Step into the ancient world of Neolithic monuments and discover the astounding astronomical knowledge of our ancestors. Explore the Newgrange Lightbox in Ireland and similar marvels across Europe, revealing a deep connection between ancient peoples and the cosmos. Join me in unveiling these architectural wonders.
Discover the mysteries of the Newgrange monument’s Entrance Stone, a showcase of exquisite Neolithic rock art. Explore spirals, lozenges, and geometric designs that define European megalithic art and delve into their potential meanings and cultural significance. Join me in uncovering the secrets of this ancient Irish wonder.
Join me in this journey, researching family history, tracing back to my early 20th-century Irish ancestors who emigrated to Canada.
Explore with me the symbolic significance of Christmas trees and ornaments, noting their historical and religious importance in Christian traditions.
An evening at Cayuga Lake Inlet, home to the Cornell University Crew, is depicted as a serene haven for reflection. The Collyer Boathouse, vital to the local lore, sits across the inlet holding a rich history of crew camaraderie and competition.
Autumn leaves whisper,
By the calm inlet they dance,
Maple’s red embrace,
History in every branch,
Nature’s heart in silent chant.
In 2003 and 2008, the author visited and photographed White House Ruin in Canyon de Chelly, observing changes in landscape.
In November 2003, my son Sean and I journeyed up Route 191 from Petrified Forest National Park, arriving in Chinle on a crisp autumn afternoon. My photography equipment at the time was modest: a Sony Point and Shoot 5 MP camera with filters, a purse-like over-the-shoulder bag, and a basic tripod from Kmart.
We reached the White House trailhead in Canyon de Chelly and began our hike. The trail was quiet, and as the sun set at 5:20 pm, we found ourselves virtually alone. A dense growth of Russian Olive trees dominated the wash at that time. In the dimming light, I captured a distant shot of the White House Ruin, whitewashed, set against the backdrop of autumn-hued Russian Olive foliage. Nearby, a grove of Cottonwoods, still green, stood near the canyon wall.
By the time Pam and I returned in July 2008, four years and nine months later, the landscape had changed. The invasive Russian Olives had been removed, and the White House Ruin was no longer painted white.
The same Route 191 that Sean and I had taken in 2003 led us through the Four Corners region of Northern Arizona. Pam and I had traveled from Colorado, arriving in the late afternoon. This time, the Navajo Reservation’s adherence to daylight savings time meant the sun wouldn’t set until 8:33 pm. My aim was to photograph the White House Ruin that I had missed years earlier.
That July day the sun set 8:33 pm as the Navajo Reservation observes daylight savings time. My goal was to photograph the White House Ruin I missed in 2003. We arrived at the trail head. My photography kit was expanded from 2003, now included a Kodak DSC Pro slr/C, the “C” meaning “Canon” lens mounting, a Sony 700 alpha slr (I only use a variable lens), Manfrotto tripod with hydrostatic ball head, and the backpack style Lowe camera case. With the tripod it is over 25 pounds.
With this on my back I was prepared to boogie down the trail. At the height of tourist season there were many more people at the trailhead. Pam, being a friendly person, started a conversation while I ploughed ahead along the flat canyon rim. It is solid red sandstone, beautiful, generally level with enough unevenness to require attention. When Pam saw how far ahead I was she tried to catch up, tripped, fell hard.
I backtracked to Pam and we decided what to do. She thought, maybe, the fall broke a rib. We decided to proceed and descended, slowly, together. Here we are in front of the ruin. The sun, low in the sky, is moving below the south canyon wall. This is a perfect time, and I used both cameras.
The sweep of cliff and desert varnish was my intent to capture. Here it is through the Canon 50 mm lens.
I captured this version with the Sony Alpha 700 slr, the variable lens set to widest angle.
Here the camera setup waits out the sun…..
Sere Goldenrod
West Hill, Ithaca, resolves to this plain here sere goldenrod, abandoned barn, silo, distant hills. We headed out from home as sunset approached.
I was reading the story of Jacob and Laban and encountered the word “Mizpah” is Hebrew for “watchtower”. It is used to refer to an emotional bond or covenant made between two people with God as their witness, often symbolized by a pile of stones marking an agreement. Mizpah sounds similar to “Mitzvah,” often used to mean “a good deed,” and is related to the Aramaic word “tzavta,” which means to attach or join. This term is commonly used to describe any charitable act and has deep roots in Jewish tradition and texts, such as the Jerusalem Talmud.
The relationship between “Mizpah” and “Mitzvah” seems to be more linguistic and symbolic rather than direct. Both terms originate from Semitic languages and carry connotations of connection and covenant. “Mizpah” symbolizes a bond overseen by God, while “Mitzvah” refers to actions that connect individuals through good deeds, potentially strengthening communal bonds.
In a heartwarming YouTube video, Samuel Jack Wills and his grandmother Pam turn cake-making into an adventure in celebration of his Batman-themed birthday. The video captures endearing family traditions, from a talking doorbell to playful gift unwrapping, and culminates in the creation of a Bat-Signal adorned cake and joyous birthday song.
🎉 Get ready for an extraordinary adventure into the world of cake-making with our superstar, Samuel Jack Wills, and his magical sidekick, Grandma Pam! 🍰✨ It’s a special day just before Halloween, and the excitement is as palpable as the crisp autumn air. 🍂
🦇 In our latest heartwarming YouTube video, witness the grand entrance of our birthday hero, Sam, as he strides through the gate with his dad, Sean Wills, to a chorus of giggles and gasps, thanks to our quirky, talking doorbell that’s become an outrageous family tradition. 🎈
Join us in the celebration as Sam unwraps wonders from Grandma Pam and Grandpa Michael: from a thrilling Batman-themed birthday card that lights up the room with a Bat-Signal magnetic sticker, to a fleet of Gotham-inspired toys including an aircraft, the Batcave, and even miniature treasures like a suitcase brimming with play 100 dollar bills. 🏰💰
Sam and Grandma Pam put on their chef hats, discussing and designing a cake that’s not just a treat but a superhero saga! 🎂 With buttercream as smooth as velvet and chocolate layers that whisper ‘indulge’, they create a masterpiece adorned with blue and yellow frosting, featuring the iconic Bat-Signal.
And what’s a Batcave without boulders? Watch them skillfully make Rice Krispy treat boulders to scatter around their edible Batcave — a feast for the eyes as much as the taste buds. 🍫
The grand finale is a chorus of joy as Sam, surrounded by his loving family, basks in the glow of birthday candles and the warmth of the Birthday Song. 🎶 It’s a day where memories are made, laughter is shared, and love is multiplied.
So grab your capes, click on our video, and be a part of our delightful celebration that’s sure to lift your spirits sky-high! 🚀 Don’t forget to like, share, and subscribe for more family fun with the Wills clan! #SuperSamCakeAdventure 🥳👨🍳
Welcome to The Hole – don’t bother looking for the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s probably just another train coming to run you down.
The first light of dawn hadn’t yet dared to creep through the dense overhang of the Queens sky as I rolled my Chevy into the kind of neighborhood where hope seemed to have packed up and skipped town – The Hole, New York’s forgotten stepchild. A scrap of no-man’s land straddling the invisible line between Queens and Brooklyn, it was the kind of place that cabbies avoided after the sun punched out for the day.
The Hole had a reputation that’d curl a mobster’s hair. It was a dank underbelly of the city, sitting thirty feet below the rest like a dirty secret. It was the city’s afterthought, a neighborhood swallowed by the infrastructure and indifference, where houses teetered on the brink of collapse, the law was just a rumor. Where even water has nowhere else to go.
My ’63 Bel Air came to a rest outside an all-night diner that looked like it served more trouble than coffee. The sign out front flickered a sickly hue of orange, a weary beacon to the lost souls seeking refuge from their own bad decisions. Inside, the air was a cocktail of grease, tobacco, and the tang of desperation. I slid into a booth that had seen better nights, my back to the wall, always facing the door. You learned to watch your own back in The Hole.
The waitress, a broad with more miles on her than my Chevy, slid over to me. “What’s it gonna be, mister?” she asked, her voice husky from too many cigarettes and not enough dreams.
“Coffee, black,” I replied, scanning the room for the face I was supposed to meet. He was a two-bit informant with a rap sheet longer than the Brooklyn Bridge. But he had a line on what was going down in The Hole, and I needed the inside scoop.
The Hole didn’t do gentle wakes; it was a sledgehammer of reality from the get-go. This was a corner of Queens that spat out the bones of the American Dream like it was chewing tobacco. The buildings, adorned with the scars of graffiti, stood like a row of rotten teeth, and the streets had potholes big enough to bury a body in. And bury they did; the marshy grounds were rumored to be a final resting place for those who crossed the wrong people, where wise guys played hide and seek with a .38.
I sipped my coffee, hot and bitter as the wind that whistled through the bullet holes of the stop sign outside. The streets were quiet, but that kind of quiet that screams trouble, like the breathless calm before a storm. The Hole didn’t do sunshine and rainbows. It did rain that fell like tears of the angels too drunk to care anymore, soaking through your coat and into your bones.
The door creaked open, and in walked my informant, Joey “The Snitch” Wakovski. He scanned the room with eyes that darted like roaches when the lights flick on. Spotting me, he shuffled over, each step a testament to a life misspent.
“You got something for me, Joey?” I asked without pleasantries. Time was a luxury in The Hole. It had a habit of running out, often along with your luck.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the swirling black depths of my coffee. “There’s talk, see. The Kamorovs are moving in on the Guerreros’ turf. Gonna be a bloodbath.”
The Kamorovs and Guerreros were The Hole’s version of royalty, if royalty’s crowns were made of brass knuckles and their scepters were Tommy guns. A war between them would turn the streets into a butcher’s shop.
“Any idea when?” I pressed.
“Soon,” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder. “They’re loading up. Guns coming in from upstate. It’s gonna be big.”
The waitress sauntered over, eyeing Joey with suspicion before she asked, “You havin’ anything?”
He shook his head. “Nah, just the news.”
She shrugged and walked away, her interest in our conversation as dead as my third-grade goldfish. I dropped a few bills on the table. “Thanks, Joey. Keep your head down, huh?”
He snorted. “In The Hole, better to keep it up. That way, you see the reaper coming.”
I left him there, nursing the paranoia that kept him breathing, and stepped back into the streets. The sun had finally broken through, casting a light that seemed almost indecent against the grime. But it did little to warm the chill that had settled in my gut.
The Hole was about to explode, and blood was going to flow through these streets like a biblical flood. The Gavellis and the Morans would dance their deadly dance, and The Hole would swallow up the losers, no questions asked.
As I headed back to my car, the city was waking up, the sounds of life starting to bubble up from the cracks in the pavement. But The Hole remained asleep, dreaming its dark, twisted dreams. It was a place out of time, a relic, a ghostly echo of New York’s dirtiest secrets. And I was knee-deep in its muck, trying to stay afloat.
The first chapter of my day was coming to a close, and I knew the rest of the story was going to be written in blood and bullets.
