Leaderboard

Cassette tapes had a side A and a side B so it is only logical that their successor would be a CD.

They put those in Cracker Jack boxes here in the states.

How do you spot a blind man at a nudist beach? It's not hard.

Amongst other potential prizes.

ya forgot the best kind the one some else bought CB

........... we was hopin' you wouldn't notice ..........

BY ORDER OF MIZ ESTHER Gregory Beale, Carbon Hill's telegrapher, regarded his whittled pencil with a critical eye. His attentive ear automatically followed the traffic, listening to the clicks and clatters; messages had a header, designating their intended recipient; so far nothing was for his station -- but he remained alert for the clattering CH. The train was only just arrived; it was a daily, for Firelands, then points beyond: Gregory didn't really know where it went after it left Firelands, and he did not particularly care: he had a good job, he had a regular income and a warm place to work -- for which he was most profoundly grateful. He'd known too many times when he had neither one. He bent over, just set his freshly sharpened Barlow to the side of the pencil, ready to take another careful shaving, when the door opened, flooding his little office with light and a draft of cold air. Something female and well dressed stood in the doorway: he automatically came to his feet, surprised: nobody just walked in -- The door closed and he set Barlow and pencil on his desk. "Miz Esther," he said carefully, and the green-eyed Esther Keller, owner, chief executive officer and Big Chief Honcho In Charge of the Z&W Railroad, smiled and extended her gloved hand: "Gregory! How have you been!" "Fine, ma'am," he almost stammered, very carefully gripping her extended hand: he looked over her shoulder as the door opened again, as it slammed shut: both telegrapher and railroad owner looked, startled, at a young man with an equally young woman in his arms, a woman with a pale face -- an expression of pain marring her fair-skinned features -- Esther took in an arm over the woman's maternal belly, the look of suppressed agony, a look she'd seen before. "How long is her labor?" she asked, gone from pleasant and welcoming to all-business in a tenth of a second or less. "Two hours, ma'am, she's --" "The baby's stuck," the laboring mother gasped, twisting in her husband's arms. Esther's green eyes snapped with suppressed, Irish-temper fires: "Carry her into my private car," she said, her voice clipped, then turned to the telegrapher. "Lightning, clear the line from here to Firelands. Clear the rails. I want a high ball from here to there." "Ma'am, on whose authority?" "Mine!" Esther snapped, swinging around the distressed husband and yanking open the door. Esther Keller, owner and general manager of the Z&W Railroad, woman of society and of commerce, followed the young couple as the laboring mother was helped up the steps into the private car, as the porter opened the door, then took the woman from the husband: he turned, sidestepped into the open door: Esther swept in behind the porter, seized the covers of the neatly-made bunk, snapped them down: "Put her here," she said, her voice quiet: there was no need to raise it, for hers was the ultimate voice of authority on this railroad. Esther turned to the porter. "Tell Lightning to wire ahead to Firelands. I want Doctor Greenlees ready when we arrive." She turned to the conductor. "Tell William I shall want his best speed." "Yes ma'am," both men said: two messengers departed on the Hot Foot, and Esther drew the curtain about, isolating the women from the menfolk. The worried husband drew the curtain back, intending to join his wife, and nearly ran into the gloved finger of a green-eyed guardian with a firece expression to her flawless face. "Out," she snapped: she seized the man by his arm, steered him to a chair. "Sit," she said, and her voice brooked no argument. He sat. Lightning's head came up as the Firelands header clattered from his sounder. His pencil moved automatically, metallic clatters rattling into his ears and coming out the sharpened point of his whittled point. He read the message, reached for his key. The account would later be translated from telegrapher's shorthand, for the benefit of future generations; years later, this account would be read aloud for a meeting of the Ladies' Tea Society by a woman with pale eyes, but that is not why we are telling this tale today. It is no light thing to order the tracks cleared, and only significant authority can give such an order. When Lightning inquired of Carbon Hill, the reply came back in language more than sufficient for the task, a reply entered into Lightning's record in capital letters, reflective of the urgency of the order: BY ORDER OF MIZ ESTHER. The Lady Esther laid her ears back, the way a mule will when it's pulling hard, pulling with a will. She had a bellyfull of water, she had good coal to fire with: once she got to moving, the fireman threw in a big slab of side meat, firing the boiler faster and hotter than she normally would: when Miz Esther gave them the White-Flag Express, engineer and fireman responded with a will, and so did their beloved engine. Esther Keller sat beside the young woman, holding her hand, blotting her forehead with a cool, damp cloth: she spoke quietly, the soothing, reassuring words of a mother, a woman who knew what it was to give birth, who knew how important it was to feel that hand in hers, to hear the woman's voice in her ear, to know she was not alone in her agonies. The Lady Esther's exhaust barked hard against the pull: she was running a light load today, which meant she was running fast today: the downhill into Firelands would be the only concerning part: too much speed and even their air brakes wouldn't stop them in time, and the engineer made it a point of pride of bringing his beloved, shining, polished engine to a very precise stop, exactly where he wanted her, no matter the speed of his approach. The Lady Esther whistled defiance as she built her speed, she laid white exhaust against the sky, she laid her ears back and ran! Dr. John Greenlees paced impatiently, the way he did when he was frustrated. He did not like to wait, he did not like to be delayed: he was a man who preferred to address a situation immediately, and as vigorously as was necessary: his head snapped up and he glared at the far curve, where The Lady Esther would first be seen: he looked down and to his left, at the waiting ambulance wagon, with the red-shirted Irishman in the driver's box, at the rest of the Irish Brigade shifting their weight, holding the unfolded litter, waiting. Esther laid a gentle hand on the younger woman's forehead, murmuring womanly encouragement; she spoke gently of the waiting physician, of the excellence of his care, and the laboring woman's husband's fists balled and he ground his teeth as he heard the tears in his wife's voice: "But we can't afford it!" -- he could not hear the response, only that the woman with emerald eyes was soothing with her voice, and his wife's sobs subsided, at least a little: part of him knew that women will cry for any reason, or for no reason, or because of something completely different than what they were talking about, and his wife was crying more quietly now, and he wished most sincerely he knew what he might do to ease her distress. The Lady Esther's whistle split the air with her shrill summons: the engineer released the lanyard, gripped the second lanyard, pulled both at the same time: the second whistle was tuned, and sang in harmony with the first: short and long blasts were given in a particular sequence to convey different messages, but he was running a White Flag Express, he had priority over every other rail traffic, Firelands knew he was coming, and he needed only to let them know where they were, that they were near. He eased back the throttle and started to tighten the brakes. Bill knew his engine, he knew his job, he knew just how much air it would take to slow her down. Almost -- almost -- he wished the run were longer, for it was a rare thing for him to let his beloved Lady run: she sang to him when she worked, her voice was complex and rich and rhythmic, and when he asked her to run, she laid her ears back and sang him a four-count chant and proved to him yet again that his beloved Lady was not a machine, she was not made of cast iron and brass and green paint and timbers ... no, The Lady Esther was a beautiful Lady, and she was very much alive! Willing hands transferred the pale, shivering woman from the private car, to the ambulance wagon: physician and firemen piled aboard, and a dignified woman with green eyes and wearing a fine gown sat on the long bench seat opposite the patient, bent over, still gripping her hand: it was not far to the hospital, not long until the woman was transferred to an examination table, the menfolk shooed out, and Esther Keller stayed with the scared young mother-to-be, still gripping her hand, still whispering to her. Sheriff Willamina Keller, wearing a handmade gown that duplicated one worn by her ancestress Esther Keller, smiled as she looked up from the handwritten account of this little adventure: she finished her presentation with the writer's words, lifted from the printed page and given life by her voice: "Dr. John Greenlees delivered a male child of one Penny Starlin, weight seven pounds six ounces, after a prolonged and difficult labor." She smiled and added, "Old Pale Eyes added his personal comment after this rather formal entry, and I quote: " 'I steadied the young father with a hand on his shoulder and another on his belt, lest he collapse, and the Irish Brigade and I fortified his soul in the Silver Jewel with strong drink and fellowship, for he very nearly collapsed when Dr. Greenlees came out and said simply, "It's a Boy!"

And that's what y'all export to us here in Texas! I thought we were friends!

note: Fosters is missing ................. for a very good reason

Who let the dog out of the mouse house ?

Cool script inside the ladder well, which I’m pretty sure says “Clarior Hinc Honos”. (“Hence the brighter honour”)

An old man calls his son and says, "Listen, your mother and I are getting divorced. Forty-five years of misery is long enough." "Dad, what are you talking about?" the son screams. We can't stand the sight of each other any longer, he says. "I'm sick of her face, and I'm sick of talking about this, so call your sister and tell her," and he hangs up. Now, the son is worried. He calls his sister. She says, "Like hell, they're getting divorced!" She calls their father immediately. "You’re not getting divorced! Don't do another thing. The two of us are flying home tomorrow to talk about this. Until then, don't call a lawyer, and don't file papers. DO YOU HEAR ME? She hangs up the phone… The old man turns to his wife and says, "Okay, they’re both coming for Christmas and paying their own airfares.