"Frank Chimero's Self-promotional package about how good music binds us through shared experiences."
Love these! So true!
Friday, April 29, 2011
*Greatest Hits*
I've said it before and I'll say it again, creativity/design/building/making life beautiful, all of that keeps people alive. It's why we are on earth...to create! God started it all...we follow Him. He's pretty good.;)
"Frank Chimero's Self-promotional package about how good music binds us through shared experiences."
Love these! So true!
"Frank Chimero's Self-promotional package about how good music binds us through shared experiences."
Love these! So true!
*Frank Chimero...*
...this guy is made of awesomesness just like the person I discovered him from, my friend Wayne. Thanks Wanga! :D
"Frank Chimero designs and draws, writes and thinks. He makes pictures about words and words about pictures."
After reading some of his blog and seeing his work, and watching this little vid, I can't wait for this book.
(I tried to embed it on here, but my computer is being a dumb head...sorry you actually have to click the link to see the way this guy thinks. heh. I'm going to sleep now. 1:30 am)
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/30453381/the-shape-of-design
His blog...
http://blog.frankchimero.com/
"Frank Chimero designs and draws, writes and thinks. He makes pictures about words and words about pictures."
After reading some of his blog and seeing his work, and watching this little vid, I can't wait for this book.
(I tried to embed it on here, but my computer is being a dumb head...sorry you actually have to click the link to see the way this guy thinks. heh. I'm going to sleep now. 1:30 am)
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/30453381/the-shape-of-design
His blog...
http://blog.frankchimero.com/
Saturday, April 23, 2011
*The girl with an apple*
My sister sent this to me today and It's one of those stories that shows that God exists even when we feel he doesn't. And how detailed he weaves his miracles into each of his childrens lives...if they so desire him to. I studied world war 2 for almost a year and was deeply affected by it and it changed me and gave me courage in my own life. There are powerful and wrenching stories that show some of the bravest human souls ever sent to the earth. God forever bless them.
Ps. After reading this, I went into the kitchen and my mom had brought up a basket of apples. :)
*The Girl With An apple*
(This is a true story and you can find out more by Googling Herman Rosenblat. He was Bar Mitzvahed at age 75)
August 1942. Piotrkow , Poland .
The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously. All the men, women and children of Piotrkow's Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square.
Word had gotten around that we were being moved. My father had only recently died from typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded ghetto. My greatest fear was that our family would be separated.
'Whatever you do,' Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me, 'don't tell them your age. Say you're sixteen.
'I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be deemed valuable as a worker.
An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He looked me up and down, and then asked my age.
'Sixteen,' I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers and other healthy young men already stood.
My mother was motioned to the right with the other women, children, sick and elderly people.
I whispered to Isidore, 'Why?'
He didn't answer.
I ran to Mama's side and said I wanted to stay with her.
'No, 'she said sternly.
'Get away. Don't be a nuisance. Go with your brothers.'
She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: She was protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once, she pretended not to.
It was the last I ever saw of her.
My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany .
We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night weeks later and were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued uniforms and
identification numbers.
'Don't call me Herman anymore.' I said to my brothers. 'Call me 94983.'
I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading the dead into a hand-cranked elevator.
I, too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a number.
Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald's sub-camps near Berlin .
One morning I thought I heard my mother's voice.
'Son,' she said softly but clearly, I am going to send you an angel.'
Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream.
But in this place there could be no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And fear.
A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around the barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not easily see. I was alone.
On the other side of the fence, I spotted someone: a little girl with light, almost luminous curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree.
I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly in German. 'Do you have something to eat?'
She didn't understand.
I inched closer to the fence and repeated the question in Polish. She stepped forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet, but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life.
She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence.
I grabbed the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say faintly, 'I'll see you tomorrow.'
I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day. She was always there with something for me to eat - a hunk of bread or, better yet, an apple.
We didn't dare speak or linger. To be caught would mean death for us both.
I didn't know anything about her, just a kind farm girl, except that she understood Polish. What was her name? Why was she risking her life for me?
Hope was in such short supply, and this girl on the other side of the fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.
Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal car and shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia . 'Don't return,' I told the girl that day. 'We're leaving.'
I turned toward te barracks and didn't look back, didn't even say good-bye to the little girl whose name I'd never learned, the girl with the apples.
We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed.
On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM.
In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I'd survived. Now, it was over.
I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.
But at 8 A.M. there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people running every which way through camp. I caught up with my brothers.
Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone was running, so I did too. Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived; I'm not sure how. But I knew that the girl with the apples had been the key to my survival.
In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none.
My mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.
Eventually I made my way to England where I was sponsored by a Jewish charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the Holocaust
and trained in electronics. Then I came to America , where my brother Sam had already moved. I served in the U. S. Army during the Korean War, and returned to New York City after two years.
By August 1957 I'd opened my own electronics repair shop. I was starting to settle in.
One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England called me.
'I've got a date. She's got a Polish friend. Let's double date.'
A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me.
But Sid kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up to the Bronx to pick up his date and her friend Roma.
I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn't so bad. Roma was a nurse at a Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with swirling brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with life.
The four of us drove out to Coney Island. Roma was easy to talk to, easy to be with.
Turned out she was wary of blind dates too!
We were both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by the shore. I couldn't remember having a better time.
We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the back seat.
As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had been left unsaid between us. She broached the subject, 'Where were you,' she
asked softly, 'during the war?'
'The camps,' I said. The terrible memories still vivid, the irreparable loss. I had tried to forget. But you can never forget.
She nodded. 'My family was hiding on a farm in Germany , not far from Berlin,' she told me. 'My father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan papers.'
I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a constant companion. And yet here we were both survivors, in a new world.
'There was a camp next to the farm.' Roma continued. 'I saw a boy there and I would throw him apples every day.'
What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy. 'What did he look like? I asked.
'He was tall, skinny, and hungry. I must have seen him every day for six months.'
My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it.
This couldn't be.
'Did he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving Schlieben?' Roma looked at me in amazement. 'Yes!'
'That was me!'
I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded with emotions. I couldn't believe it! My angel.
'I'm not letting you go.' I said to Roma. And in the back of the car on that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn't want to wait.
'You're crazy!' she said. But she invited me to meet her parents for Shabbat dinner the following week.
There was so much I looked forward to learning about Roma, but the most important things I always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness. For many months, in the worst of circumstances, she had come to the fence and given me hope. Now that I'd found her again, I could never let her go.
That day, she said yes. And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years of marriage, two children and three grandchildren, I have never let her go.
Ps. After reading this, I went into the kitchen and my mom had brought up a basket of apples. :)
*The Girl With An apple*
(This is a true story and you can find out more by Googling Herman Rosenblat. He was Bar Mitzvahed at age 75)
August 1942. Piotrkow , Poland .
The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously. All the men, women and children of Piotrkow's Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square.
Word had gotten around that we were being moved. My father had only recently died from typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded ghetto. My greatest fear was that our family would be separated.
'Whatever you do,' Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me, 'don't tell them your age. Say you're sixteen.
'I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be deemed valuable as a worker.
An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He looked me up and down, and then asked my age.
'Sixteen,' I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers and other healthy young men already stood.
My mother was motioned to the right with the other women, children, sick and elderly people.
I whispered to Isidore, 'Why?'
He didn't answer.
I ran to Mama's side and said I wanted to stay with her.
'No, 'she said sternly.
'Get away. Don't be a nuisance. Go with your brothers.'
She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: She was protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once, she pretended not to.
It was the last I ever saw of her.
My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany .
We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night weeks later and were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued uniforms and
identification numbers.
'Don't call me Herman anymore.' I said to my brothers. 'Call me 94983.'
I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading the dead into a hand-cranked elevator.
I, too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a number.
Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald's sub-camps near Berlin .
One morning I thought I heard my mother's voice.
'Son,' she said softly but clearly, I am going to send you an angel.'
Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream.
But in this place there could be no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And fear.
A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around the barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not easily see. I was alone.
On the other side of the fence, I spotted someone: a little girl with light, almost luminous curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree.
I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly in German. 'Do you have something to eat?'
She didn't understand.
I inched closer to the fence and repeated the question in Polish. She stepped forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet, but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life.
She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence.
I grabbed the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say faintly, 'I'll see you tomorrow.'
I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day. She was always there with something for me to eat - a hunk of bread or, better yet, an apple.
We didn't dare speak or linger. To be caught would mean death for us both.
I didn't know anything about her, just a kind farm girl, except that she understood Polish. What was her name? Why was she risking her life for me?
Hope was in such short supply, and this girl on the other side of the fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.
Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal car and shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia . 'Don't return,' I told the girl that day. 'We're leaving.'
I turned toward te barracks and didn't look back, didn't even say good-bye to the little girl whose name I'd never learned, the girl with the apples.
We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed.
On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM.
In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I'd survived. Now, it was over.
I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.
But at 8 A.M. there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people running every which way through camp. I caught up with my brothers.
Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone was running, so I did too. Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived; I'm not sure how. But I knew that the girl with the apples had been the key to my survival.
In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none.
My mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.
Eventually I made my way to England where I was sponsored by a Jewish charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the Holocaust
and trained in electronics. Then I came to America , where my brother Sam had already moved. I served in the U. S. Army during the Korean War, and returned to New York City after two years.
By August 1957 I'd opened my own electronics repair shop. I was starting to settle in.
One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England called me.
'I've got a date. She's got a Polish friend. Let's double date.'
A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me.
But Sid kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up to the Bronx to pick up his date and her friend Roma.
I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn't so bad. Roma was a nurse at a Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with swirling brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with life.
The four of us drove out to Coney Island. Roma was easy to talk to, easy to be with.
Turned out she was wary of blind dates too!
We were both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by the shore. I couldn't remember having a better time.
We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the back seat.
As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had been left unsaid between us. She broached the subject, 'Where were you,' she
asked softly, 'during the war?'
'The camps,' I said. The terrible memories still vivid, the irreparable loss. I had tried to forget. But you can never forget.
She nodded. 'My family was hiding on a farm in Germany , not far from Berlin,' she told me. 'My father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan papers.'
I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a constant companion. And yet here we were both survivors, in a new world.
'There was a camp next to the farm.' Roma continued. 'I saw a boy there and I would throw him apples every day.'
What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy. 'What did he look like? I asked.
'He was tall, skinny, and hungry. I must have seen him every day for six months.'
My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it.
This couldn't be.
'Did he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving Schlieben?' Roma looked at me in amazement. 'Yes!'
'That was me!'
I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded with emotions. I couldn't believe it! My angel.
'I'm not letting you go.' I said to Roma. And in the back of the car on that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn't want to wait.
'You're crazy!' she said. But she invited me to meet her parents for Shabbat dinner the following week.
There was so much I looked forward to learning about Roma, but the most important things I always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness. For many months, in the worst of circumstances, she had come to the fence and given me hope. Now that I'd found her again, I could never let her go.
That day, she said yes. And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years of marriage, two children and three grandchildren, I have never let her go.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
*A tree treasure indeed*
Nothin' like this beauty to make a womans day. Ha! (barf)
I sent this photo to a few friends and of course my BFF, Christine, had my favorite response;
"SICK!!! How could you do that to me!! IM SCARRED for LIFE!"
Bwahahah What can I say? That's what what friends are for!
Ps. You can purchase this on Etsy! The store is called "Minn0wbathers". It's only like 60 BUCKS!
"The LAST Lantern"
...his eyes were so tired as he ran to the dock. Drenched, freezing, battered and bruised he scanned his eyes through the fog. At the edge of dock he saw the blue sash, it was her. Her little boat had drifted off and she lay there, alive and thankfully with a dim lantern. Had the oil run out he wouldn't have seen her. The flashes of fog from his battle to survive and the black holed night provided nothing but blindness. She was barely alert as she lay soaked, that someone was rushing towards her. She knew it was him. He scooped her up, turned and began to run. He ran as far as he could when he began to stumble. His fatigue brought him to a halt and he collapsed. They both fell heavily on the crooked old dock. It knocked the breath out of her and all the previous pain returned. Barely breathing and in a quiet voice she said, "get up...oh please get up! We're almost there! I can't do it alone...there is still light!" She spoke it twice but no response, just silence. And at once the hellish winds began to rage. Her greatest fear fell upon her...she looked down at him and then at the lantern,
Flicker...
Flicker...
BLACKOUT.
Flicker...
Flicker...
BLACKOUT.
Friday, April 15, 2011
*Toad the wet sprocket...REVAMPED*
.
Read below...it say's it all. :) It so makes me want to be 19 again, when I heard them for the first time with Gin Blossoms. It's in the top ten happiest nights of my life. Seriously! They revamped some of my favorite songs (perfectly without ruining them) and they are touring again. THAT is happy!
P.s. Only one thing is wrong with this picture, Glen Phillips is usually the barefoot man not Randy Guss. I guess they decided to switch it up a bit...maybe Glen's feet started to hurt. :)
Pss. Did I ever tell you that I have Glen Phillips guitar pick? I don't really care about that stuff unless it comes from U2 or Toad. I would tell the story but I'm not going to...well, picture this scene, I'm on the front row with my friends and in slow motion it comes floating out of his hand and lands at my feet. It is actually a used one too...an old Eagle on it. Maybe I'll attach a pic. I wonder how many times I've repeated myself or shown the same photos on this blog. I don't go back and read what I've written or I would probably delete it all. *shrug*
I JUST LISTENED TO THE NEW "WINDMILLS" IT'S AMAAAAAAZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZING!
Btw, You can buy this online or buy the disc. Of course I bought both. ;)
http://www.toadthewetsprocket.com/
P.s. Only one thing is wrong with this picture, Glen Phillips is usually the barefoot man not Randy Guss. I guess they decided to switch it up a bit...maybe Glen's feet started to hurt. :)
Pss. Did I ever tell you that I have Glen Phillips guitar pick? I don't really care about that stuff unless it comes from U2 or Toad. I would tell the story but I'm not going to...well, picture this scene, I'm on the front row with my friends and in slow motion it comes floating out of his hand and lands at my feet. It is actually a used one too...an old Eagle on it. Maybe I'll attach a pic. I wonder how many times I've repeated myself or shown the same photos on this blog. I don't go back and read what I've written or I would probably delete it all. *shrug*
Btw, You can buy this online or buy the disc. Of course I bought both. ;)
http://www.toadthewetsprocket.com/
Monday, April 04, 2011
Sunday, April 03, 2011
*So I had a birthday*
And of course I can't get away with hiding from the # or my nice family. LOT'S of cake, (two to be exact and they were both AMAZING!) a few members of the family, treats and heartfelt presents handmade sent from Jen and the kids, and two new book shelves. That's happy. :)
Thanks to Pammy & Taylor for putting the book shelves together for me. And thank you IKEA! :)
*One day without shoez*
April 5th...just do it. :)
One Day Without Shoes | www.onedaywithoutshoes.com
http://onedaywithoutshoes.com,
One Day Without Shoes | www.onedaywithoutshoes.com
http://onedaywithoutshoes.com,
I chose this photo from a trip w/friends from a few years back, mostly because of the way I felt that day. Blessed. I wasn't the one selling things to get money to buy food, clothing, and well...shoes. I was enjoying the beautiful world I lived in by relaxing on the beach. But I knew how lucky I was and I still do...but I need reminders like this "one day without shoes"... especially when I'm kind of a shoe-aholic. :/ And I actually think I'll buy a pair of *Toms* on that day even though I look like an elf in them. ;)
Saturday, April 02, 2011
*Some say that GENES are the thread of life...*
...but some of us disagree on the spelling and meaning. JEANS are the thread of life NOT GENES! If you don't have the right jeans (for you) you've got nothin'! If they don't add a little swagger, a little saunter, a little skip, a little swing to your step and your SOUL...your wearing the wrong ones. The brand *Nudie jeans* says it better than I can...
Jeans allow you to find your voice. It doesn't matter the price, the year, or what others think...it's what YOU think! If you're a "moms jeans" kind of girl...Rock 'em!???
Ps. Can you tell what I've been looking at this week? ;)
Pss. This advice is just as much for men, um, if not more so. :D heh Are you still single? This might have something to do with that. MIGHT!
Psss. Actually try to keep up with the times. I just didn't know how to say that nicely. This is the 21st century for crying out loud. And you can find some kool jeans for a decent price. So don't blame lack of pennies on staying on top of style. *wink* Get RID of the 90's Girbauds!
Jeans allow you to find your voice. It doesn't matter the price, the year, or what others think...it's what YOU think! If you're a "moms jeans" kind of girl...Rock 'em!???
Ps. Can you tell what I've been looking at this week? ;)
Pss. This advice is just as much for men, um, if not more so. :D heh Are you still single? This might have something to do with that. MIGHT!
Psss. Actually try to keep up with the times. I just didn't know how to say that nicely. This is the 21st century for crying out loud. And you can find some kool jeans for a decent price. So don't blame lack of pennies on staying on top of style. *wink* Get RID of the 90's Girbauds!
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