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queenclaudiabrown · 9 months

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Shadow of The Jaguar by Steven Savile | TWO

The call came in at midnight, the voice on the other end of the line summoning James Lester to the Under-Secretary’s residence. He knew better than to question the venue or the hour: the more powerful the man, the less he slept.

Lester dressed quickly, adjusting the lie of his bespoke waistcoat and teasing the knot of his plain silk tie. Appearance was everything. He shrugged into his jacket and then into his topcoat, and walked out to the waiting car.

Miles, his driver, nodded and opened the rear door for him. The interior was pleasantly warm against the chill of the night; Miles had obviously set the heater running while Lester had dressed again.

“Where to, sir?”

“The Under-Secretary’s in Belgravia.”

“Very good, sir.”

London might not sleep, but it most certainly dozed, Lester thought as the car left the South Bank, swept over the Thames and turned onto the Strand. The quiet street was bathed in the yellow glow of the lights. The legal district was dead, though some of the usual tourist spots were still isolated hives of life.

Peering out into the night, he was sure some pseudo-scientist must at that very moment have been studying the social strata of the city, and drawing the same conclusions as the anthropologists studying the apes of deepest darkest Africa. Man was, after all, a beast. The city at night showed just how little the species had truly evolved. And of course, it boasted other denizens, populating the darkness that surrounded the pubs, clubs and restaurants.

It was a different breed that came out after dark. The street people, invisible during the day, could be seen huddled in their doorways wrapped in blankets and newspapers while the twenty-four-hour party people danced, drank and acted as though they owned the city. They had all the rituals of their jungle counterparts, banging their chests to attract a mate.

It was all quite pitiful, really.

The car negotiated the kinks around Charing Cross and took the turn onto Pall Mall. Here the street retained much of the dignity it must have known in the days of Gentlemen’s Clubs and hansom cabs. Even this late at night the immaculately tailored doormen stood beside the gleaming porticoes, playing guardian to the last bastions of entitlement. Behind those doors lay other worlds of charm and old money. Those portals were, Lester thought wryly, every bit as paradoxical as any anomaly that opened into the Permian. Polite society had its own magical rifts that only a certain class of traveller was allowed to enter, where the hoi polloi were about as welcome as a plague of locusts.

They turned right on St James and entered the heart of Belgravia.

Sir Charles Bairstow’s residence was a three-storey Edwardian townhouse in a narrow mews. Within a hundred yards it was as though they had driven into the land that time forgot. Everything was transformed, right down to the faux-gas street lamps and the planters dripping colourful lavender bougainvilleas, their petals like tissue-paper flowers.

Miles pulled up to the curb, and kept the car idling while Lester clambered out. Standing on the pavement, he looked both ways, not really sure what he expected to see.

The street was empty.

He walked up to the door and rapped on it, using the lion-headed brass knocker. The noise was shockingly loud in the quiet residential street, like the report of a gun, or a car backfiring. Lester winced, half-expecting a dozen curtains to twitch in response.

He heard someone fiddling with the security chain, and then the latch, before the door opened.

Bairstow’s housekeeper peered myopically out into the dark street

“James Lester to see Sir Charles,” Lester said, adjusting the knot of his tie. “I’m expected.”

“Yes, yes, come in, Mr Lester. Sir Charles has retired to the smoking room. He is expecting you. May I take your coat?”

Lester entered the warmth of the old house, wiping the soles of his shoes on the mat despite the fact that he knew they were immaculate. He gave his topcoat to the old woman, who said, “Second door on the left, on the first landing.” She nodded toward the narrow stairs.

Before proceeding, Lester took a moment to look around, taking in the impracticality of the thick champagne pile of the carpet, the ostentation of the heavy chandelier, and the delicacy of the armoire. Several large oil paintings lined the stairs, the familial resemblance obvious in each, from the current Sir Charles at the foot of the stairs all the way back through the generations to wigged ancestors along the landing.

Another anomaly.

Lester nodded to the housekeeper and went up.

A night-light illuminated the landing. The second door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and entered.

The old man was sat in a wing-backed Chesterfield armchair with his eyes closed. Logs crackled and spat in the open hearth, the fire providing the room’s only light. This chamber was the living embodiment of Victoriana, with antique maps and leather-bound books decorating the walls, the bookcases augmented with a variety of mounted animals and other curiosities. A glass-fronted cabinet contained various lepidoptera specimens, their thin membranous wings providing a splash of colour to the dour setting.

Lester coughed politely into his hand.

Sir Charles Bairstow was as much a throwback to those quintessential times gone by. He sat beside the fire in his plush smoking jacket, a thick cigar clutched between equally thick fingers. Ash gathered in the small silver tray balanced on the arm of the chair. He had silver-grey hair and thick bushy mutton-chops. All of his sixty-one years were etched deep into his face as he opened his eyes.

“Ah, James, come in, come in.” The old man gestured toward the second empty armchair.

“Sir Charles,” Lester said, joining him beside the fire. Bairstow looked tired; more so than the hour accounted for. This was a weariness that had been ground in over days. He recognised the symptoms of insomnia in Bairstow’s eyes and the pallor of his skin. Dark shadows followed the line of his jaw, suggesting that it had been more than a day since he last shaved. Still, he maintained an air of dignity, despite his exhaustion.

“Care for a snifter?” Sir Charles unstoppered an ornate crystal carafe filled with amber brandy, and poured himself a finger’s worth into his equally ornate glass.

“It’s a little late for a social call,” Lester observed.

“Indeed, but we are civilised men, James. We can conduct our business with a modicum of decorum, no?”

Lester inclined his head in agreement.

Sir Charles filled a second glass and pushed it across the table. Lester picked it up and cradled it in his hand, swirling the rich liquid gently against the sides of the glass before lifting it to his nose and inhaling. The fumes alone were intoxicating. He sipped the brandy and set the glass aside.

“I take it there is a reason for the hour, and the location?” he ventured.

“Indeed,” Sir Charles said, leaning forward in his chair. “It’s all very clandestine, I know, but I would ask a favour of you.” The way the old man

The way the old man said “favour” left Lester in no doubt that he was about to be asked for the sort of favour he could not refuse.

“Do you have children, James?” Bairstow asked.

“Three,” Lester said.

“Ah, then you will understand, I am sure. I have two sons, Cameron and Jaime. They are of that age, idealistic, with a fire in their bellies. You know how it is.” Lester nodded. “We had them late, spoiled them completely, of course, like most old parents. They were our little miracles.” Sir Charles’ focus seemed to drift into nostalgia. There was obviously something he wanted to say, and it was equally obvious that he didn’t actually want to say it.

“Cameron recently graduated in archaeology from Cambridge, Jaime is about to enter his final year. In this day and age, even an honours degree is not a guarantee of a job, and archaeology is not what anyone would call a lucrative career, so Mae and I thought it wise to give the boys a leg up.

It is all about experience, after all. A man is no more than the sum of his experiences, and all that.”

“Absolutely,” Lester agreed, savouring another sip of the ludicrously rich brandy.

“Do you know how fiercely competitive it is, this digging up of old bones? And for what, exactly? The opportunity to sleep in a tent and live on ramen noodles?” He said it in that ‘boys will be boys’ manner adopted by fathers the world over.

“Quite,” Lester said. He glanced at his watch; then tried to mask the gesture a moment too late.

“Ah, I’m boring you,” Sir Charles said. “My apologies. I’m an old stick. in-the mud, I’m afraid. I don’t understand all of this fascination with bones and broken stones.”

“Something about those who don’t understand the mistakes of history being doomed to repeat them, perhaps?” Lester offered. “Now, tell me about this favour.” His only hope for sleep was to get the old man back on track.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Sir Charles looked pained that the conversation had steered itself back around. “We arranged for the boys to travel to Peru. They flew into Lima, and then moved on to Cuzco. They travelled from there to the rainforest in the region known as Madre de Dios - the Mother of God. It’s a nature reserve, one of the few in the world that harbour so many truly endangered species, as well, of course, as fabulous Incan ruins.”

“Sounds like a dream holiday,” Lester said. But the expression on Sir Charles’ face indicated that he did not agree.

“James, it’s been six days since anyone has heard from either of them, and nothing is being done about it.” His voice was low and firm. “The Peruvians are being deliberately pig-headed. No one will tell me anything, and as far as I am able to ascertain, there are no search parties out looking for the boys. Madre de Dios is rife with poachers; ruthless men who hunt these dying species and sell their hides to the highest bidder.

“I will not allow my boys to simply disappear off the face of the Earth, I may not have been the best parent, but I am still their father.”

“And you think the boys might have run afoul of these poachers? Surely there may be another explanation. As you said, boys will be boys. Perhaps they found themselves a nice pair of señoritas, and are holed up in a hotel in Trujillo drinking pisco sours and dancing the nights away.”

“No, I don’t believe that for a moment. It isn’t like them to be out of touch. They know how much their mother worries.”

“Nevertheless, I don’t see how I can help you, Sir Charles. Surely you’d be better off talking to someone in the Foreign Office. Strings can be pulled.”

The old man leaned forward in his chair, his expression suddenly intense as he steepled his fingers. The gesture was somewhere between a prayer and an act of begging.

“Anything official becomes a diplomatic incident, James. You know how the system works. The Peruvians are investing more money than they can afford in promoting the region as an eco-resort. If anything threatens those investments, they’re likely to bury the truth, whatever it may be, and Number 10 won’t stand for too many waves: the entire eco-resort is being underwritten by British Insurance firms, and financed by a conglomerate of British banks. We’re talking bad business, James. No one wants adverse publicity.

“If something has happened to the boys...” He let the possibility hang there, not wanting to finish the thought.

“Still-” Lester began. But Sir Charles cut him off.

“There must be a way for your department to help me, James. Your men are scientists. I was thinking that you might mount an expedition? No need for political red tape, doesn’t arouse suspicion at home or abroad to have a few scientists doing research, and therefore much easier to get the necessary visas from the Peruvians.”

“That’s out of the question, I’m afraid,” Lester said, shaking his head.

He didn’t even want to consider the ramifications of what the Under-Secretary was asking.

“Please.” The old man stared at him.

“Sir Charles, we have no remit for work overseas, and mercifully no proof that our research has any relevance beyond the natural boundaries of the British Isles.”

“Then you will not help me?” The shadows beneath his brows seemed to deepen.

“I’m sorry. You should talk to your counterpart in the Foreign Office, sir. Perhaps we have operatives in the area, or close by. I can’t imagine the Prime Minister would countenance such heavy investment from our own economy without at least a few eyes watching the pot. Eyes everywhere, and all that.”

The old man seemed to deflate in his chair, the stiff upper lip crumbling visibly.

“I could order you,” Sir Charles said then, a last ditch gambit.

“If that were true, we wouldn’t be meeting like this. We would be in Whitehall.” Lester rose from his chair, setting the empty glass on the table. “Goodnight, Sir Charles. I hope you hear from your sons soon. I truly do.”

“But you won’t help.” It wasn’t a question, so Lester didn’t answer.

He left the old man by the fire, well aware of the fact that by saying no he had almost certainly made his life more difficult.

It was a little after two when he clambered back into the waiting car. That left him with less than four hours sleep. Instead of returning home, he had Miles drive him to the Anomaly Research Centre. He could catch an hour or two in the ARC lounge, if needs be.

Professor Nick Cutter was woken by the electronic voice telling him that he had mail.

He rolled over groggily.

Cutter had fallen asleep on the couch in his office. It still didn’t feel like his office, though - he was used to the clutter he had accumulated over years of study and hoarding. This place felt more like a laboratory than a place for thoughtful contemplation.

He yawned and knuckled the sleep out of his eyes before he forced himself to sit up. Everything ached.

The ambient light replaced the passage of time with a constant illumination; it was never night in the Anomaly Research Centre.

He stood and stretched, working the kinks out of the muscles in his shoulders and lower back. Though only in his late thirties, and reasonably fit, he still felt joints popping. Sleeping on the couch is for a younger man, he thought wryly.

His stomach grumbled. He had no idea what time it was, he realised, or how long it was since he had last eaten, and even then it had only been a slice of Apple Danish washed down by a cup of tepid coffee. Deciding the email could wait, Cutter went in search of sustenance.

His footsteps echoed hollowly as he walked across the cement floor of the loading bay, the quality of the echo changing as he entered the corridor of offices and laboratories that led down to the team’s rec room. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass of the vending machine, and ran his hand through the dark blond rat’s nest he called hair, trying to bring it to its normal sense of order. Then he fed a handful of coins into the machine and punched in the code for a multigrain nutritional meal supplement bar that sounded both healthier and tastier than it was, and a diet caffeine-free low-sodium soda that was essentially fizzy water. Collecting his bounty, Cutter headed back toward his office.

Re-entering the loading bay from the other side, he saw that the light was on in Lester’s office. The man was a bureaucratic machine. Cutter watched a shadow move against the wall, but didn’t see Lester himself.

Shrugging, he wandered back through to his own office, peeling back the foil on his multigrain treat and eating half of it before he sat back behind his desk.

The computer screen had fallen asleep. Lucky bastard. He pushed the mouse to wake it.

He opened the mail box and saw that he had three messages flagged as new, one from Lester, another from someone distinctly fictional promising increased length and girth for only ninety-nine dollars, and the last one from someone called Nando Estevez. Cutter recognised the name in that vague I’ve met you at a function or somewhere kind of way.

He popped the tab on the can and drank a mouthful of too-cold soda.

Opening the email, he read through it twice; then sat back in his chair.

Even with evidence in black and white, it took him a moment to associate “Nando” with Fernando Estevez, a student of his from almost ten years ago now. All sorts of ghosts come back to visit, sooner or later, he mused darkly. But he remembered Fernando well, a short, serious young man, gifted with a fearsome intelligence that was only held back by his blatant disregard for grammar and spelling. That, at least, seemed to have improved marginally over the years that had passed since he had last read his student’s essays.

But this was no essay, and even a third reading left him with a growing sense of concern.

From: Nando Estevez <[email protected]>

Date: May 17, 2008 4:44:28 AM GM’T+01:00

To: Nick Cutter <[email protected]>

Subject: Behaviour and Bones

Dear Professor Nick Cutter,

It is me, Nando Estevez!

I am sure you remember me. It has been a long time for both of us, but how could you forget old Nando?

I would ask for your help in something. I think, perhaps, you will find it very interesting, and very mysterious.

After graduating your class I took a job along with Esteban, my half-brother. We worked for a few years off the coast of Trujillo on a marine expedition. It was fascinating work though I must admit it was mainly to impress the girls! But all good things come to an end, they say, and recently we began working in the new nature reserve at Madre de Dios. The work is sadly less impressive with the ladies, but it is far more interesting for us!

There are things happening in the reserve that I do not understand. In fact, they make very little sense when I think about them.

It is my job to identify the various species that dwell in the reserve, to tag them and follow their movements and record their habits. We have a great variety of rare animals like the capybara, Hydrochoerus hydrochaeris, and the giant river otter, Pteronura brasiliensis. It is a zoologist’s dream!

Now, to the crux of the matter, the animals have been behaving strangely, you see. Their patterns no longer match our expectations, even considering for the increase of poaching and the threat of mankind. All I can think is that something else is causing this peculiar behaviour.

Only this week I have identified several tracks that should not be here. I am confused by them, yet I do not wish to mention this to anyone for fear they will think I have gone mad. These are tracks and bones that do not make sense. There is no one I can trust with the secret I believe I have found. For I have checked all of the books, and the only conclusion I can find makes no sense.

Who could I show the bones to? Who would believe that these fresh bones are also old bones? Who would believe me if I said I thought they were from the Plio-Pleistocene perhaps, or even earlier, but show no signs of fossilisation? The marrow in the bones is fresh.

It seems absurd to me that these strange bones and wrong tracks would be here now, and with my animals behaving so strangely. I fear I am losing my mind! My number at the resort is 84235151, with the Peruvian prefix, 0051 from England.

Please call me, Professor Nick!

Your old student,

Nando Estevez

Cutter set aside the soda can and stared.

His first instinct was to dial the number and press his old student with a dozen questions about the nature of these tracks, and his suspicions about the behaviour of the indigenous fauna. Cutter felt a tingling thrill of excitement at the possibility that what he was looking at was proof of the first anomaly off the British mainland.

The implications were massive.

His second instinct was to call the team in and share the excitement.

However, he didn’t succumb to either urge. Instead, Cutter opened a web browser and entered ‘Madre de Dios’ into the search function.

A lot of the pages the search returned were either religious in nature, illuminated with iconic images of the Virgin Mary cradling the baby Jesus, or they were written in Spanish. Refining his search to provide English-language results only, Cutter trawled through the rest for the better part of an hour, finding miniscule maps he could barely read and spectacular scenic photographs of the Amazon rainforest and the misty peaks of Machu Picchu.

The first non-religious hits were all for the same sort of stuff: trail tours for Incan ruins, Kon Tiki rafting trips and dream vacations in the Andes, and they were followed by virtual tours and the wiki page for the region. ‘Biobridges.org’ provided him with a list of the research stations such as the one to which Nando and his brother had been assigned.

Deeper into the search he found a host of Inca ruins, some so breathtaking they looked like oil paintings of imaginary places. He wasn’t particularly interested in the old stones, though - it was old bones that piqued his curiosity.

Since the rest of the ARC team wouldn’t arrive for quite some time, he had time to kill, and ran various searches on South American fauna using a variety of keywords, one being ‘Plio-Pleistocene’.

The results were even less encouraging than the initial search, though more Darwinesque than intelligent design: hominin evolution in the Amazon basin, climate change and glacial shifts, volcanic history of the region, geological abstracts on the Madre de Dios River and the clay strata, and even a paper which promised paleomagnetic evidence of a counter-clockwise rotation of the Madre de Dios archipelago in Chile.

He paused for a moment and glanced at the clock in the top corner of the computer screen. It was barely a quarter to six - which, according to the time and date function on the computer, meant that it was almost midnight in Lima. Too late to call Nando, and it would still be a couple of hours until the others rolled in. So he contented himself with printing off any articles that seemed even remotely promising. There were times when he still preferred paper to electronic files.

He tried a blog search next, using one of the many web crawlers that trawled through the inanities of the world’s everyday lives. Most were glorified diaries for public consumption, and they were very much the modern disease, reflecting the Average Joe’s need to prove that his life had genuine meaning, and that had its advantages. But every now and then there were hidden nuggets of gold to be found in the blogosphere, so once again Cutter ran through a number of keywords, looking for anything that even vaguely hinted at a South American anomaly.

Every one drew a blank.

He didn’t know whether or not to find it reassuring. After all, that didn’t mean there wasn’t an anomaly out there - only that no one had seen it.

So he left the computer and wandered across to the window that looked onto the loading bay. There were no windows opening out of the ARC into the world at large - more to stop people from looking in than to stop the staff from looking out - and it lent the facility an oppressive feel. He braced himself on the sill.

It still seemed so alien.

There were times when it was difficult to reconcile himself with the fact that evolution had taken the slightest of nudges, and drifted askew just enough for this pseudo-military government establishment to exist. Stranger yet, everyone else seemed to feel so natural with it.

The world around him had changed without anyone realising it. Anyone but him.

Cutter clenched his fists.

Thinking about it just left him feeling frustrated and angry, and not a little guilty. He had stepped out of the rift with Helen, thinking... what? Cutter laughed bitterly. Thinking just brought it all back, and for however long he thought about it, it didn’t matter that the affair had happened a decade ago.

But that way lay madness. So many ifs, buts and maybes. Cutter pinched the top of his nose, furrowing his brow.

He was hungry again - or rather, hungry still. There was a greasy spoon not so far away, and he could do with the air and to stretch his legs. The email would still be there when he got back.

There was smoke rising through the trees. It was thick, black, cloying stuff that carried with it the reek of cooking meat.

Cam Bairstow staggered down through the smothering vegetation, tripping and stumbling along a path that wasn’t there, his eyes fixed desperately on the one sign of civilisation he had seen after days and nights alone in the jungle. The smoke meant hope. He was dizzy from dehydration, exhausted and weak from blood loss, but his cuts had begun to clot. Now it was all about food and water.

The fragrance flavouring the smoke was irresistible.

Cam stumbled on blindly.

While he was lost within the trees, time had become a meaningless concept. There was no day or night, only shadows and darker shadows.

His heart hammered erratically now, and his vision swooned as he hit the bole of a thick trunk. The flair of pain in his shoulder reignited the fire in a dozen of his wounds, and a croaking cry escaped his swollen lips.

He couldn’t remember anything of the last few days. He had woken into a world of blood and hurt. He hadn’t moved for the longest time, allowing the pain to own his flesh. There had been sounds all around him as he opened his eyes, and he had thought that odd. The last thing he remembered had been silence. Complete and utter stillness.

But that couldn’t be right. The forest was never still. Never silent. It was a living thing.

Then he remembered the screams.

Somehow he had staggered away from the ruined temple, but he had been too weak to risk the rope bridge, and instead had slipped and fallen and skidded and slid down the side of the long mountain toward the ravine, his eyes fixed on the crystal blue water. The trees offered him some protection from the elements, though a mist had risen thickly to engulf the world around him, leaving Cam to blunder down until he reached the bottom.

Images of death formed within the curls of mist, and faces formed in the thick white. He saw again and again the last few seconds before the creature’s attack. It brought back the pain with a shocking clarity. And the pain brought something else in turn, a hollowness at the memory of Jaime’s body lying there, a mess of blood in the dirt of the forest floor.

His foot caught on a ragged spur of root.

The plant snagged Cam.

He fell sprawling into the dark loam of the forest floor.

He lay there on his back, too bone-weary to move, knowing that if he didn’t locate that reserve of strength needed to carry him to the village, they would be finding his bones. Nothing more.

Above him a stripe-faced monkey swung through the canopy hand-over-hand in a looping, easy motion, working its way down through the branches. The animal was skittish, swinging quickly from perch to perch and leaving rustling leaves in its wake. Cam watched it, wishing for a moment that his life might be that uncomplicated – but it was in a way.

It had been reduced to the most basic of elements – stand up and walk, or lie there and die.

He didn’t move because death didn’t feel like such a bad place to be.

Then the scent of the smoke - ugly and abrasive - entered his lungs, seeping down his throat, but it was also a glorious sensation, one filled with hope. The meat that was flavouring it was sickly sweet. The odour clawed at his empty belly, reminding him how desperately hungry he was.

He pushed his hands beneath him and tried to stand. He was like a new-born calf, struggling to balance on shaky legs as he rose and stumbled on between the trees. More than once he was forced to use their trunks for support.

The smell of burning meat grew more and more aromatic as he neared the source of the smoke, until it became so strong that it stung his eyes.

It was too strong, he realised, to be some haunch of lama basting on a cooking fire. And the flavour was all wrong. He tasted something else in the air, salty on his tongue, like the crackling of pork rind.

It was more than a simple cooking fire. He knew that much instinctively, and some primordial part of his brain recognised the stink. But he had no idea how much more than a cooking fire it was until he lurched out of the shroud of trees and saw the smouldering remains of a huge funeral pyre in the centre of the clearing.

Five women stood weeping at the fireside, watching their loved ones burn. Cam stumbled forward, his hands held out before him as though begging for mercy, until he saw the fear in their eyes. His hands fell to his sides then. He felt the sting of the smoke in his throat, his bile rising, and he felt the bite of the fire’s heat on his face, tightening his raw skin as he walked into it. He couldn’t begin to understand what had happened, even as he began to make out the limbs that were visible within the dying flames.

One woman hissed something at him, waving her hands, and another screamed as though he were some mindless corpse staggering out of hell to claim her. It was a soul-wrenching sound.

Cam lurched forward, his legs buckling beneath him, and then fell to his knees. He couldn’t see beyond the flames. There were so many bodies within them. So many shapes all piled one atop another. It was only as the branches shifted, breaking as the fire robbed them of their strength, and one of the blackened bodies rolled out of the pyre that he saw the death wounds, and understood.

The creature that had killed Jaime had found these people, as well.

Death had come disguised within the shadow of a huge black jaguar.

Cam stared at the burning men, unable to move. He tried to form words. To say something. But nothing would come. What words could match the horror trapped within the dancing flames?

Coincidence?

Lester had no time for coincidence. In his opinion, it was a word that had no place in a rational man’s vocabulary.

Cutter walked into his office a little before nine carrying a sheaf of papers and proclaiming that they needed to talk.

Against his better judgement, Lester listened, and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours heard the words “Madre de Dios”.

“Thus the gods do conspire,” Lester muttered, steepling his fingers almost exactly as Sir Charles had in his smoking room just a few hours before. But that was where the similarities ended. This conversation was a very different one, and Nick Cutter wasn’t remotely like the old civil servant.

“What if we’ve been wrong all along?” Cutter was saying.

“How so?” Lester said.

Cutter was dishevelled, more so than usual. The academic scruffiness had given way to a lack of grooming which smacked of slovenliness.

“What if we started from the wrong supposition? We’ve been working under the assumption that these anomalies were localised on our side, following some heretofore unknown law of physics. But what if they’re not?

What if rifts are opening in the Arctic, or on the Siberian Tundra? Just because there is no one to see them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“Like the proverbial tree falling in the rainforest,” Lester said, leaning forward on his elbows. “I assume you are going to blind me with science now.” He eyed the sheaf of papers still clutched in Cutter’s hands.

“Research,” Cutter said. Lester had noticed that the more passionate the Professor got about his work, or an idea at which he was worrying, the more pronounced his otherwise mild Scottish burr became.

“I’ve been contacted by an old student working in Peru.” Cutter continued. “His job is to monitor the behavioural patterns of various endangered species, and he’s noticed some peculiarities there, including disturbed migratory patterns among the indigenous animals, and, more importantly, he believes he has found bones from the Plio-Pleistocene.”

“Hardly evidence of an anomaly, Cutter. Tell me, has an anomaly actually been sighted?”

“Well, no.”

“And have these bones been carbon dated, or positively identified in any way, Professor?”

“No.”

“Then I would suggest you are reading your own agenda into the evidence. May I remind you that foreign jollies are well beyond our remit. We do not follow hunches based upon ‘jumped to’ conclusions.”

“I thought our remit included tracking the anomalies and prevents the rewriting of the evolutionary chain,” Cutter countered. The look on his face made it clear that he didn’t want to let this one go.

“Well, yes, but within reason,” Lester said. “The British government does not act arbitrarily on foreign soil. There are protocols that must be observed. A few bones are not reason enough to breach them, Cutter. That’s just the way of the world. Bring me hard evidence, and then we’ll talk, but until you do, the answer to the riddle is no, if a tree falls in the rainforest, and there is no one to hear it, it does not make a sound.”

There was a polite knock on the glass door and the team’s public relations specialist, Jenny Lewis, poked her head around the corner.

“There’s a call for you on the secure line, Lester,” she said, smiling cheerfully. “Sir Charles Bairstow.”

Lester rolled his eyes.

“I’ll take it,” he said to her. “We’re done here,” he told Cutter. “If you would excuse me...”

Lester picked up the phone before Cutter was halfway out of the office.

“Lester,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“James? Good man.” Sir Charles sounded unsettlingly confident, given the way their previous conversation had ended. “There is news that I think might interest your team.” He paused, clearly waiting for someone to tell him to continue.

Lester left the silence hanging a moment longer than was polite.

“Go on?”

“Word has come through from my man on the ground in Peru. A little after nine this morning our time, a young British tourist matching my son Cameron’s description crawled out of the jungle. He has been taken to a hospital facility in Cuzco. No one will allow me to talk with him, so I am missing vital information. He is apparently delirious and suffering the effects of some serious trauma.” He paused, then continued.

“I want my son back, James, and if - God help me - Jaime is still out there by himself, I want him found and brought home. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Lester said, “but what exactly do you expect me to do, Sir Charles? We are not in the business of Kidnap and Rescue, after all.”

The voice on the other end of the line turned cold and distant.

“This is no longer a polite request from one father to another, James.

I have spent the morning making calls. As of ten o’clock this morning you and your team have been assigned to assist me, under the auspices of a scientific investigation. You, of course, will receive confirmation of this imminently. I suggest in the meantime that you prepare your people for a journey, to cut back on wasted time. Bring my boys home, James. That is all I ask. Needless to say I would much rather we had come to an amicable agreement last night, but in the cold light of morning it matters little to me whether you are a willing ally or a co-opted one.”

“Indeed,” Lester said stiffly, not appreciating the position the senior Civil Servant had angled him into. “Hello Mr Rock, welcome to the Hard Place.”

Sir Charles did not laugh.

“My man seems certain it is Cameron, and is doing all he can to get close to him, but the Peruvians have got their security tied up tightly and we are being blocked at every turn from ascertaining the truth. It is, needless to say, a delicate situation, James. Regardless, I want my boys home.”

“I can appreciate that, Sir Charles, but in all honesty we cannot mount a military expedition to bring your sons home. It is quite out of the question. There are protocols that must he observed.”

“The question has changed, James. In fact I would go so far as to say it has become a statement. These things you will do: you will make preparations for your team to travel to Cuzco. You will take three men of my choosing from the Regiment who will assist with the recovery of my son and aid with on-the-ground activities. They’ll be fully briefed - we can’t let sheer ignorance jeopardise the mission, so I’lI expect you to fill in the details concerning your... ah... unique activities. And most important of all, you will bring my boys home. I don’t care how you do it or what excuses you concoct, but if you wish to have a desk to sit behind, you will make it happen. If I were you I would stop thinking about what is out of the question, and start thinking about solutions to the problems you face.”

With that, the Permanent Under-Secretary severed the connection and left Lester holding the phone.

Lester placed the handset in the cradle, and buzzed Jenny through.

“Fetch Cutter and the others,” he told her.

***

She was his own personal ghost, and this was his own personal hell. Jenny Lewis knocked on the glass door of Cutter’s office.

“Lester wants to see you,” she said with Claudia’s voice.

Nick Cutter glanced up at the woman who appeared so much like

Claudia she might have been Claudia, were it not for the slightly darker hair and her perpetual air of confidence. It was difficult to look at her and not see the woman he had allowed himself to love. Difficult because he kept thinking there was a history between them, a connection that she did not share, and he found himself taking it for granted at the strangest moments, in the stupidest of ways.

“What does he want now?”

“What does Lester ever want?” Jenny replied, raising her eyebrows and grinning. It was a moment of familiarity that might easily have been shared with her ghost.

Then she spun on her heels and left him.

Cutter took his time.

When he finally walked up the spiral ramp to Lester’s office, the rest of the team were already assembled. Connor Temple and Abby Maitland sat like naughty school children on the long leather banquette against the far wall, her short-cut platinum blonde hair in stark contrast to his dark, unruly mop and five o’clock shadow. Stephen Hart leaned beside them, close to Abby. Jenny stood beside Lester’s desk, while Lester sat back in his leather chair, seemingly content to wait forever. The Spartan warrior’s mask rested on the desk between them. No, not content, Cutter thought, seeing the wrinkled crow’s feet around his eyes and the strain that lurked behind them. For want of a better word, he looks haunted.

“Close the door behind you,” Lester said. That in itself aroused Cutter’s curiosity; like most modern managers, Lester chose to operate an ‘open door’ policy. It was meant to make him seem approachable, but in actuality it allowed him to see all and hear all, like two of the wise monkeys rolled into one.

Cutter closed the door.

“What’s this all about, Lester?”

“In economic terms, they call it a double coincidence of wants,” Lester said.

“And what, precisely, is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that what you want and what I want are no longer mutually exclusive, Professor Cutter. Considering our conversation this morning. this should amuse you no end. Word has come down from on high that you are going on a little holiday.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The short version is that Sir Charles Bairstow’s two sons have gone missing in the Madre de Dios region of Peru, which I believe is the same region where your former student was reporting those peculiarities. We have been... requested to aid in their safe return.”

“We’re going to Peru?” Connor blurted, his dark eyes flashing, “Cool*

“That’s the spirit,” Lester said.

“Wait a minute,” Cutter interrupted, “this morning it was out of the question, now suddenly it’s a done deal?”

“As I said, a double coincidence of wants. Answering the call for assistance from your colleague provides a legitimate cover for the government’s exfiltration of Sir Charles’ errant children.”

“I don’t like the sound of this.”

“You don’t need to,” Lester told him smoothly. “You get to satisfy your curiosity about the possibility of an anomaly in the region, subtly of course. There will be three more members of your team, from the Regiment. They will oversee the recovery of the boys. You need not get your hands dirty with anything apart from Peruvian loam. Consider it a case of getting what you wanted, but not perhaps how you wanted it – or why.

“Your cover will be relatively straightforward, since the best lies are always close to the truth, after all. You will be investigating the migration of certain endangered species out of the region. More socio-science than the pure stuff, but interesting to the British government nonetheless as we look to protect certain species of our own from dying out. I suggest you begin making preparations, you ship out in the morning.” His expression made it clear that they were dismissed.

Cutter wasn’t about to argue; Lester was right, he had got precisely what he wanted, no matter how uncomfortable the means of its procurement left him feeling.

“Come on, then,” he said to the others.

“One last thing,” Lester said, as Cutter opened the door. “Jenny will be accompanying you - the last thing we need is a public relations nightmare. There’s a lot you need to know about the region and the obstacles you are likely to encounter. I’m putting you in charge of this operation, so let’s do our best to keep both feet out of our mouths for once, shall we?”

#primeval #shadow of the jaguar #steven savile #james lester #nick cutter #abby maitland #stephen hart #jenny lewis #connor temple

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moonchair · 6 years

Note

HAPPY BIRTHDAY 💞🎁🎉🎊🎂

thank u kup!!!

#planter-lester #ask

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whispers-and-sunlight · 7 years

Text

A heck ton (92) of questions

Thanks @teatowelhowell for tagging me!

THE LAST

1. Drink: Gingerbread green tea

2. Phone Call: my phone says my friend although I dont remember why lmao

3. Text Message: my mum asking her to pick me up haha

4. Song You Listened To: Living as a Ghost- GEMS

5. Time You Cried: like 2 or 3 nights ago?

HAVE YOU EVER

6. Dated Someone Twice: never even dated someone once lmao

7. Been Cheated On: see above :’)

8. Kissed Someone And Regretted It: cant regret kissing someone if youve never kissed anyone B) life hack

9. Lost Someone Special: no

10. Been Depressed: no

11. Gotten Drunk and Thrown Up: noooo whenever i drink i always get really paranoid about being sick haha

LIST 3 FAVORITE COLORS

12. light blue

13. lilac

14. silver

IN THE LAST YEAR HAVE YOU

15. Made New Friends: ye boii

16. Fallen Out of Love: no

17. Laughed Until You Cried: yes

18. Found Out Someone Was Talking About You: no

19. Met Someone Who Changed You: maybe in small ways but i dont think so

20. Found Out Who Your True Friends Are: yes

21. Kissed Someone On Your Facebook: no

22. How Many of Your Facebook Friends Do You Know in Real Life: all of them i think haha i dont use it anymore

23. Do You Have Any Pets: yess i have a cat he is a special boye

24. Do You Want To Change Your Name: nah ive always hated my my name but im slowly getting over it haha (plus itd feel kinda weird to just change it?)

25. What Did You Do For Your Last Birthday: nothing much, just had some friends over lol i have a boring life

26. What Time Did You Wake Up: today at 9 but when i dont have school it can be any time from 8 to 12 lmao

27. What Were You Doing at Midnight Last Night: going through music to make a top jams playlist :’)

28. Name Something You Cannot Wait For: death im going on holiday in a few days!

29. When Was The Last Time You Saw Your Mother: like 10 minutes ago

30. What is One Thing You Wish You Could Change About Your Life: id like to be more confident and outgoing and more motivated haha

31. What Are You Listening To Right Now: Past Lives - BØRNS

32. Have You Ever Talked To a Person Named Tom: yeah like 5 years ago

33. Something That Is Getting On Your Nerves: um idk my lips are kinda chapped lol

34. Most Visited Website: tumblr probably :(

35. Elementary: (im not really sure what this question is haha) it was fun i guess

36. High School: im in high school now, my last year once we go back after summer. I met most of my current friends there so :’)

37. College/University: not there yet but im having to decide about university and stuff atm yikes, im thinking about studying something related to business

38. Hair Colour: brown. not light or dark, just brown lol

39. Long Hair or Short Hair: relatively but not like crazy long? about boob level lmao

40. Do You Have A Crush On Someone: im not sure tbh maybe a lowkey crush yikes

41. What Do You Like About Yourself: i think i have quite nice eyes lol i have been blessed with long eyelashes.

42. Piercings: i have my ears pierced but thats it, and i probably wont want anything else in the future im too much of a wimp haha

43. Blood Type: idk my dude

44. Nickname: id prefer not to say in case irl friends find this lol

45. Relationship Status: v single

46. Zodiac Sign: leo

47. Pronouns: she/her

48. Favorite TV Show: game of thrones, nbc hannibal probably, im not sure off the top of my head haha

49. Tattoos: none atm but id maybe like one at some point? idk its a big commitment and im v indecisive

50. Right or Left Hand: left

FIRST

51. Surgery: ive never had surgery

52. Piercing: ears when i was 12

54. Sport: ballet when i was like 3 if that counts lol

55. Vacation: cyprus

56. Pair of Trainers: idk its not a moment that really stands out haha

57. Eating: surprisingly i dont remember the first time i ate something but i love garlic bread lol

58. Drinking: first time i got drunk i was 15 (on new years eve w my family lmao how wild)

59. I’m About To: stay sat down for like 4 hours probably

60. Listening To: Guillotine- Jon Bellion its a bop lol

61. Waiting For: idk nothing really?

62. Want: a gf lol free spotify premium :(

63. Get Married: yeah

64. Career: idk maybe accountancy (v exciting i know)

YOUR TYPE

65. Hugs or Kisses: hugs

66. Lips or Eyes: eyes (also id just like to say brown eyes are v nice and underrated)

67. Shorter or Taller: taller but thats not asking much bc im short

68. Older of Younger: older

70. Nice Arms or Nice Stomach: um idc really but i do love a good arm

71. Sensitive or Loud: i kinda need someone whos loud sometimes bc im bad at talking but sensitive is good, can you not be both?

72. Hook Up or Relationship: relationship

73. Troublemaker or Hesitant: hesitant i guess?

HAVE YOU EVER

74. Kissed a Stranger: no

75. Drank Hard Liquor: yeah

76. Lost Glasses/Contact Lenses: never properly lost, but ive forgotten where ive put my glasses for periods of like 5 minutes many times

77. Turned Someone Down: no someone would have to ask first haha

78. Sex on First Date: lol

79. Broken Someone’s Heart: probably not

80. Had Your Heart Broken: no

81. Been Arrested: no

82. Cried When Someone Died: no one i know in real life

83. Fallen For a Friend: no but ive had a lowkey crush on a friend yikes

DO YOU BELIEVE IN…

84. Yourself: lol no (i guess i do sometimes, but not enough)

85. Miracles: no

86. Love at First Sight: not really

87. Santa Claus: no :(

88. Kiss on First Date: do what feels right my dude im not against it

89. Angels: no

OTHER…

90. Current Best Friend’s Name: i must maintain anonymity lol but it begins with an E

91. Eye Colour: blue-ish green-ish grey lol

92. Favourite Movie: the lion king, primal fear, ex machina, idk i always forget favs lmao

im not sure how many people to tag so if you want to do it and youre not tagged pls do anyway lol (also sorry if youve already done this just ignore this haha)

@existentialshoelace, @planter-lester, @daniels-knee, @iihappydaysii, @lovinghowlter , @bitakalla, @meow309, @krystalinetg, @starlightlesster

#tag #why are most of the tags not working?? i h8 tumblr mobile #the tags are there on my laptop #uhhhhh hh #also where is the read more #i guess ill tag everyone here and hope they see it lol #existentialshoelace #planter-lester #daniels-knee #iihappydaysii #lovinghowlter #bitikalla #meow309 #krystalinetg #starlightlesster

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little-lester · 7 years

Note

Aaah I love your url, it makes me think of really smol things and then I giggle when I see you in my notifications and feed you're just so smol help me

Haha thank you so much! I’m glad my url makes you happy :))

#planter-lester #response #just Nicole blabs

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real-food · 4 years

Text

Intervju med Delås gård

Jeg holdt en liten samtale med praksisverten for å få svar på noen spørsmål om virksomheten. Praksisverten er Camilla Lester-Watvedt og hun driver Delås gård, en relativt nyoppstartet økologisk gård i Skjeberg som har hatt veldig god suksess kort tid etter å ha forlatt startstreken.

Hva gjør at Delås gård er et meningsfylt sted å jobbe?

Produksjon av økologisk, lokal norsk mat og regenerativt landbruk er veldig i fokus for tiden med tanke på problemene vi står ovenfor mtp jordkvaliteten, klima og helsa vår. Det er nettopp dette vi driver med her på gården. Her lærer man om grunnprinsippene ved økologisk mat, jordhelse og jordas betydning for matproduksjon og økosystemet, biologisk mangfold og implikasjonene av å drepe instekter og bier o.l., og den viktige relasjonen mellom produsent og forbruker. Siden vi selger varene våre via selvplukk eller reko-ringer (reko står for rettferdig konsum og er en handel direkte mellom produsent og forbruker, uten å bruke dagligvarebutikker som mellommann), så ser vi hvor viktig det er å opprettholde en god forbindelse mellom produsent og forbruker slik at begge parter får det de fortjener. Med rettferdig konsum får ikke bonden lenger bare 4 kr for melka, selv om det koster 15kr å kjøpe den i butikken. Dette er helt avgjørende for å ta vare på den norske bonden, som vi er avhengige av for å få lokalprodusert mat.

Hvilke egenskaper er nødvendig hvis man skal jobbe her?

Man må like å arbeide ute i naturen og trives med å bruke kroppen. Når du jobber så tett på jord, planter og dyr så er du en del av naturen, og naturen er en del av deg. Du må like å få jord under neglene. Vi vil også at du skal ha selvstendighet i arbeidet.

Hvilken kompetanse vil dere ha mer av på gården?

Kompetanse innen landbruk, biologi og ernæring er ettertraktet på virksomheter som dette. Kunnskap om matens potensielle næringsverdi hvis forholdene legges til rette for det er også noe vi setter pris på.

Hva er ønskene for fremtiden og fokuset videre i 2020?

Det blir å dyrke masse økologisk mat, ha mange mennesker på selvplukk (noe som er svært hyggelig, de blir alltid overrasket over hvor god kvaliteten på maten er og hvor godt vi har det), lære barn og voksne om hvordan mat skal dyrkes på økologisk vis, og videreutvikle gården for å forbedre de fundamentale faktorene som vi allerede har etablert her. Det vil si lokalprodusert, økologisk mat dyrket på en holistisk metode, med naturen som lagkamerat, alt i en lukket sirkel med lite fotavtrykk.

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nightmare-afton-cosplay · 3 years

Text

After Leaving the Cubs, Jon Lester Is Selling His Chicago Home for $6M

Jamie Squire/Getty Images

The former Chicago Cubs pitcher Jon Lester is hoping to snag a buyer for his Chicago home, the Chicago Tribune reported. He and his wife, Farrah, have placed their elegant abode on the market for $5,995,000.

The couple purchased the upscale property in 2015 for $3.78 million, after Lester inked a six-year deal with the Cubs for $155 million. He played a key role on the team that clinched the long-awaited World Series championship in 2016.

Much like the five-time All-Star, his home is also a winner.

1/11

Jon Lester's Chicago home (realtor.com)

2/11

Sitting room (realtor.com)

3/11

Living room (realtor.com)

4/11

Family room (realtor.com)

5/11

Formal dining room (realtor.com)

6/11

Kitchen (realtor.com)

7/11

Casual eating area (realtor.com)

8/11

Lounge and bar (realtor.com)

9/11

Bedroom (realtor.com)

10/11

Roof deck (realtor.com)

11/11

Fire pit (realtor.com)

Located in the Windy City’s Graceland West neighborhood, the home was built in 2010, and offers five bedrooms and 5.5 bathrooms on 7,000 square feet. In the not-so-understated language of the listing: “This home has it all.”

The extra-wide layout features a first floor with a sitting room, living room, and dining area. The gourmet kitchen looks out to a family room and includes a butler’s pantry. An office is set up next to the kitchen.

A master suite offers a wall of windows, a fireplace, an en suite bathroom with dual vanities, and a giant walk-in closet with an island. Since so many bedrooms are available, one is currently being used as a gym.

The home also features multiple entertaining areas, including a private roof deck with planters. For warmer days, there’s an outdoor shower accessed through the penthouse-level den and wet bar.

The finished lower level is a cozy place to hole up in the colder months, featuring wood paneling, a fireplace, bar, and wine cellar.

Outdoor space includes a 5,000-square-foot side yard with a lounge area and fire pit, and the property also comes with a four-stop elevator to all levels. The detached, heated garage has room for four cars.

In addition, Lester expanded into the adjacent lot for use as an “amazing outdoor living and play area,” and added a sport court and outdoor kitchen.

Lester, 37, is now with the Washington Nationals on a one-year deal, after six seasons with the Cubs. He broke into the big leagues with the Boston Red Sox in 2006, and has also suited up for the Oakland Athletics. In 2019, Forbes named the Washington state native one of the highest-paid athletes in the world.

Bradley Brondyke of Jameson Sotheby’s International Realty holds the listing.

The post After Leaving the Cubs, Jon Lester Is Selling His Chicago Home for $6M appeared first on Real Estate News & Insights | realtor.com®.

from https://www.realtor.com/news/celebrity-real-estate/jon-lester-selling-chicago-home/

0 notes

phancyclopaedia · 6 years

Note

Who are some good phan/dan and phil blogs bc I'm new to the phandom and idk who to follow lol

Welcome to the phandom! (good luck in advance)

There are so many great blogs in the phandom but to name a few just off the top of my head:@iihappydaysii @pseudophan @instarbuckswithdan @mylivingphantasy @danisontnonfire @cherryscentedlube @planter-lester @cringeattack @philester @waveydnp @phillesterr @soyoudonthavetobebrave @demonphannie

And ofc you can follow my main also where I am way more opinionated and lame @spaceyfreak

- Remy

#ask #phandom #follow forever #Anonymous

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nicolasanoto · 3 years

Text

Ecologie: des profs pour sauver la civilisation?

Il y a 10 ans, alors que mes responsabilités politiques m’amenaient à m’intéresser aux biens communs, à la gestion de l’eau, de l’énergie, aux politiques agricoles et aux politiques industrielles, en vue des présidentielles, tous les acteurs que je rencontrais, dans tous les domaines, étaient pressants : il fallait agir MAINTENANT pour engager la transition de l’économie vers un modèle durable, sortir du jetable, de l’obsolescence programmée, pour entrer dans une société de sobriété. C’était en 2011. Il était encore possible, avec une volonté politique tenace, d’engager un changement de modèle de production et de consommation dans une des plus grandes puissances mondiales. En espérant un effet boule de neige sur les économies de l’OCDE.

En 2021, nous ne sommes plus dans l’urgence, c’est fait, nous allons subir les conséquences du changement climatique, nous allons voir les crises se multiplier, gérer des conflits d’usage, des pénuries...mais nous pouvons encore agir pour que les transformations qui vont inévitablement apparaître ne signifient pas aussi notre disparition. Il y a des changements à faire qui sont impopulaires, qui remettent en cause nos modes de vie, mais qui ne nous empêcheraient pas d’être heureux, d’avoir des enfants, et de prévoir un avenir « normal ». La crise sanitaire que nous vivons est intéressante à ce titre, elle remet déjà en cause notre capacité à nous projeter, change notre vie quotidienne...là où on attendait des crises sécuritaires, climatiques, c’est une crise sanitaire qui nous force à faire ce pas de côté sur notre mode de vie pour réfléchir à ce qui était « normal ».

Je ne sais comment l’exprimer, c’est un peu délicat à dire, mais je remets en question des régimes politiques où des échéances électorales trop rapprochées dans le temps limitent le débat politique à une pacotille démagogique qui va du débat sur la fiscalité, aux ronds-points à aménager, en passant par la création de nouvelles zones commerciales en périphérie.

Je suis énervé, et je me pose des questions sur la capacité de la démocratie telle qu’elle s’organise actuellement, notamment, en France, avec des modes de scrutin très discutables, pour dépasser cette crise. Je me dis qu’une démocratie écologique, pensée pour le long terme, à même de prendre des décisions durables, impopulaires, immédiates, fortes, ne peut pas sortir du régime actuel. Et cette question du régime, de la 6ème république, sera déterminante dans mes choix.

En cette fin d’année, les librairies sont pleines de bouquins qui donnent des solutions pour « bifurquer ». Netflix est plein de séries sur la fin du monde. Nous vivons une première crise mais inconsciemment nous savons qu’elles vont se répéter. Mes élèves peut-être en sont encore plus conscients que ma génération.

Il y a des solutions. Je les avais découvert avec étonnement dans un ouvrage qui a plus de 10 ans, « Le plan B » de Lester Brown où l’auteur proposait de sauver la planète pour 93 milliards d’euros : planter des arbres dans le Sahel, par exemple, aurait un effet climatique, agricole, majeur. Dans tous les domaines, des solutions existent. Des barrières douanières écologiques et sociales à l’entrée de l’Union Européenne, on en parlait dans la motion « Un monde d’avance » il y a 10 ans aussi. La transition énergique, en économisant l’énergie et en la gérant dans des réseaux énergétiques locaux, l’association Negawatt en parlait il y a 10 ans encore. Dans mes cours de cinquième, j’explique aux élèves qu’une entreprise développe des fours solaires en Afrique, à bas prix, pour éviter de brûler du bois.

Et pourtant, rien ne se fait, et si nos modes de consommation changent un tantinet, si le vélo prend toute sa place dans les métropoles, ce n’est qu’un frémissement qui ne peut absolument pas être considéré comme positif. Le jour où la classe moyenne chinoise voudra manger un steak de bœuf par semaine, le jeu est fini. Et au nom de quoi on empêcherait les pays émergents de copier notre mode de vie qui dépense 3 planètes chaque année ?

Qui peut mettre en avant les solutions nécessaires ? Pas d’organisation mondiale. Les organisations régionales ne sont pas assez solides. Les régimes étatiques ne le permettent pas, ce serait un suicide politique. Ce qui n’a pas empêché la Finlande et la Nouvelle Zelande d’agir, pourtant. Les collectivités territoriales n’ont pas assez de leviers en main pour mener des politiques globales (à part les intercommunalités, qui ressemblent un peu aux bio-régions solidaires que souhaite Yves Cochet), et les entreprises n’ont aucun intérêt, au vu des politiques fiscales ou des réglementations à mettre en œuvre d’elles-mêmes les changements nécessaires (transports, construction, énergie, il s’agit pourtant bien de normes qui passent par la loi nationale, avec ou sans transposition).

J’en viens à notre responsabilité comme éducatrices et éducateurs.

J’aimerai dire qu’à ma place, comme militant d’un syndicat enseignant, je fais tout ce que je peux pour agir. Ce n’est pas le cas. Mais je vais essayer. L’emprise scolaire, en France, après celle du ministère de la Défense, est sans doute la première en superficie. Nous pourrions l’utiliser au service de la transition énergétique et de la biodiversité. Nous parlons à 12 millions d’enfants et d’adolescents chaque jour. Nous pourrions travailler avec eux sur les solutions sociales, économiques et écologiques qui nous sauveront.

Mais notre ministre privilégie les fondamentaux. Nous pourrions travailler avec eux sur les compétences du 21ème siècle, la créativité, la coopération, la solidarité qui sauveront notre monde. Mais les compétences transversales sont les grandes oubliées de la réforme du lycée en cours de mise en œuvre. Nous pourrions faire des près de 900 000 enseignants les hussards verts de la transition de nos modes de vie, de la résilience face aux crises à venir, mais on recrute surtout de bons historiens, de bons économistes et de bons linguistes.

Face à tous ces défis, ma bonne résolution pour 2021 est au moins d’essayer.

#education #ecologie #changementclimatique #economie #paysémergents #réformedulycée

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lenzami · 7 years

Text

I was done a tag

Hi okay um thanks i guess? idk what im supposed to do but uh @freckles-andconstellations tagged me

Name: Helena

Nickname: (pls dont use it ever) Nena

Gender: female

Star Sign: Scorpio

Height: 5’ 3”

Sexual: gay af

Hogwarts house: ravenclaw

Favorite Animal: Alpacas

Average hours of sleep: depends on the day, but normally 1-3 hours (on my “catch-up” days i sleep up to like 14 hours straight)

Dog or Cat person: I prefer cats bc they’re warm and cuddly but i like dogs too

Blankets you sleep with: I have a sheet, a duvet, and i have my baby blanket which i cuddle with(dontjudgemeitswarmandsoftands-mellslikehome)

Dream trip: Ive always wanted to go to either Kyoto, London, or Amsterdam

When I made this tumblr: I made this tumblr blog a couple months ago but I’ve been on tumblr since 2014 i believe

Followers: 48

why I made this tumblr: Bc dnp ruined my lives back in july and i needed a place to vent

reason for my url: 1) im a fangirl 2) i like the word luciferous bc it sounds like lucifer but it means “light emitting” so like

and now i must do a taggo

@smolboy-phan @solarphilstem @wisehowell @wondering-hqwell @japhandreaming @insomniacphil @curlydans @phanandpenguins @danssttripedshirt @the-phil-lester-defense-squad @kearajewelzzz @dorky-hufflepuff @sleepingdarling @nonaestheticphan @daytonwentupinflames @lightphilly @gliterydan @planter-lester @total-phan-trash @emilyknowseverything

#ahh #how do you tag #how do you //do// a tag #i hope this is right #kay #bonsoir

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little-lester · 7 years

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(ignore the crappy banner)

I somehow hit 1K a few weeks ago and thank you so much??!! I’m not sure why people follow me but I really appreciate it!

First and foremost I have to give a shoutout to @antisocialhowelll for dealing with me both online and irl <3 <3

Sorry that this is in no particular order but here’s all of my lovely mutuals (people who are in bold make me extra happy) also feel free to drown me if i forgot you

@phan-toast @memeboydaniel @lionmanlester @starryeyesdaniel @lunarhowells @philmail @danhowellisfire @pineconelester @amazingkatieisnotonfire2 @mylivingphantasy @enjolbear @wokingdan @kissdjh @mostlyphil @domesticbanting @fabulousphan @xhowellxlesterx @softbants @etherphil @badass-howell @nonfictionphan

@ingenuelester @instarbuckswithdan @computerydan @excellester @5-phan-minutes @cutefreckledfaces @philtea @formsprinq @delicatelydaniel @soft-boy-howell @goldanhowell @vesselphil @phanwhom @howellette @dannizzle @planter-lester @danscornflakes @sadnormalness @lovephaniel @euphoricphill @saturnphan

@forestboyhowell @danisatallmeme @forcechokedaniel @hotcheetohowell @ginassf @peachou @frightphil @oceaneyeslester @panicatthephanler @dansblobfish @phillychillysilly @angeliccphil @liveshowdan @daniellesterrs @sunrisehowell @astrobromeo @aforeverhome @okaydans @blushing-phans @starhowell @rosegoldan

@eros-howell @freetheknee @sweetheartedlester @kaseym14 @danniballester227 @softglabella @maxelmoon @ffs-itsmaya @shelbyiero @dans-toes @okaytogay @delusional-cucumber @djnof @wholewheathowell @oddlyinvisiblescissors @sadboysjumper @astronomicaldan @halcyonhowelll @wittyhowell @sleepyhowelter @dxntasies

@uwannadoitmore @infectiousmemes @babephil @forestphl @danandphilaremyaesthetic @knittedphil @lesterlover24 @danshine @raetheraisin @howellsexual @pierce-the-phandoms @phillester @amourphil @thatdamphangirl @howellpink @ahhhthefeels @matte-howell @demiboydaniel @royalbloodlp @acardboardbox @literallycraftylester

@macaronidan @chillphann @danjielhowell @lestersdog @lesterdreams @energy-to-live @readcelestial @bubblegumdan @radphil @moanew @philsalmondmilk @hellofromstef @sugarlipslester @warblerphan @haruuhowell @punklester @holophil @septic-heart-and-mind @spiritedawaydjh @fuqboihowell @hellelves

@42minuites @bloomhowell @softiehenrik @cheeselester @heavyheartedhowell @iridescentlester @puppypatrick @hopelessphan @rosegoldjh @strikerpml @sushittrashh @cultlester @forestbi @vicesandbachelordeaths @fringeboyes @crimsondan @terribletrouble @insignificantpuppy @guccinof @your-dan-howell-trash @hellcrafts

@justanothersassyfangirl @phanstielwinlester @philsballoon @floweringlester@yyaisapenguin @snazzy-lester @fondnp @ghxstboylester @cursivehowell @htmldab @phanticide @yourlocalphantrash @anyo1511 @imnotphine @awkwardpotatoface @strawberrrr @sophiejohnston2810 @llamacornpinata @howellfromtheotherside @golenarrowshot @sunflowerlesterr

@idolisingpml @hocohollands @daddyhoweil @phantrash1013 @professionalfangirl3111 @megatronthedom @moonbeamphil @shiverssivan @denimnjh @smoothielester @energeticwarrior @ass--lester @flawlessryan @litraleehowell @phantasticphaniel @actualphantrashbin @onlinedjh @hauntedstarcollection @spacekiddan @uponmelancholyhill @phantropolis

@bork-borf-boof-heck @knight-of-youtube @eightpinofs @p-phantastic @gravityandtragedies @sneezingpuppies @phanhallows @howellingforlester @spacehowll @thiccphil @rachaelisbored @trashpaintedgold @gamingmas @starcatcherphan @tinyplanetexplorars @smoltheatrekid @totallyphantastic @srsly-howell @phantastically-unsure @blueberryphil @doitmore @twentyonewallflowers

@starrylester @clingylester @princephil @yikejpg @azuphere @artsyphil @danhoel @salemhowell @lilypilli @hellnostandards @shinedan @starbuckscmbdjh @emilysshook @semipoetictrash @fallingdan @itmephan @brightphil @heathenshowell @fringegaps @starboydan @phaked

@glasshowell @ilikeurhat @we-are-all-trxsh-here @acephan @colorlester @curlyboye @allmyfrensareheathens @littlemissanglerfish @emotionalphanintended @boncasphan @notphillybeans @lesterial @playmyheartlikeadrum @fireboltdan @sadsunsetkid @worldawaypng @dnhwlls @philester @danjeldreamx @moveimgayy @fourandahalfhourskypecalls

@phanperra @jollyhowell @meteorphil @angelicboylester @writerlester @theukamazingdan @ironicphantrash @phanksforthememeries @theinternetishere @simply-phantastic @ithurtsnotolaugh @theamazingphansexual @eatmorehamsters @philledwithstars @natthecatwithahat @snugglyhowell @cosmosphan @starlight-howlter @melancholydan @phantasyprone @lozorhowlter @amazingpheelssssss @imaphlop @doodlingphans @philpov

@nutmeghowell @philyoulittleshitwithlove @latte-howell @alittletoowishful @lovelylilaclester @midnight-ukulele @novatheinternet @actualtrashcant @phan-smiling @squidgehowell @softdnp @philledwithlove @cheekyhearteyes @phan-island @odetoeyes @boobearhowell @too-many-stairs @literalsunshinephilBlock @daninsweaters @aftenhowel @phanattacks @luminaryphan @my-lungs-will-phil

@aes-jpg @magicalpiraterebel @blackhearthowell @basicallyymary @frnkierono @uh-oh-lester @odd2even @cactiphilly @plesty @mayonnaiseisnotainstrument @phan-sandwiches

#follow forever #little-lester follow forever #ff #1k #1kfollowers #just Nicole blabs

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claudia1829things · 5 years

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"THE CHISHOLMS" (1979): Chapter I Commentary

"THE CHISHOLMS" (1979): CHAPTER I Commentary Years ago, before the advent of DVDs, I had perused my local video rental store for something to watch. I came across a miniseries called "THE CHISHOLMS". Due to it being a Western and possessing a running time of four hours and thirty minutes, I decided to give it a chance. I managed to purchase a VHS copy of the miniseries and enjoy for several years. But with the advent of the DVD and my VHS player going on the blink, I had to wait quite a while before I could finally get a DVD copy of it.

Based upon Evan Hunter's 1976 novel, "THE CHISHOLMS" told the story of a family from western Virginia, who make the momentous decision to travel west to California after losing part of their farm to a neighbor, due to some unusual circumstances. Unlike many other television and movie productions about the westward migration during the 1840s, "THE CHIISHOLMS" took its time in setting up the story. In this first episode, it spent at least an hour introducing the Chisholm family - namely: *Hadley Chisholm - the family's patriarch and owner of a farm in western Virginia *Minerva Chisholm - the family's matriarch *William "Will" Chisholm - Hadley and Minerva's oldest son, who is also a veteran of the Texas Revolution *Gideon Chisholm - Hadley and Minerva's second son *Bonnie Sue Chisholm - Hadley and Minerva's older daughter and Beau's twin *Beau Chisholm - Hadley and Minerva's youngest son and Bonnie Sue's twin *Annabel Chisholm - Hadley and Minerva's younger daughter and youngest offspring The first episode or Chapter I began with Will's wedding to a young local woman named Elizabeth during the spring of 1843. Also, the family is unaware of Bonnie Sue's romance with a young man named Brian Cassidy. Unfortunately for her and Brian, the Chisholms and the Cassidys have been engaged in a feud ever since Hadley's brother had rejected Brian's aunt at the wedding altar several decades ago. When the latter died, the Chisholms and the Cassidys discovered that she had received a portion of the Chisholm land - the farm's most fertile - from Hadley's brother as compensation for being dumped. She never revealed this to her family or the Chisholms. But she did leave her land to her brother and Brian's father, Luke Cassidy, who did not wait long to demand that the Chisholms hand over the land. Matters worsen for the Chisholms when Will's bride die from an infection after giving birth to an unborn child. With no fertile land to farm, Hadley Chisholm decides to pack his family and migrate to California. Most of the family agrees with his decision, except Minerva, who is reluctant to leave Virginia; and Bonnie Sue, who is reluctant to leave Brian. The journey west goes without a hitch, until the family reaches Louisville, Kentucky. There, they discover from a young Western guide named Lester Hackett that they had departed Virginia at least a month or two late for the journey to California. The family had reached Louisville in mid-May 1844, around the time when most emigrant wagon trains usually departed Independence, Missouri. Upon learning this, Hadley changes his mind about the journey to California and decides to return to Virginia. But Will informs him that there are other members of the family are willing to utilize Lester's plan that would eliminate some time from their trip to Independence. After the Chisholms decide to continue west via a family vote, they utilize Lester's plan by boarding a flat-bottom boat that takes them to Evansville in western Indiana, cutting off their journey by a few weeks. Some people might find the first hour of "THE CHISHOLMS" rather hard to endure. Most movie and television productions usually spend at least fifteen minutes in introducing its characters and conveying the reasons behind their decision to migrate to the West. "THE CHISHOLMS" spent an hour. Personally, this did not bother me, for I found the circumstances behind the Chisholms' decision to head for California rather interesting. Especially since the circumstances involved a potential feud with another family. Other reasons why I rather enjoyed the miniseries' first hour was how the circumstances in which the family made its departure originated with Hadley Chisholm's displeasure over the neighborhood's new minister from Vermont and how the latter conducted Elizabeth Chisholm's funeral. I would explain how Hadley's conflict over the new minister led to the family sneaking away from their home in the middle of the night. But it would require a great deal of narration on my part. And honestly, I would suggest that you simply watch the miniseries. Once the family hit the road for California, the miniseries went into full steam. Chapter I only followed the Chisholms from Virginia to southwestern Indiana, but a good deal happened in that half hour. The temptation to return home to Virginia hovered over the family all the way to Louisville. And when the family learned from Lester Hackett that they had left Virginia about a month or so too late, even Hadley was tempted to turn around. What I found interesting about this turn of events is that Chisholms' decision on whether to return to Virginia or continue west to California depended upon a family vote . . . and the instant attraction between Bonnie Sue Chisholm and Lester. Personally, I would have ended Chapter I with that scene inside a Louisville stable. Hadley and Minerva's willingness to decide the whole matter on a vote, along with the sexual attraction between Bonnie Sue and Lester, would end up producing major consequences later in the miniseries and in the short-lived television series that followed. Instead, the Chisholms experienced a brief journey down the Ohio River on a broad horn (flat-bottom raft), while Minerva endured the unwanted attention of the broad horn's captain (or patroon) named Jimmy Jackson. By the time the family reached the outskirts of Evansville, they had reached the point of no return. Another aspect about "THE CHISHOLMS" that I enjoyed, was how the producers, director Mel Stuart and the screenwriters utilized the production's historical background without hitting viewers over the head with facts. The family had departed Virginia in 1844, a year that featured a Presidential election. Not once did the topic of the election graced anyone's lips. But the miniseries made it clear that Will Chisholm was a veteran of the Texas Revolution of 1836. The miniseries also brought up the topic of slavery. The narrative pointed out that Hadley's wealthiest neighbor was a planter and slave owner. And during the last half hour of Chapter I, a coffle of slaves was among the other passengers aboard Jimmy Jackson's broad horn, leading Minerva Chisholm to express anti-slavery sentiments. I also enjoyed how the miniseries gave television viewers a lengthy peek into life in the early-to-mid 19th century Appalachia. I have always admired Aaron Copeland's score for the miniseries. But I must admit that his score contributed to this episode's first hour, which featured the Chisholms' life in western Virginia. Most of the production's historical background seemed to revolve around the family's westward journey. Unlike many Hollywood productions, television viewers did not see the Chisholms' wagon being pulled by horses (which is historically inaccurate). And the narrative went out of its way to point out that the family had started its westbound journey about a month or two late. I also enjoyed the brief montage that featured the Chisholms' early start on the journey and what it took for them to maintain supplies and keep their wagon in condition. Steven P. Sardanis's production designs, the art direction that he provided with Fred Price, Charles Korian and Charles B. Price's set decorations, and Tom Costick's costumes (to a certain extent), did a great job in re-creating western Virginia and the Ohio River Valley circa 1844. But in the, the cast proved to be the best thing about "THE CHISHOLMS". I must commend casting director Vicki Rosenberg for gathering a first-rate collection of performers for the cast. The miniseries featured solid performances from Dean Hill, Jack Wallace, Maureen Steindler, Tom Taylor, James O'Reilly and Gavin Troster; even if they did not exactly rock my boat. Glynnis O'Connor gave a charming performance as Will's young wife, Elizabeth Chisholm. Anthony Zerbe gave a spotless performance as the sleazy flat boat patroon, Jimmy Jackson. But the one supporting performance that caught my eye came from Charles Frank, who gave the first of a series of dazzling performance as the charmingly ambiguous Lester Hackett. Rosenberg casting of the Chisholm family proved to be even more impressive to me. Susan Swift gave a very charming and balanced performance as the family's youngest member, Annabel Chisholm, who seemed divided between the adventure of migrating to California and being mindful of her mother's reluctance to move. James Van Patten gave a very energetic and intense performance as the family's hot-tempered member, Beau Chisholm. Stacy Nelkin's portrayal of the sensual, yet pragmatic Bonnie Sue Chisholm struck me as very skillful, which is why her performance was one of my favorites in the series. Brian Kerwin, whom I remember from the 1982 miniseries, "THE BLUE AND THE GRAY", seemed a bit laid back as middle son, Gideon Chisholm. But he gave a charming performance in the end. Ben Murphy portrayed the oldest sibling, Will Chisholm. And I thought he did a great job in revealing how Will seemed to be an interesting combination of his parents. I was especially impressed by how he handled Will's grief over Elizabeth's death. Years after I had first seen "THE CHISHOLMS", I was surprised to learn that the two leads - Robert Preston and Rosemary Harris - had first worked together on the 1966 Broadway play, "THE LION IN THE WINTER". I do not know if having them reunite for the 1979 miniseries was Rosenberg or someone's idea, but it was a damn good one, all the same. What can I say? Whatever magic Preston and Harris had created on Broadway back in the mid-1960s, they managed to re-create it front of the television camera some 12 to 13 years later. In some ways, the pair seemed like the yin and yang of the Chisholm family. They were so perfect together that I do not know how else to describe their performance. Before I end this article, I must admit there were one or two aspects of "THE CHISHOLMS" that either did not impress me or . . . confused me. Although I believe that Tom Costick's costumes added to the production mid-1840s setting . . . but only to a certain degree. It did seem that a great deal of Costick's costumes looked as if they had come out of a Hollywood warehouse, instead of being created by him. Especially the women's costumes. Even those costumes worn by well-to-do women in the Louisville sequence gave that impression. And I am a little confused about the circumstances surrounding Hadley's loss of his most fertile cornfield. I understood how he lost the actual land to Luke Cassidy. What I did not understand was how Cassidy managed to take possession of the corn that the Chisholm family had already sown. Surely the court would have allowed the Chisholms to profit from the corn sown from seeds purchased by them? If someone could clear this matter for me, please do so. Despite my quibbles regarding the costumes and the matter surrounding the cornfield lost to the Chisholms, I enjoyed Chapter I of "THE CHISHOLMS" very much. In fact, watching it reminded me why it had become one of my favorite miniseries in the first place. Why on earth did I wait so long in watching it again? Oh well . . . on to Chapter II.

#the chisholms #evan hunter #westward expansion #literary #period drama #period dramas #costume drama #antebellum #robert preston #rosemary harris #ben murphy #brian kerwin #james van patten #stacy nelkin #susan swift #glynnis o'connor #charles frank #anthony zerbe

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cokeisrael4-blog · 5 years

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Can South Philly Hold On to What’s Always Made It Unique?

City

It’s our most famous neighborhood, defined by its immigrants and its characters, by intermingling (sometimes clashing) cultures — and by near-constant change. Where does it go from here?

The rapidly changing South Philly. Photograph by Adam Englehart

In the late summer of 1981, very much against my Catholic mother’s wishes, I had just moved into a rowhouse at 17th and Naudain — then the very bottom edge of Center City — where my new boyfriend lived. Mom, who’d recently been diagnosed with cancer, was coming for her first visit, reluctantly. The neighborhood was admittedly sketchy — most of Center City was, back then — but I was proud of our chic little home, with its new sofa and drapes and the garden planted out back. Mom knocked, I opened the door, and she peered past me into the narrow hallway.

“Oh my God,” she said, and not in a good way. “It’s just like Morris Street.”

That was where my mom grew up: 128 Morris Street, in the heart of South Philly. A hundred or so years ago, for reasons that are lost in the sands of time, Casimir Norvilas, a Lithuanian immigrant, moved there. He was still in his 20s, but he’d already lived an exciting life, having served in the merchant marine and fought Pancho Villa on the U.S.-Mexican border.

In Philly, perhaps calling on some leatherworking skills acquired on the horse farm near Vilnius where he grew up, he opened a shoemaker shop. He married a fellow Lithuanian immigrant, bought the house on Morris Street, and had three daughters, the eldest of whom was my mom.

The part of the city where he settled was traditionally a point of entry for immigrants. It was close to the docks where ships arrived from the Old World; those same docks provided jobs for laborers whose only skill was brute force. The first big flush of migrants to the city had been Irish, pried from their hearths in the 1840s by a potato blight that caused widespread starvation, killed a million people, and drove another two million to exit the Emerald Isle. The next was Italian, propelled by the “unification” of small city-states and the breakdown of the peninsula’s feudal system. Some seven million mostly Southern Italian peasants decamped for foreign parts.

The Morris Street house where the author’s mom grew up. Photograph by Michelle Gustafson

Since then, wave after wave of newcomers has inhabited the rowhouses of South Philly, on both the east and west sides of Broad Street — Southern blacks with the collapse of Reconstruction, Eastern European Jews starting in the 1880s, more Italians after World War II ended. Mexicans moved north under the 1942 bracero (“one who works using his arms”) program, and smaller tides of Cubans and Puerto Ricans and Vietnamese and Cambodians and Liberians landed here, too. South Philly was a place to gain a foothold, to begin anew, to build something from nothing for impoverished families from all over the world. Then your kids got the hell out.

That was what Mom did. She made her way to Girls’ High, which was then at 17th and Spring Garden, and after graduating went even further up Broad Street to Temple, where she met my dad. Together, they began a family and a series of successive moves away from South Philly, to Willow Grove and Glenside and finally bucolic Doylestown. They raised a solid middle-class clan of four kids and a dog on a third of an acre there.

Which is why, I think, the house on Naudain Street so unnerved Mom. When you’ve spent a lifetime trying to escape the past, it can’t be easy to realize that your child just cheerfully leaped back in.

That was the only time Mom ever visited me and Doug, who eventually became my husband. She died three months later. I’d like to think it wasn’t seeing the house.

•

The workingman’s homes that make up Philly’s rows were built in the mid-to-late 19th century, as the city underwent rapid industrialization. But there were rowhouses even before that; witness the city’s oldest block, Elfreth’s Alley. William Penn envisioned his city filled with gracious single homes set amid green lawns, but it didn’t take long for speculators to slice up the blocks he laid out and eke the most from them by erecting rowhomes. The city was built atop clay, which is what you make bricks from, which is why the rowhomes were brick.

I have the vaguest memories of the house on Morris Street; Poppy’s shoemaker shop and the penny-candy place next door made more of an impression on me. I know this, though: Mom’s parents, like so many new arrivals here, found the fact that they were allowed to own land amazing. Slaves from the South and serfs from the Baltic States and paesani from Italy had all fled societies in which “real estate” belonged to the master or czar or king. To buy for yourself even the postage-stamp property beneath a rowhouse was a marvelous thing.

Which is one reason newcomers stayed put. “People would move to South Philly because it was close to jobs on the waterfront or in the garment factories,” says Bryant Simon, a history professor at Temple. “Then they created a culture that reminded them of where they were from.” They opened butcher shops and bakeries, planted grapevines in tiny backyards, built churches and fraternal organizations. They dug in, deep.

A window near 8th and Tasker. Photograph by Michelle Gustafson

Southern Italian immigrants, notes Penn city planning and urban studies professor Domenic Vitiello, had a particular pattern of migration: “They settled in groups of people from the same town. You could identify them — this block from this village in Abruzzo, this block from this village in Calabria.” Mexican immigration, Vitiello adds, would later follow this same pattern.

My mom’s mom’s sister, Adeline, married an Italian my grandfather fondly called “Goombah Jimmy.” We only visited Adeline’s house, on Wolf Street near Broad, for the Mummers Parade and the occasional funeral, but it stood out because it was so unlike anything else in my bland suburban life. People drank, hard; everyone was loud; the women and the food — Italian sausages, kielbasa and pierogies — smelled wonderful; and in an upstairs bedroom there hung the biggest painting I had ever seen, a full-size reproduction of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, with all that bare-breasted flesh. Who could look away?

I went back to South Philly recently and checked out the house on Wolf Street. There were potted plants taking the sun beside the front stoop. Mom’s people were farmers at heart. She would have liked that.

I went to Morris Street, too, to see what was left of number 128. It looked good — the trim all freshly painted, a fancy ornamental door. There was a planter beside it, too. The houses on Mom’s row are tiny — under a thousand square feet, with two bedrooms and a single bath. Yet when she was a kid, her family took in a boarder to help with the bills, which wasn’t rare. A 1904 survey of the area from 8th Street to 9th Street between Carpenter and Christian showed that 41 of the 167 houses were occupied by three or more families. That’s a tight squeeze.

Bryant Simon says you can tell when a neighborhood gentrifies by the house numbers; newcomers prefer sans serif fonts. There’s a lot of sans serif on Mom’s block. Another clue: the four new three-story townhomes with garages and roof decks. They have three bedrooms and two and a half baths and, you can bet, one family apiece.

•

Mom’s old house sold for $43,000 in 1995; today, its estimated worth is $218,985. The big difference between people buying in South Philly these days and those from the old days is that the latest arrivals don’t land here with nothing. They bring along advanced degrees and SUVs and Mitchell Gold sofas and IRAs.

Back in 2011, Kate Mellina and her husband, Dave Christopher, moved from Asbury Park to Philadelphia, where Mellina had grown up: “In the Northeast — St. Timothy’s parish. But my dad was from South Philly. St. Monica’s. You forget how Philadelphia is defined by its parishes.” The couple, both artists, were looking for an area that was “up-and-coming,” Mellina says, and they bought a house in East Passyunk, overlooking the famed Singing Fountain. “It was not quite as developed then,” Mellina says, “but you could see it was on its way.”

Not long after they moved in, one of the couple’s friends happened on a vintage photo album at Lambertville’s Golden Nugget flea market and recognized some famous faces posing with the grinning strangers inside: Bob Hope, Tony Bennett, Johnny Mathis, Liberace. On the back of the album was the photographer’s studio address, on East Passyunk Avenue. “Our friend knew we’d moved in around there, so he gave it to us,” Mellina explains. “He said, “Here’s your housewarming present — find out who these people are!”

Naturally, Mellina says, she started by showing the album to her neighbor, “Frank from around the corner, who’s been here forever.”

“Oh, that’s Palumbo’s!” Frank said.

“We were like, ‘What’s Palumbo’s?’” Mellina had never heard of the now-defunct nightclub at 8th and Catharine that hosted everyone from Sinatra to Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. back in the day. It started life as a boardinghouse for immigrants sailing from Italy; legend has it they’d arrive speaking no English but with signs around their necks that read PALUMBO’S.

Plenty of Palumbo’s stars were homegrown. South Philly’s rowhouses all looked alike on the outside, but they sheltered singular individuals inside. The roll call just of those who passed through South Philly High at Broad and Snyder is startling: Marian Anderson, Mario Lanza, Chubby Checker, Jack Klugman, Frankie Avalon, bandleader Lester Lanin, composer Vincent Persichetti, NBA founder Eddie Gottlieb, world heavyweight boxing champ Tim Witherspoon, mayor Frank Rizzo, boxing trainer Angelo Dundee … It’s hard not to feel optimistic in a neighborhood where just a few streets over, a Jewish punk named Eddie Fisher grew up to divorce Debbie Reynolds so he could marry Elizabeth Taylor. America. What a country.

“South Philly is a real neighborhood,” says Kate Mellina. “It’s a mix of people whose families have been here for three or four generations — in the same houses — and new people moving in with dogs and babies.”

Since the album was foisted on her, Mellina has visited senior centers and the local library in her quest to identify the non-famous people in its pages. She discovered that it had belonged to Arthur Tavani, a writer for a little local newspaper. “His sister was still alive then,” she recalls, “living in the same house they grew up in. She greeted me like a long-lost daughter.” Mellina also talked to Carmen Dee, who’d been the bandleader at Palumbo’s, which burned down in 1994. And she’s chronicled her efforts at a website, Unexpected Philadelphia, that lets you scroll through the photos in case there’s anyone you know.

“South Philly is a real neighborhood,” says Mellina. “It’s a mix of people whose families have been here for three or four generations — in the same houses — and new people moving in with dogs and babies. Everyone seems to get along. You take your lawn chairs out front in the summer, and people parade by with the kids and the dogs.” Asbury Park, she notes, actually was a small town — “but it didn’t have that small-town feel.”

The small town has gone big-time over the past decade. Townsend Wentz, Nick Elmi, Chris Kearse, Lou Boquila, Lynn Rinaldi, and Lee Styer and Jessie Prawlucki have all opened restaurants along this stretch of East Passyunk. The neighborhood has coffee shops, twinkly string lights, a British pie shop, and Artisan Boulanger Patissier. You’ll find dim sum and doggie boutiques, a retro typewriter repair shop, breweries and bike stores, not to mention a yoga studio that recently hosted a visit from an alpaca. It’s a freaking hipster paradise.

A block or so north, the paradise ends.

•

Philly’s Italian Market, which stretches along 9th Street roughly from Dickinson to Fitzwater, started out as a Jewish market. It’s now mostly Asians and Latinos who run the iconic sidewalk stalls. To go from twinkly Passyunk Square to, say, Giordano’s produce stand just above Washington is sort of a shock. The market hasn’t gentrified. It still has flies in summer and burn barrels in winter, and wooden skids and flattened cardboard boxes are piled everywhere. (“That’s not real trash,” Bryant Simon teases when I raise the subject of the market. “They bring it out every morning so it looks like a scene from Rocky.”) It also has guys who pick out your tomatoes for you, thank you very much, and put them in a bag. The area is a good example of the challenges of gentrification. “How do you maintain the market while the neighborhood changes?” asks Simon. “That’s a delicate balance. Tourists can only buy so many vegetables.” Anthony’s Italian Coffee & Chocolate House has stood here for four generations. Now it has online ordering, and seasonal lattes like the Spring Fling and the Crème Brûlée.

There have been fitful efforts to start up a Business Improvement District for the market, so merchants can kick in to gussy things up. A few years back, Michelle Gambino, business manager for the South 9th Street Business Association, described her vision for the future, with organic foods and craft booths alongside the homely produce carts: “We’re hoping that the look will continue to be Old World, but just upscale.”

To add to the balancing act, New York developers have so far unveiled three iterations of an apartment building planned for the heart of the market, right at 9th and Washington, ranging from six to eight stories in height. The latest version has 157 units. Merchants and shoppers panicked when plans showed the driveway to the building’s underground parking right on 9th Street, where it will surely disrupt the market’s traffic and pedestrians. So much for Old World.

“There are two processes going on in South Philly right now,” says Bryant Simon. “Longtime residents are being displaced by new immigrants and by high-end creative-class people.” In other words, old South Philly’s getting squeezed from both sides.

The Italian isn’t the only market in South Philly. The busy commercial stretch of Washington between 6th and 16th earned the soubriquet “Little Saigon” thanks to immigrants who settled there after the Vietnam War. (Condé Nast Traveler once dubbed the area “Pho Row.”) The city’s Asian population has continued to grow, jumping by 42 percent from 2000 to 2010; Philly is now home to the East Coast’s largest population of Vietnamese immigrants. At Horace Furness High, near Mom’s old house, 48.5 percent of the kids are Asian.

In Little Saigon, too, change is coming. Developers have proposed new rowhomes and duplexes, plus parking spots, on the site of the Hoa Binh shopping center, which occupies almost an entire block at Washington and 16th. The current shopping center isn’t pretty. But neither are most newly built rowhomes, when you think about it.

There may be no better example of South Philly’s metamorphosis than what used to be the Edward W. Bok Technical High School at 8th and Mifflin, where neighborhood kids not bound for college once studied tailoring and plumbing, hairdressing and bricklaying. After closing down in 2013, the Art Deco building, constructed in the 1930s by Franklin Roosevelt’s Public Works Administration, was reborn as BOK, an urban playground with a roof-deck bar, boutiques, “maker spaces,” tattoo artists and, of course, yoga. “I think BOK is a fascinating symbol,” says Bryant Simon. “There are two processes going on in South Philly right now. Longtime residents are being displaced by new immigrants and by high-end creative-class people who value urban spaces and are knowledge workers.” In other words, old South Philly’s getting squeezed from both sides.

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We tend to think of “South Philly” as the Rocky world that’s east of Broad Street, but Point Breeze and Grays Ferry are South Philly, too. They were settled along familiar lines, first by European Jews, then by Italians and Irish, and finally by blacks driven west from their original stronghold in what had been farm country near 7th and South. There were race riots here in 1918, touched off when a black woman moved in; thousands battled in the streets. By the 1920s, according to a resident quoted in Murray Dubin’s South Philadelphia: Mummers, Memories, and the Melrose Diner, from Lombard Street to Washington Avenue between Broad and 20th was “solid black.” Still, racial strife bubbled up regularly. In 1997, then-mayor Ed Rendell had to negotiate a compromise with Louis Farrakhan to ward off a planned protest.

Today, Point Breeze is ground zero for Philly gentrification. The median housing price in the most gentrified section rose from $29,000 in 2000 to $234,000 in 2016, while the population of black residents changed from 80 percent to 46 percent. Bryant Simon, who wrote a book about Starbucks, says you can trace the spread of gentrification in coffee shops. He mentions developer Ori Feibush, who fueled Point Breeze’s gilding by opening OCF Coffee House at 20th and Federal “as a way of planting a flag. He was smart about that.”

Neighbors playing at 2nd and Porter. Photograph by Michelle Gustafson

For many residents of western South Philly, Feibush, who’s been building new townhouses everywhere, has become the face of black displacement. In 2015, he ran against incumbent 2nd District Councilmember Kenyatta Johnson in a bitter primary fight that stirred race into the already boiling pot of tax assessments and abatements and property values. Johnson won. In May, he introduced a bill that would ban from Grays Ferry and Point Breeze the balconies and bay windows featured on many newly constructed rowhomes — a pointed up-yours to Feibush and gentrification. The resentment is understandable.

Racism has a long history throughout South Philadelphia. “It would have helped if Frank Rizzo didn’t tolerate white resistance, or if there had been no redlining,” Simon says. Old photos of South Philly High show integrated sports teams as far back as 1918, and black and white cross-country runners in the ’50s with their arms draped around each other. But as recently as 2009, black students were beating up Asian immigrants. Following a boycott, a new principal, and a Justice Department investigation, matters have improved.

In fact, says Penn’s Vitiello, you could make the case that since the 1970s, South Philadelphia has been the city’s most successful neighborhood in terms of immigration: “A wide variety of refugees has found it comfortable and livable. There’s a wide variety of ethnic groceries, goods and services. The housing stock is still affordable. There are still plenty of absentee landlords who see new immigrants as an important source of income.” And many older residents, he says, “welcome newcomers in a very humane way. They appreciate that their neighbors are here just trying to raise their kids and provide for themselves.” It was former mayor John Street, he points out, who first established sanctuary protections in Philadelphia back in 2001, along with Irish-born police commissioner John Timoney.

“Change related to new immigrants is nothing new in South Philly,” Bryant Simon says. “It’s never been without tensions. Change is kind of perpetual there.”

To some extent, Vitiello says, politicians here have embraced immigrants because they know that without them, the city would be shrinking, not growing. He puts Michael Nutter in this economically motivated camp. But Jim Kenney, whose parents came to the U.S. from Ireland — and who grew up five blocks from my mom’s house, at 3rd and Snyder — “has consistently been more about treating people as humans, as neighbors,” he says.

At the same time, South Philadelphians, Bryant Simon points out, have always shown “a commitment to maintaining their turf.” Historically, this is the land of mobsters and payola, not touchy-feely empathy. “We make fun of yoga studios and deck bars serving IPAs,” Simon says, “and the identity that goes along with certain cultural practices.” But alpaca yoga isn’t South Philly’s big problem now: “The real tensions are over real estate values.”

On the positive side, he notes, “Change related to new immigrants is nothing new in South Philly. It was always a place of immigrants. It’s never been without tensions. Change is kind of perpetual there.”

•

I used to live in South Philly. In 1988, Doug and I bought a little rowhouse near 20th and Snyder for $35,000. We were ready to have kids and wanted some stability. We were an odd fit for the neighborhood back then. There was nobody our age on our block; old people lived there, and their kids drove in from Jersey for Sunday dinner. One entire wall of our bathroom was mirrored; it became our daughter’s favorite part of the house. Once, when I was taking the bus into Center City with Marcy when she was two, a nun asked what parish we belonged to. “We don’t go to church,” I told her. “Surely you’ve had her baptized,” she said. I shook my head. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “Do you want your daughter to go to Hell?”

Most people, though, were nice to us. Johnny from the auto shop across the street would invite us in for barbecued deer during fall hunting season. In winter, we pushed the kids in strollers beneath rainbows of Christmas lights. In summer, there were walks to the water-ice stand and cooling showers from fire-hydrant sprinklers. The mobster’s mom down the block wouldn’t let her grandson come to Marcy’s birthday party, but she did show up afterward with excuses and a gift.

After six years, we got tired of chasing guys with guns off our stoop, of worrying that the kids would get hit by cars, of the endless litter and the fight to find parking. I longed for a real garden, not a couple of barrel planters. We escaped to the suburbs, just in time for Marcy to start school. We sold the house for less than we’d paid for it, to two Cambodian brothers. We always have been terrible at real estate.

Today, the house we dumped for $32,500 is worth an estimated $195,954. I go back to see it, for old time’s sake. The neighborhood is still dotted with bodegas and pharmacies and Chinese takeout joints, but there’s a new coffee shop that delivers through Grubhub. Our place looks tidy and kempt; there are a host of potted plants beside the front door, which is painted deep blue. The house numbers are a bougie font. The young woman who lives there now walks dogs for a living. We exchange emails, and I ask if the bathroom still has that mirrored wall. She LOLs. It does.

In nearby Girard Park, I pick my way through downed tree branches from a recent storm to view a plaque honoring Kenyatta Johnson for nabbing $600,000 in improvements to its drainage, benches and walkways. Within eyeshot of the house where a pipe bomb blew up Phil “Chicken Man” Testa in 1981, I join a woman sitting on a park bench with a little girl in a stroller. I smile and tell her my daughter learned to walk right in this park. She smiles back. “I’m the nanny,” she says.

A nanny. In Girard Park. It’s the beginning of the end.

Not so fast, says Vitiello. “South Philly is pretty big,” he points out, “and gentrification moves in waves. There are some indicators that suggest South Philly will keep growing, and others that suggest its growth will be slow and halting.” That means South Philly’s seemingly impossible balance of old and new, rich and poor, black and white and everything else, could endure. Large tracts here, Vitiello insists, should remain affordable for a long time to come.

Maybe so. All I know is, there’s new three-story housing going up across 20th Street from our old place, no doubt with garages and roof decks.

Oh my God. It’s just like Morris Street.

Published as “True South” in the July 2019 issue of Philadelphia magazine.

Source: https://www.phillymag.com/news/2019/07/06/changing-south-philly/

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