wheel, nearly immobilizing the spotted bullet. It was lucky, and luckily for us, the wildlife and potholes dissipated in our first 60 mile leg down to the quaint village of Blowing Rock, NC, – milepost 291 (US321). This allowed for the first fill up for the tiny tankers and a coffee break for the un-woken.
Back on the Parkway, next up would be crossing the levitated Linn Cove Viaduct, which sits in the lap of Grandfather Mountain – milepost 304. Completed in 1987, it was the missing link. The last section of the Parkway to be built and quite an elevated and serpentine engineering feat it was! Riding it is captivating. Doing it one handed while taking photos of Shane, even more so!
With the viaduct in our mirrors, our shortest planned leg of just 40 miles or so, would come soon, or so we thought. The plan was to exit the Parkway at milepost 330.9 (NC226). This would allow for not only a quick fill up, but lunch at the famed Little Switzerland Inn. In doing so we would pass by the town of Linville. But as bad luck would have it, the Parkway bridge there was closed for construction, thus bringing our southern passage to a seemingly laborious, unplanned detour. Now it should be noted that both Shane and Lane live somewhat within spitting distance of Linville. Yes, I know what you're thinking. Comically me too! But they were eventually able to get us rerouted where the detour signs seemingly could not. The take away was twofold. First, check for construction on the Parkway, and second, make the detour part of the adventure, not part of the problem. Oh, and third, don't miss the monster truck photo op! As such, the departure offered up delicious roads to eat, and the Halcyons devoured each with surprising hunger! I truly mean this. Applause and bravo to Janus.
Once around and back on track, fueling up both rides and riders was welcome. I'd like to note that Little Switzerland is a very popular destination for Parkway visitors and motorcyclists alike. It can be busy, so bring your patience. With about 140 miles still in front of us and it now nearing 3-ish, it was time to head off. Next stop would be visiting Mt. Mitchell, – milepost 355.4. At 6,684', it is the highest peak in the east, and on this day, its summit was in the clouds. I've been up Mt. Mitchell a number of times, both with its spectacular view and on a motorcycle in dense fog. That would have been the outcome here, so we stopped for a quick entrance photo and made a quick run to Craggy Gardens, milepost 364.4. Stretching our legs, it is worth noting that the Parkway has an abundance of scenic overlooks to take breaks, though these are without facilities past nearby foliage.
Now within 20 miles of the well worth visiting, Asheville, NC, we were harmoniously at one with the Parkway's cadence. Potholes found earlier, if anything, were replaced with some frost heaving, occasionally simulating a bucking bronco. But none threw too much daylight between our asses and seats. I have to share, as I contributed a blog post about the Halcyon's ridged frame and sprung seat some months back; my wide seat suits me just fine, though Shane offered some minor protests about his standard one. All in all though, I feel for what became a nearly 10 hour, 290 mile ride, I felt great, top to bottom. One could also easily choose to make this a two day trip. Most probably do.
Approaching Asheville, most should stop at the Southern Highland Craft Guild – Folk Art Center. Uniquely located right on the Parkway at milepost 382, it is a very cool, nationally recognized artisan facility, filled with handmade pieces for sale. It's a good place to take a break and to find something truly special. Past this point the Parkway winds its way for the next 10 miles or so, through the lower half of Asheville, always keeping to itself. Fuel stops here can be found in close proximity to all of its exits. I chose milepost 393.6 (NC191), as it is the last convenient fuel stop before the last section of the Parkway, and easily the most dramatic as well. Fuel stops over the next 75 miles are not only further off the Parkway, they are a real descent. This is where the Parkway's elevations are the highest, including the highest point of 6,053', found at the Richland Balsam Overlook, – milepost 431.
For this reason, I have often felt that this section is easily the most dramatic, feeling at times remote and even other worldly. The artist in me was at home. Here, the mountain layers can seem endless, almost as if they cradle Brigadoon, the fantasy village that rises out of the mists and fog every hundred years for only a day. We should be so lucky as to happen upon it. We were however, not so lucky to happen upon a chilling rain which for a period of time was dropping water balloons from the sky. None of us had timed this with proper rain gear. The sun's eventual appearance, along with our 20 mile proximity to Cherokee was a blessing. An hour of that weather, I fear would have brought on hypothermic conditions to what at this point had been pleasant temps overall. Soaked, we ventured on.
Mile 466, 467, 468, 469, Yahoo! We arrive in Cherokee, damp and hungry, needing of beer and a shower to wash the road away, but blissful at what the day had brought. Past a detour and a last minute unneeded shower, the Blue Ridge Parkway did not disappoint, nor did the two mighty Halcyons. I'm thinking even our compadres reveled in the 250's ability to not only keep up, but to delivery their owners in as grand a style as any other two wheeled machinery. Our fill-ups had never consumed more than a gallon of fuel. This, no matter the hills, gear changes, top speeds of over 60mph at times. Fuel was simply never an issue. Shane's 43 tooth sprocket pretty much kept him at above 70mpg, with my 45 tooth not more than a couple mpg behind, and both were sans mechanical issues of any kind.
After a night at the Great Smokies Inn and a celebratory dinner at the Native Brewery, it was time make our way east again via NC19E through Maggie Valley. It was time to put the icing on the cake by visiting the "Wheels Through Time" vintage motorcycle Museum right in Maggie Valley. A tribute to the God's of American motorcycling, its many displays are like life-sized dioramas. The place is just plain cool and its hundreds of motorcycles mostly run. Many were started during our visit. Hint, hint, park a Halcyon outside of a place like this and it too is sure to draw a crowd. The first person approaching me saying, "Ah cool, this is the first one I've seen in person!" He knew exactly what he was looking at, and asked if he could take a photo. Yes sir, you most certainly can! Halcyon JM568 happily took me 600 miles in two and a half days.


Search B650 stopper bolt.. Other than that, I'd check the fluids and ride it like I stole it!!!!!
Ask him if he changed both spark plugs, there are two. Do the stopper bolt as suggested.
Look at the date on the tire, inspect the tires. Inspect/clean and/or replace the air filter, brake pads, brake oils.
I'm not a B650 rider but there are plenty of them around here with years of experience.
Welcome for Virginia! Sorry, no help from me on your questions but good luck!
Welcome Shamus.There has been good advice already given. I'd add that you can find a ton of great information on you new scooter at BurgmanUSA.com.
Welcome from o-HI-o and the Hocking Hills.


Why Another MVC Framework in Java EE 8?
Some of you may be aware that MVC 1.0 was launched as JSR 371. Targeted for Java EE 8 the goal of the JSR is to provide a standards based action-oriented web framework for Java EE. 'Why' and 'why now' are two perfectly reasonable questions to explore carefully with regards to this JSR. After all JSF has long been included in Java EE as a standards based MVC web framework. In addition although JSF is a component-oriented web framework there are myriad Java web frameworks that are action-oriented including ones that are very Java EE/CDI friendly such as VRaptor (indeed we had a session on VRaptor at JavaOne 2014).
There's little doubt the web framework space in Java has long been hyper-competitive. There are myriad camps each of which insist their way is the "right" way. Nonetheless in most reliable analysis two schools of thought have consistently come out on top for a number of years - component-oriented frameworks (led largely by JSF) and action-oriented frameworks (lately led by Spring MVC but long dominated by Struts). As a result it has been an open question whether Java EE should support both models much in the same way that .NET has done with ASP.NET and ASP.NET MVC. To put this question to rest we included it in the Java EE 8 survey. Despite all the factors above it turned out that the core Java EE community does in fact see the need to include a standard action-oriented web framework in Java EE, which brings us where we are with MVC 1.0. To answer some of the questions that should naturally arise none other than JSF specification lead Ed Burns put together a very nice analysis piece on OTN that's well worth a read. Red Hat's MVC 1.0 expert group representative Joshua Wilson has done the same as well.
It's obviously not possible to construct an entirely unbiased pro/con analysis matrix for choosing between these two perhaps equally valid major approaches to Java server-side web frameworks. That being said I've tried to encapsulate some of the salient concerns in the graphic below.
To apply a very broad generalization the way I have seen this play out is that heavily form/workflow driven applications where Java developers do a lot of the UI work tends to be written in JSF. There are exceptions (such as eBay - they presented on their JSF usage at JavaOne 2014) but these applications usually reside behind corporate firewalls. More public facing web applications often dominated by web developers tend to be written using action-oriented frameworks.
I hope this helps answer some of the questions you may have had. JSF is here to stay and continues to have a strong community behind it. JSF 2.3 was launched as JSR 372 and is also targeted for Java EE 8. MVC 1.0 will join JSF as a first class peer in Java EE for folks that prefer an action-oriented web framework.
If either of these technologies strongly interest you and you have the time to spare, now is the time to apply to join the respective expert group. Note that you can always participate in a JSR without officially being part of the expert group by simply subscribing to the JSR user alias. Also remember that you can contribute on an even more lightweight format through Adopt-a-JSR.
The distinction between Component Oriented vs. Action Oriented frameworks is patently obvious now, but I've been of this mindset for some time and I'm starting to believe that developers long accustomed to one or the other will have problems switching between them; even if they stay in the same base language (e.g. C# or Java).
The difference between them seems to be as immense as the difference between C and Java. Either you want to do everything yourself and maintain a very tight grip on control (action oriented framework) or you want the framework to provide reasonable defaults and let you concentrate on features (component oriented). I've also developed a bias around when each type of framework should be used: action-oriented frameworks for external sites that normally have leaner feature sets and component oriented for internal sites that have rich feature sets. I've helped applications using component oriented feature sets (primary ASP.NET, Ext.NET, SmartGWT, and some JSF) that would be a nightmare to create with an action oriented framework and I was involved with at least one *internal* application for which an action oriented framework was selected (JSP with boostrap). It was actually a nightmare for the developer team to get right. Conversely, I've seen many trivial internal sites propped up using technologies like Web Forms with all the features turned on, that every user in the company MUST use, and then they wonder why it's dog-slow.
The main issue with these styles of frameworks isn't the technologies; it's the adherents to each. Communities of JSF/GWT/ASP.NET Web Forms developers will turn their noses up at the communities of jQuery/boostrap/MVC.NET/MVC developers as being "unproductive" and the MVC developers will turn around and call the others "wasteful".
For my part, I just hope future application architects learn to use the right tool for the job. Just because you're most familiar with ASP.NET Web Forms (for example), doesn't mean it's the right tool for every job. You need to leave some space in your toolbox for MVC solution frameworks. Standardize on one API for each if you must, but have an open mind around when which would be most appropriate. There's never a good "always rule"; except this one.
Thanks for your excellent comments. May I take the liberty to suggest writing a blog entry on it to share your perspectives with a broader audience?
@Vince P.: an amen to common sense, my thoughts exactly. I have always been a proponent of "best tools for the job" and MVC 1.0 will provide an additional tool in the Java EE stack that will be a better fit for a lot of web apps than JSF is. In an ideal world there shouldn't be ideologues dominating discussions about which tech stack should be used to accomplish the goals. Now at least the ideologues can be appropriately marginalised where their influence can cause the more appropriate tech stack to be ditched to support their favourite "UI Paradigm".
Today I feel very comfortable in choosing to work in the Action Oriented model where the front-end development (aka, HTML / JS / CSS) has the actual control of the view layer, and Java concerning about security, and the back-end application.
The world of HTML development is evolving in incredible way in recent years, with several specialized tools, even with professionals dedicating themselves only interface layer, which in my opinion, no longer a "simple" view layer.
With the creation of the concept of WebComponents ( http://www.webcomponents.org/ ), the first time the Web environment will be able to have components in HTML as we have today in JSF for example, in a declarative way and included in the project through importing some dependence ( http://www.polymer-project.org/ ). What will greatly facilitate the development and enable the creation of projects like Primefaces for HTML Development, mentioned in the article.
@Stefan H: Thank you for the observations on webcomponents.org and Polymer. The latter especially seems like a very nice framework.
I did a little poking around in Polymer demo apps (e.g. https://www.polymer-project.org/apps/topeka/) and found what is essentially a component-oriented framework running client side. The only thing action oriented about using it would likely be the interface to the various servers that would probably front their services with various MVC style controllers.
From my point of view, this is the preferred approach. I have a definite bias towards component-oriented frameworks myself because I tend to work mainly on internal applications and because they tend to reduce the complexity involved in delivering rich feature sets. I really hope this grows into a rich standards-based component ecosystem over time. Thanks again!
A big problem with JSF is it includes bunch of JS in the rendered page and this cannot be controlled by the developer.
Again common use cases such as cross field validation are still a pain (But thanks to Omnifaces that helps JSF developers a lot).


text:
Growth and characterization of lithium tetraborate crystals grown in phase-matching directions
Tamotsu Sugawara, Ryuichi Komatsu, Satoshi Uda
Li2B4O7 crystals, nonlinear crystals used in ultraviolet solid-state lasers, were grown by the Czochralski method in appropriate directions for the low-cost production of devices for fourth-and fifth-harmonic generation of a Nd : YAG laser. The crystals were 2″ in diameter and 55-70 mm in length. The homogeneity of the refractive index in both crystals was good, and the refractive index variation did not depend on the pulling direction. However, significant scattering of the injected light beam was observed in a crystal grown in the fifth HG direction, and the laser damage threshold of the crystal decreased.
Journal of Crystal Growth
Published - 1998 10 1
フィンガープリント 「Growth and characterization of lithium tetraborate crystals grown in phase-matching directions」の研究トピックを掘り下げます。これらがまとまってユニークなフィンガープリントを構成します。
tetraborate Chemical Compounds
Phase matching Chemical Compounds
Lithium Engineering & Materials Science
phase matching Physics & Astronomy
lithium Physics & Astronomy
Characterization (materials science) Chemical Compounds
Direction compound Chemical Compounds
Sugawara, T., Komatsu, R., & Uda, S. (1998). Growth and characterization of lithium tetraborate crystals grown in phase-matching directions. Journal of Crystal Growth, 193(3), 364-369. https://doi.org/10.1016/s0022-0248(98)00507-7
Growth and characterization of lithium tetraborate crystals grown in phase-matching directions. / Sugawara, Tamotsu; Komatsu, Ryuichi; Uda, Satoshi.
In: Journal of Crystal Growth, Vol. 193, No. 3, 01.10.1998, p. 364-369.
Sugawara, T, Komatsu, R & Uda, S 1998, 'Growth and characterization of lithium tetraborate crystals grown in phase-matching directions', Journal of Crystal Growth, vol. 193, no. 3, pp. 364-369. https://doi.org/10.1016/s0022-0248(98)00507-7
Sugawara T, Komatsu R, Uda S. Growth and characterization of lithium tetraborate crystals grown in phase-matching directions. Journal of Crystal Growth. 1998 10 1;193(3):364-369. https://doi.org/10.1016/s0022-0248(98)00507-7
Sugawara, Tamotsu ; Komatsu, Ryuichi ; Uda, Satoshi. / Growth and characterization of lithium tetraborate crystals grown in phase-matching directions. In: Journal of Crystal Growth. 1998 ; Vol. 193, No. 3. pp. 364-369.
@article{ff4410b2c64a4ce0922ee4f8ea3ad2bd,
title = "Growth and characterization of lithium tetraborate crystals grown in phase-matching directions",
abstract = "Li2B4O7 crystals, nonlinear crystals used in ultraviolet solid-state lasers, were grown by the Czochralski method in appropriate directions for the low-cost production of devices for fourth-and fifth-harmonic generation of a Nd : YAG laser. The crystals were 2″ in diameter and 55-70 mm in length. The homogeneity of the refractive index in both crystals was good, and the refractive index variation did not depend on the pulling direction. However, significant scattering of the injected light beam was observed in a crystal grown in the fifth HG direction, and the laser damage threshold of the crystal decreased.",
keywords = "Czochralski method, Lithium tetraborate, Nonlinear optical crystal, Ultraviolet solid-state laser",
author = "Tamotsu Sugawara and Ryuichi Komatsu and Satoshi Uda",
journal = "Journal of Crystal Growth",
T1 - Growth and characterization of lithium tetraborate crystals grown in phase-matching directions
AU - Sugawara, Tamotsu
AU - Komatsu, Ryuichi
AU - Uda, Satoshi
N2 - Li2B4O7 crystals, nonlinear crystals used in ultraviolet solid-state lasers, were grown by the Czochralski method in appropriate directions for the low-cost production of devices for fourth-and fifth-harmonic generation of a Nd : YAG laser. The crystals were 2″ in diameter and 55-70 mm in length. The homogeneity of the refractive index in both crystals was good, and the refractive index variation did not depend on the pulling direction. However, significant scattering of the injected light beam was observed in a crystal grown in the fifth HG direction, and the laser damage threshold of the crystal decreased.
AB - Li2B4O7 crystals, nonlinear crystals used in ultraviolet solid-state lasers, were grown by the Czochralski method in appropriate directions for the low-cost production of devices for fourth-and fifth-harmonic generation of a Nd : YAG laser. The crystals were 2″ in diameter and 55-70 mm in length. The homogeneity of the refractive index in both crystals was good, and the refractive index variation did not depend on the pulling direction. However, significant scattering of the injected light beam was observed in a crystal grown in the fifth HG direction, and the laser damage threshold of the crystal decreased.
KW - Czochralski method
KW - Lithium tetraborate
KW - Nonlinear optical crystal
KW - Ultraviolet solid-state laser
JO - Journal of Crystal Growth
JF - Journal of Crystal Growth


A correlator block went offline at 20:12:42, affecting IF1 (the lower frequency). The affected antenna (CA02) and another antenna that was being shadowed (CA01) were removed from the IF1 tied array at 20:43:51. At the same time CA01 was removed from the IF2 tied array as well.