#rural wall painting advertising

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[beardedmrbean]

CONWAY, N.H. — (AP) — Bakery owner Sean Young was thrilled when high school art students covered the big blank wall over his doorway last spring with a painting of the sun shining over a mountain range made of sprinkle-covered chocolate and strawberry donuts, a blueberry muffin, a cinnamon roll and other pastries.

The display got rave reviews, and Young looked forward to collaborating with the school on more mural projects at his roadside bakery in Conway, New Hampshire.

Then the town zoning board got involved, deciding that the pastry painting was not so much art as advertising, and so could not remain as is because of its size. Faced with modifying or removing the mural, or possibly dealing with fines and criminal charges, Young sued, saying the town is violating his freedom of speech rights.

The painting could stay right where it is if it showed actual mountains, instead of pastries suggesting mountains, or if the building wasn’t a bakery.

“They said it would be art elsewhere,” Young told The Associated Press in an interview. “It’s just not art here.”

“The town should not have the right to police art,” he said.

The controversy has residents of this town of 10,000 grappling with big questions about creativity and liberty as it tries to preserve its rural character. Like other White Mountain communities that draw skiers, nature lovers and shoppers, Conway is under development pressure, making the sign dispute fraught with worries that any concession to commerce could change what they hold dear.

Many — including the zoning board members — applauded the students' colorful work, but said rules must be followed, even if they're old and outdated. At about 90 square feet (8.6 square meters), the mural is four times bigger than the sign code allows.

Following a longstanding democratic tradition of New England town meetings, residents deliberated how to define a sign before ultimately voting down changes last week. The local newspaper said the proposed wording wasn't clear. Ultimately, a judge may have to resolve what remains an open debate in town.

“Those kids put their heart in it,” retiree Steve Downing said. He thinks the painting should stay.

“Everyone has to comply with the ordinance," said Charlie Birch, a former U.S. Forest Service worker. "And even though it was done by the students, which was well done, and I give them a lot of credit for it ... if you have the ordinance, ‘One for all,’ that’s where we are. You can’t really make any exceptions, otherwise everybody else will want the exception.”

Art teacher Olivia Benish, who worked with three students on the project, apologized to the board in September for not doing "due diligence" to make sure the mural would comply. She didn't respond to requests for an interview. But she told the board members that there has to be a way to give students the opportunity to create positive public works of art "without upsetting the law and the powers that be," according to the town minutes.

The lawsuit Young filed in January argues that the town is unconstitutionally discriminating against him. He asked a judge to prevent the town from enforcing its sign code.

And now other businesses have been drawn into the controversy.

Long before the pastry painting was installed, the town had allowed other murals at a local shopping center, but in December the town found that three of those artworks are, indeed, signs that violate size limits. They go before the zoning board on Wednesday.

Young, who is being represented by the Virginia-based Institute for Justice, asked for $1 in damages. Meanwhile, he’s selling T-shirts as a high school art department fundraiser, saying “This is Art” with the artwork on the front, and “This is a Sign” of a roadside “Leavitt’s Country Bakery” sign on the back.

“As Conway officials have confirmed, the town does not consider a painting to be a “sign” if it does not convey what town officials perceive to be a commercial message,” the lawsuit says. “But the town’s perception is that any mural depicting anything related to a business is a ‘sign.’ This is governmental discrimination based on the content of the speech" and the speaker's identity, it said.

The lawsuit says the town's sign definition is "incredibly broad," with no mention of murals in the code: A sign in Conway is "any device, fixture, placard, structure or attachment thereto that uses color, form, graphic, illumination, symbol, or writing to advertise, announce the purpose of, or identify the purpose of any person or entity, or to communicate information of any kind to the public, whether commercial or noncommercial."

Board member Luigi Bartolomeo said he thinks the pastry painting is art, not advertising. He read the definition out loud at the board's meeting in August, and said he agrees with a local attorney who called it "unconstitutionally vague."

“I think it’s a very badly written piece of code here,” said Bartolomeo, who recently retired. But Board Chairperson John Colbath said the board has to work with the ordinance, which was approved by voters, and that there is a process to change that.

“If they had done a seasonal mural on the wall — covered bridges and sunflowers and what have you — and it did not represent what your business is in, then it would be more likely to be a well-respected piece of art and not construed as a sign,” Colbath said at the August meeting.

He said to Young, “I understand the art thing — and you look and you see a mountain — but the general public sees donuts on the front of the bakery.”

“I think most of the people said it’s art,” Young responded.

In its denial of Young's appeals, the board concluded that the bakery won't be negatively affected without the display.

“This supposed distinction between murals and signs shouldn’t matter,” attorney Betsy Sanz of the Institute said in a news release. “After all, nothing in the First Amendment distinguishes between art and commercial signs — or commercial speech of any kind.”

The town and Young agreed in February to pause court proceedings — and any potential fines or charges — pending a vote on a revised definition that would allow the painting to stay. But it failed in last week's elections, with 805 to 750 voting against it, according to the town clerk's office. The judge now wants to hear from both sides by May 10.

“We’re ready to keep going,” Young said.

Town Manager John Eastman declined an interview, referring questions to town lawyer Jason Dennis, who said he would soon meet with town officials to discuss next steps.

The Conway Daily Sun offered its analysis in an editorial last week: "Voters smartly concluded that the proposed new definition of signs would only further complicate enforcement. That said, it is not a stretch to conjecture that most voters are fine with the murals at Leavitt's Country Bakery and Settlers Green. We suggest the town figure out a way to back off enforcement until a clearer definition can be written, one that accommodates 'art.'"

[phinilez]

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Graffiti is a form of visual art that involves writing or drawing on public surfaces, such as walls, buildings, and sidewalks, using various materials like spray paint, markers, stickers, and stencils. Graffiti can be found in many different locations, from urban areas to rural environments, and is often associated with street culture and hip-hop music.

While graffiti can be seen as a form of artistic expression, it is also often viewed as a form of vandalism and illegal activity, as it is often created without the permission of property owners or government authorities. Graffiti artists may face legal consequences for their work, including fines, community service, or even imprisonment, depending on the laws and regulations of their local area.

In recent years, there has been a growing movement to recognize graffiti as a legitimate art form, and many cities and communities have begun to create designated areas for graffiti and street art. Some graffiti artists have gained international recognition for their work, and their art can be found in galleries and museums around the world.

[phinilez] is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by advertising and linking to Amazon.com

[andromachos]

the thing with trads is that they are actually disconnected from all senses of past, and their beautiful "past" is pretty much advertising and paintings. your housewife grandma that couldn't divorce most likely spat in her husband's coffee every morning, their children raised under the unquestionable allpowerful nuclear family who beat them up will send her to the cheapest retirement home and openly discuss who's inheriting what in front of her because they fucking hate her. country life is miserable, dirty, lonely. your body will start breaking sooner or later, and good luck finding a rural doctor with decent tools and medicine. your hay roof will home bugs that will kill you, your crops can be eaten by anything or anyone, killed by a passerby, an animal you didn't enclose properly, or simply two consecutive days of bad weather. you will not find it funny having to make the month's grocery shopping and running out of something quicker. the list can go on and on

a lot steams from the idea of escaping "the problem" but what most fail to name is that "the problem" means doing any meaningful action, specially political ones, and most important, learning to coexist with different people. city life could be bearable if cities were planned to be enjoyable, if there werent cars everywhere and instead estrategic planning and public transportation, and apartments built for comfort with thick walls so you can have privacy instead of the cheapest building method, which you could decorate freely instead of having a landlord obsessed with the idea of reselling the place. but that would mean having an opinion that goes against status quo, and that would require a political stance that calls to action

there is also the most notorious part of anti-urban sentiment: racism. to be able to properly coexist would require to put the effort to unlearn bigotry which means helping dismantle it's systemic power. and that, again demands from the individual to care for others. which is why trads are conservative*, because it is easier (and cheaper) to ban than to make an sort of significant change. think for example the abortion laws, the price of the goverment ensuring professional conditions vs just banning it and not even building decent orphanages)

(* there are some "liberal" and "left-leaning" trads, which consider themselves like that because traditionalism is an ideology that rewards lack of critical thinking and herd mentality, so they band with the groups that will give them specific rights, like drug use or lgbt ones, but when bigotry, specially bigotry that does not affect them, appears they sigh and ask for an apolitical space, to just "focus on what they already have" or ask for an imaginary escape)

and with that chosen disconnection from reality and it's issues that require attention it's how they look at the past. they ignore the recounts of people who came before them and instead think the 50s housewife advertisement is real, the paintings of gorgeous women in pastel colors and satin in the middle of untouched nhe hunted filling an entire family for a sustained amount of time. good luck seeing how many births at home you can have. have fun creating all of your furniture

these, at the same time, are solvable issues through a good governmental infraestructure. but that, again, would mean to be "political" and involve yourself in something. an effort. so it's easier to fantasize and then blame modernity for your mistakes and lack of knowledge. that's how traditionalism, no matter how logic or "based" tries to paint itself, is just a massive daydream, an ideology sustained by roman statues and roccoco paintings, the dream of "putting yourself up by your bootstraps" without even having a boot

even their desire to be apolitical is a lie, if being apolitical is even possible, for most just dream of segregation ("each in their own space") and the ability to commit hatecrimes without consequence, with some being more open on their desire and others less. worse than a spoiled child, it's the dream of never being held accountable, of moving to where no one would judge you, no one can correct you, where you can remain in your echo chamber forever and beat up anyone who dares question you

[momental]

Missing Students of Ayotzinapa

Last year, I drove south from Mexico City, along the highway toward Apango, a modest hillside town in the state of Guerrero. The highway ends at Acapulco, but there were no palm trees and no glamour where I was going. I turned onto a silent two-lane road, and drove past villages where indigenous languages such as Nahuatl are still spoken. It was the dry season, and the scrub-forest hills had turned every shade of dust and brown, punctuated only by the soft white flowers of the casahuate trees.

In Apango, I asked for Estanislao Mendoza Chocolate, or Don Tanis, as he is respectfully known. I had travelled here to ask him about his son, who vanished one night in 2014, along with forty-two other students from a rural teachers’ college, never to be seen again.

When I arrived, Don Tanis was waiting anxiously in his doorway, a round-faced, neatly dressed man in his sixties with a lively manner and haunted eyes. He showed me around his house, a collection of bare cinder-block rooms with a light bulb in the center of each one, which he built in the course of two decades as a seasonal migrant in California. There was a storage room for the year’s supply of corn—to sell, or to grind for the family’s tortillas—and, untouched all this time, the room where his son had lived: a sagging cot, a chair, some fading photographs and posters on the wall.

His son, Miguel Ángel Mendoza Zacarías, earned his living cutting hair and working construction jobs. He was tall, with a shock of hair that he was proud of, to judge from the self-portrait he drew on the outside wall of the house to advertise his services as a barber. He’d been thirty-three, a full-grown man, when he applied to the Ayotzinapa Rural Teachers’ College, in nearby Tixtla—older than most of his cohort. When I asked why he’d wanted to go, Don Tanis said, brightly, “It’s never too late to learn!,” adding, “He loved children, and he always wanted to teach.”

Students at rural colleges often become radicalized in a Marxist-Leninist sense, influenced by a guerrilla tradition in Guerrero. The Ayotzinapa students were known as troublemakers, carrying sticks and demanding payment for the revolution. On September 26, 2014, about a hundred students set out to find buses for a demonstration in Mexico City, reminiscent of a historic massacre. After a series of events in Iguala, the students commandeered five buses, but tragedy struck on their way back to school.

On a bustling night in town, chaos erupted as Iguala police opened fire on students shortly after buses left the station. Panic spread as rumors of casualties circulated, leaving six dead, including three students, and many more missing. The families of the disappeared students, known as los cuarenta y tres, refused to be silenced. They marched monthly in Mexico City, demanding the return of their loved ones. The number forty-three became a symbol of their fight, painted across Mexico and even globally. The families' relentless pursuit for truth gained international support, with people worldwide echoing their plea for the safe return of the missing students.

Since 2006, disappearances in Mexico have increased due to the War on Drugs, resulting in the capture or killing of drug leaders and the rise of smaller traffickers. Violence escalates, leading to the discovery of thousands of clandestine graves. Military corruption by drug money is common, with drug groups having influence at all levels of authority. The search for missing loved ones falls on their relatives, while the public grows desensitized to the ongoing crisis.

The families of the Forty-three were devastated when their children went missing. Don Clemente Rodríguez Moreno, father of Christian Rodríguez Telumbre, wanted to fight to protect his son. Lawyer Vidulfo Rosales raced to Iguala to help locate survivors amidst chaos. President Enrique Peña Nieto promised an investigation into the abduction of the students by corrupt police. The attorney general revealed that the students were handed over to a local drug group, leading to their tragic deaths. The perpetrators were arrested, with the mayor later convicted of other crimes.

Despite the 'historic truth' presented by Murillo, evidence suggests the Ayotzinapa students did not perish at the trash dump, involving various authorities, including the military. In 2021, a revealing video from a Mexican Navy drone showed Navy vehicles at the dump with mysterious sacks disappearing in smoke. Subsequently, the Army, Navy, and attorney general's office arrived. Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team's Mercedes Doretti was diverted to the dump, receiving warped bone fragments, possibly linked to a coverup. The families, unconvinced by Murillo's account, sought further truth, noting the implausibility of bodies being consumed by fire in the rain. Don Tanis and others knew the government deceived them, relying on Centro Tlachinollan for support.

The Fight for Justice in Mexico

After years of fighting for answers, a breakthrough came for the parents of the Forty-three missing students from Ayotzinapa. The Mexican government agreed to bring in the Interdisciplinary Group of Independent Experts, known as GIEI, to investigate the case.

Members of the GIEI, including Carlos Martín Beristain and Ángela María Buitrago, were welcomed with garlands of flowers by parents and students at Ayotzinapa. The parents' only request was for the truth. Buitrago reflected on this, saying it showed a citizenry that had lost faith in institutions.

The GIEI members, experienced in human rights work, soon realized the challenges ahead. They chuckled at officials claiming their investigation was the most comprehensive. The fight for justice continues as the truth remains the ultimate goal for the families involved.

Members of the GIEI faced obstacles at every step in their investigation. They were denied access to crucial documents and prevented from questioning military personnel. Salvador Cienfuegos, the Secretary of National Defense, refused to cooperate, stating, “I will not permit soldiers to be treated like criminals.” The group exposed false statements and tampered evidence, revealing the government’s deceit. GIEI spent a year disproving the official narrative, leading to their contract not being renewed. Despite a heartfelt plea from the public, they had to conclude their work.

In 2018, President Andrés Manuel López Obrador vowed to address the previous administration's failures and established a new investigative commission. The return of GIEI was a hopeful moment for uncovering the truth behind the Ayotzinapa case. With various entities working together, including the families' legal representatives, there was optimism that justice would prevail this time.

Last year, I obtained a valuable and confidential document: a 600-page court filing from Gómez Trejo's team in 2022. It contains detailed information about the Guerreros Unidos drug-trafficking organization involved in disappearances.

The Guerreros Unidos formed after the death of drug boss Arturo Beltrán Leyva in 2009. They operated near Ayotzinapa, Guerrero state, moving drugs like heroin to the US. The group, including former pizza delivery boys, set up secret compartments in buses for drug transport. Pablo Vega, an associate, managed distribution in Chicago.

In 2022, Gómez Trejo accessed 23,000 text messages from Vega's phone, revealing crucial details about the drug operation.

Reading through the detailed operational instructions of the Guerreros Unidos can be tedious, but it reveals their incompetence. From bus crashes to disappearing collaborators, the group's missteps are evident. They struggle with financial stability, even after successful shipments. Suspicion and betrayal plague the group, despite their supposed unity through shared lineage.

Despite their flaws, Guerreros Unidos managed to grow and gain a mysterious reputation. Members like 'Juan' admitted to drug trafficking to Chicago with support from corrupt officials. Money laundering and strategic placements in law enforcement aided their operations. Francisco Salgado Valladares, a key figure in the group, evaded capture and remains at large.

The Guerreros Unidos had an extensive network of informants and enforcers, including butchers, car-wash operators, and petty criminals, to track movements and maintain control. They monitored military patrols and rival groups, like the 'contras,' with ruthless tactics. The group even had police and military officers on their payroll, as revealed in BlackBerry messages. The attack on unarmed students by the Guerreros Unidos remains a mystery, with theories including suspicions of infiltration by rival gangs or a mix-up with the Rojos leading to a tragic massacre.

On the night of September 26, 2014, Ayotzinapa students encountered police while heading home on buses from Iguala. Chaos ensued as police blocked their way, shots were fired, and students were taken into custody. One student, Luis, witnessed the tragic events, including the severe injury of Aldo Gutiérrez Solano. The night ended in a harrowing abduction of students by police, leaving Luis without his classmates.

The students in the other two buses were violently stopped by the Iguala Palace of Justice. Police used tear gas and force to remove students from the bus, some were even hit with switches torn off nearby trees. These students were then handcuffed and taken away in police pickups. Federal police and even military personnel were present but did not intervene, despite being aware of the situation.

Later, members of the Guerreros Unidos and local police mistakenly attacked a bus carrying a junior-league soccer team, resulting in casualties. Meanwhile, a group of Ayotzis rushed to Iguala in response, only to be met with armed assailants who opened fire on them, resulting in more deaths. Julio César Mondragón, an Ayotzi student, was found dead the next morning with severe injuries.

Amidst the chaos, patrol cars searched for remaining Ayotzis, while Luis hid on a rooftop, hearing their calls.

Students' Harrowing Experience

During the chaos in Iguala, a group of students faced a terrifying ordeal. They sought medical help for a schoolmate who had been shot, but were met with indifference at a small clinic. Military vehicles arrived, soldiers entered, and the students feared for their lives. José Martínez Crespo, now in military prison, oversaw the students, taking photos and recording their names. Despite some students thinking the soldiers were there to help, Crespo's actions were menacing. The students eventually escaped and survived.

Later that night, forty-three students were taken into custody by local police. Eyewitnesses reported seeing the students mistreated at a police facility, with a magistrate joking about their rough treatment during interrogation. The fate of these students remains a haunting mystery.

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Investigators spent years piecing together information from interviews to find out what happened to the missing students after they were last seen. Fragments suggest the students were handed over to Guerreros Unidos by police in Iguala, Huitzuco, and Cocula. A text exchange indicates that some students may have already been dead from beatings. The decision to kill them may have been made before dawn. The order to 'beat the shit' out of them or worse was given. Some students were allegedly killed, dismembered, and hidden in plastic bags.

Students' remains were cremated to ensure they couldn't be identified, while others were disposed of in the area. Some students may have been kept alive longer, but Juan's reliability as a witness is questionable. The G.U. seemed intent on making the students vanish. Eight years later, families of the Ayotzis met with the President, who presented government conclusions acknowledging state involvement in the events. The families were devastated by the news.

Justice seemed within reach as Gómez Trejo's team requested warrants for the arrest of eighty-three participants, including soldiers, police officers, and government officials. However, after a meeting with the President, the investigation took a different turn. Arrest warrants were rescinded, and Gómez Trejo resigned. The power of the Mexican military became evident as only five out of twenty ordered arrests were carried out. The military's influence under López Obrador includes control over various sectors like airports and roads.

Former Mexican Secretary of National Defense, Cienfuegos, was arrested at the Los Angeles airport on charges related to drug trafficking. Despite diplomatic tensions, he was returned to Mexico and declared innocent. President López Obrador awarded him a medal later on.

Gómez Trejo, fearing for his family's safety, moved to the U.S. and now works as a human rights consultant. The investigation into the disappearance of the Forty-three students seems to have reached its end.

Aguirre, a member of the parents' legal team, expressed disappointment over the lack of progress in finding the missing students. Beristain highlighted the military's unclear role in the events and the missing military records that could provide answers.

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As his term nears an end, the President faces mounting tension with perceived adversaries. A closed investigation linked the drug trade to his associates, prompting him to publicly share a journalist's personal details. In a rare interview, he acknowledged the unresolved Ayotzinapa case, stressing the importance of finding the missing students.

After six years, a bone fragment identified Christian Rodríguez Telumbre, bringing some closure to his parents. Despite efforts to dignify the discovery, the pain of loss persists. Christian's mother, Doña Luz María, expressed her dissatisfaction, stating, 'I want my son.'

It was Day of the Dead in Mexico City when I ran into Don Clemente, later that year. I asked if he was going to place a picture of his son on the family altar in Tixtla that night. There was a long silence before he finally said, “I can’t.” He was in town to give a talk at a local school, and as usual he had brought some of his friends’ and family’s handicrafts to put out for sale. Don Clemente used to sell five-gallon jugs of drinking water for a living, but the constant traveling to agitate for his son’s return has ruined the family’s livelihood. Now, they make money weaving straw or embroidering textiles, and selling these crafts during events and marches. The hope that their children would be returned to them alive was at the center of the parents’ movement, keeping them going through years of doubt, fear, and struggle, away from their families and fields. Alive they were taken away. We want them returned alive.

Don Tanis gently corrected me when I referred to his son in the past tense. Recently, I drove back to Guerrero along the same long highway that had taken me to Don Tanis’s home, but this time I stopped in Tixtla to talk to Rafael López Catarino, or Don Rafa, whose son, Julio César López Patolzin, was the Army informant who was disappeared along with the other students. Unavoidably, his father became something of a pariah among the other families once his son’s role in the school was made public. It seemed to me an unusually cruel fate to lose a son and be unable to seek the comfort that the other parents obviously find in one another’s company.

Don Rafa, a gruff man, showed me his son Julio César's aspirations in a 'Life Project' list. Julio César joined the Army but was injured patrolling Guerrero. Despite wanting to study, he stayed for the salary until a deal may have led him away. Don Rafa, mourning, shared a dream of Julio César's godmother urging to keep searching.

On the ride back to Chilpancingo, Don Rafa accompanied me, encountering new toll booth collectors from Ayotzinapa. In Chilpancingo, a mayor was seen with a drug boss, sparking controversy. Despite his gruff exterior, Don Rafa revealed a tender side in his grief for his son, lamenting the government's role in separating families.

Source Link: Forty-Three Mexican Students Went Missing. What Really Happened to Them?

[advantageintegratedmarketing]

Digital Wall Painting Advertising: Feel the Difference

Digital wall printing, often known as digital wall painting advertising is the latest trend in both indoor ads and outdoor ads. The most recent advertising tactic uses digital printing technology rather than traditional hand painting to print adverts on walls. An effective indoor or outdoor advertising medium for your brand may be produced with the assistance of a professional digital wall painting firm like AD Vantage.

In 2013, Dayaram Mahajan and Ketan Desai collaborated to develop and launch the revolutionary technology known as DWP Media. After eight years of consistent research and development efforts, the technology was created.

Digital wall painting has significantly improved traditional wall painting and transformed government social message programmes in rural and semi-urban areas. You only need a wall, and digital printing can assist you in achieving any marketing objectives.

A white priming coat of paint is applied initially to the wall. The specified print is then printed using the digital wall printing unit. When the wall has been sprayed with water in a manner that allows the print to blend into the wall and become adhered, the print is then placed on the wall.

These wall printers utilise tried-and-true inkjet technologies to quickly dry the ink using UV light, making it weather- and sunlight-resistant. The breathtaking media impression is seen once the print has dried. The prints' astounding quality would astound anyone who saw them in motion.

Traditional hand-painted advertising mediums have drawbacks such as skilled labour, consistency of colour, difficulties copying trademarks or images, etc. The results of this are a drop in sales and low client satisfaction. In contrast to traditional advertising wall painting, digital printing on walls may vividly express the advertising ideas.

Do you need impressive digital printing on walls? At the lowest ever prices for wall painting advertising, AD Vantage digital wall painting Bangalore can provide opulent and eye-catching wall art.

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[foursquaremedia]

Promote Your Business with Colourful, Creative & Effective Wall Painting Advertising Ideas by Artists

Wall painting advertising ideas are a great way to promote your business with colourful, creative and creative wall painting advertisements by artists.

Introduction: Art of Rural Wall Painting Advertising & How it Effects Marketing

The art of rural wall painting advertising is not a new concept. It has been around for centuries and the colors and patterns used to be hand-drawn or painted by artists. With the advancement in technology, many people have started using digital tools to create these wall paintings.

Wall painting advertising is a form of outdoor advertisement that can be seen from a distance and it can be seen in different forms such as billboards, posters, and murals. The use of this technique has increased due to its effectiveness in reaching a large number of people at once. This type of advertising is also known as "billboard art."

This form of advertisement is used by many companies because they can reach out to a large number of people at once with their messages without any cost or effort.

[cashurdrivenoida]

Digital Wall painting - A cheapest OOH Advertising Media

Wall Painting Advertising Service is a most resalable medium to advertise for any size of business or brands who want to advertise their brands at affordable price. Digital Wall Painting is the new era of wall painting. It has the potential to publicize any brand that focuses on rural area advertisement. It is a highly visible and effective medium traditional advertising used for outdoor advertising.

Digital Wall Painting has some below features, Please go through their:-

Digital yet traditional

Digital wall painting advertising is a new-age form of branding that involves using water- activated material technology on the CCK liner, painting, which is possible on a range of even and uneven surfaces.

Eco-friendly and chemical free

This media is fully eco- friendly as it does not include any hazardous chemicals. What makes it even more exciting is that this product is PVC-free, UV- and rain-resistant.

Leverage all kind of surfaces

One of the advantages of digital wall painting advertisements is that you can do it on rough, stony surfaces and wood, glass, metal, and clay. So, you don’t restrict branding to stone walls, but leverage other surfaces also.

Available everywhere

Wall painting advertising is a popular form of advertising in the urban areas of India. But, they prove equally effective and useful across the rural areas as well, wherein the scope for using other forms of outdoor advertising such as buses, cabs, auto rickshaws, etc. is very limited. In such places, wall paintings retain their dominance.

Digital yet traditional

Digital wall painting advertising is a new-age form of branding that involves using water- activated material technology on the CCK liner, painting, which is possible on a range of even and uneven surfaces.

Eco-friendly and chemical free

This media is fully eco- friendly as it does not include any hazardous chemicals. What makes it even more exciting is that this product is PVC-free, UV- and rain-resistant.

Leverage all kind of surfaces

One of the advantages of digital wall painting advertisements is that you can do it on rough, stony surfaces and wood, glass, metal, and clay. So, you don’t restrict branding to stone walls, but leverage other surfaces also.

Available everywhere

Wall painting advertising is a popular form of advertising in the urban areas of India. But, they prove equally effective and useful across the rural areas as well, wherein the scope for using other forms of outdoor advertising such as buses, cabs, auto rickshaws, etc. is very limited. In such places, wall paintings retain their dominance.

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[dartpvtltd]

Rural Advertising

The rural market has changed desperately in the past decade. Rural marketing today is much easier because there has been valuable improvement in the means of conveyance and communication. Markets are well connected by road and rail, and the number of trucks and buses (public and private) has risen up significantly. Rural advertising being a serious venture for any brand, marketer; needs a long-term strategic tactic keeping all the business objectives on the bench including a well-calculated execution plan with a blended approach. A massive percentage of the population belongs to rural areas. The utilization rate there is increasing at a constant pace. When you map the needs and demands of this high potential market, it is essential to hire an expert rural advertising agency that is expert in the niche.

[viking-raider]

Southern Generation - Part I

Summary: After more than a decade of service, Captain Syverson as retired from the military, but now that he is retired, he still needs to find a job.

Pairing: Syverson/OFC

Word Count: 6,214

Rating: PG - Quasi-Slow Burn, Language, PTSD, Fluff, Angst, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, Reclusive Behavior

Inspiration: I wrote a similar story for another fandom and I’ve wanted to finally write a Sy story, since I don’t have one.

Author’s Note: I wasn’t going to post this til I was done, but thought what the hell. Thanks to @wondersofdreaming​ of for her help with it.

He was home, finally and for good.

After more than ten years of service in the U.S Army and retiring as a Captain, Austin Wyatt Syverson was no longer a soldier. It felt amazing to be back on southern soil again, home sweet home; back in the city he was named after.

Austin, Texas.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Syverson found his way back home, to his flat in central Austin. He didn't expect a huge welcome back, unlike the first time he came back home from overseas, years before. His parents had decorated his apartment with streamers, a 'welcome back' sign and balloons. They had cake and noise makers as he entered, surprising him. But, this time, there was none of that, just bare gray walls, covered in band posters and other things Syverson liked.

His father had died of a heart attack two years into his second deployment and his mother had passed from breast cancer a year before. He was an only child and he wasn't close to his other relatives, so he would have hit the floor if any of them had even sent him a 'welcome back' text.

No, Austin Syverson was on his own, and he was more than all right with that. One thing he wasn't all right with was not having a job. So, after settling in, getting into his civilian clothing and cooking a good home cooked lunch, he picked up a newspaper and perused the job section. He preferred a job that he could do with his hands, he had always liked working with his hands, even as a kid, tinkering in the garage with his dad. Several advertisements caught his attention and he saved the numbers in his phone, planning on calling them to inquire about the job, but for now, Syverson just wanted to relax and settle in as a newly-minted civilian.

The one thing he did miss was Aika, the German Shepherd he befriended back in Baghdad. He had started the process of having Aika sent over from Iraq, but she was stuck in a month-long quarantine, before she would be cleared to be with him again, in Austin.

“She's all the family I need.” Sy said, popping the cap off a cold one.

Bright and early the next morning, Sy started calling the numbers in the advertisements and discovered to his disgruntled annoyance, that the paper he picked up was nearly a week old. He made a mental note to give the clerk at the corner store a piece of his mind, the next time he saw him.

“I'm really sorry, Mr. Syverson.” the owner of a construction company sighed, feeling bad that he didn't have room on his current job for him.

“It's fine, I'll find something.” Sy frowned, rubbing the side of his face. “Thanks though.” He sighed, and started to hang up.

“Wait!”

Sy paused, his finger almost pressed to his screen to hang up the call, and put it back to his ear. “Yeah?” He replied, biting his lip.

“I just remembered, it's a private contract, I got it a couple days ago.” He explained, fumbling through several stacks of papers and files he had strewn across his desk. “It's out in Celina, I know that's a bit of a drive from where you are in Austin.”

“That's fine.” Sy answered, relieved. “A job is a job.”

He figured if he could do a job overseas, he could do a job three hours outside of Austin.

“Well, if you want it, it's yours.” He told Sy, finally finding the paper he was looking for.

“Of course!”

He gave Sy the details of the contract, it was a private contract, sent into his company by a young lady, who lived just outside of Celina, Texas, on a small farm. Apparently the house and the barn on the property were in disrepair and she wanted them repaired. So, Sy took the contract and the information, then hung up with him, immediately calling the number he had given him for the young lady.

“Hello?” A soft, almost meek, voice answered.

“Hi, I'm Cap-” Sy cleared his throat and squeezed his eyes shut, it was going to be a while, before he broke himself out of the habit of introducing himself as Captain Syverson. “I'm Austin Syverson. I know you don't know me, but I got your contract from Mr. McJames, the owner of Diamond Ridge Constructions, in Austin.” He explained to her, sure it sounded a bit crazy.

“Oh.” She replied, unconsciously brushing her hair out of her face. “Right. The contract.”

“Is it still available?” He asked, feeling a small tingle of apprehension in the pit of his stomach.

“Yes!” She answered, hastily, worried she had given him the wrong impression. “Yes, the contract is still available. You're actually my only inquirer for it.” She told him, honestly.

“I would love to meet up with you and talk about it.” Sy said, letting out a relieved sigh and felt his massive shoulders relax.

“Um,” She gulped, licking her lips and felt her hands shake.

“I could meet you in Celina, take you for coffee?” He suggested, hoping to make her more comfortable with meeting him in a public place. “My treat.” He added, with a sweet tone.

“No, no.” She squeaked, fidgeting in her chair. “That's all right, if you want to take the contract it's yours, Mr. Syverson. It's seventeen an hour, with everything provided.” She explained to him, taking deep breaths, to calm down her nerves.

Sy was a little surprised by how easy it was, but he was willing to do the job, either way. “Of course, I would gladly take the job for you.” He agreed.

“Excellent.” She smiled, bouncing on her toes. “You can start at your earliest convenience.” She told him.

“I can come by tomorrow morning, if that's all right with you.” He replied, looking around his kitchen for something to write with and on, so he could take down her address.

“That's splendid.” She assured him, then rattled off her address for him. “If you have any issues finding the place, just call.” She told him, before they hung up.

Sy woke up early, for the three hour drive from Austin to Celina.

It was a nice drive, watching the bustling city of Austin slowly melt away to the rural landscape of the countryside, endless farmlands of varying crops. Sy found it rather soothing, after seeing nothing but sand, rubble and burned out buildings for so long. He felt like he was getting back to his roots again, his southern heritage. His GPS chimed into his thoughts, announcing he was within a mile of her home. So, he turned off the music he was playing and rolled down the window of his truck, squinting at the mailboxes that dotted the few dirt driveways along the long country road.

“You've passed your destination.”

“Fuck.” Sy grunted, tires screeching as he turned around.

He stopped his truck by the side of the road and got out, looking up and down the empty road, frowning. He pulled his GPS device off its holder and started walking in the direction it indicated her house was in, pausing, as it told him he was standing exactly where he needed to be. Turning in a circle, he noticed the sun baked, wooden gate, that was slightly hidden by weeds and had no mailbox. Frowning, Sy locked up his truck, pushed open the gate that almost fell over in the process, before walking up the driveway.

The simple, two story farmhouse slowly came into view. The roof of the farm porch was dilapidated and sagging, there were shingles missing on both roofs, the paint of the house was faded and peeling, chipping away from the warped and cracked boards, a couple of them were missing.

“It definitely needs work.” Sy said, stopping to look the house over, then noticed the barn a couple of yards away, in even worse condition. “Looks like I got my work cut out for me.” He sighed, but wasn't daunted by any of it.

His eyes moved away from the barn and back to the house as the screen door opened and a woman stepped out onto the porch; Sy could practically hear the high-pitch creak of the screen door from where he stood. She was a teeny little thing, maybe five foot, and looked timid, by the way she hugged the screen door, using it to hide behind as she watched him finish approaching the house.

“Mr. Syverson?” She called out to him, biting her bottom lip.

“Yes, ma'am.” Sy answered, stopping at the bottom of the warped steps leading up to her on the porch.

“I hope you didn't have too much trouble finding the place?”

“Not at all.” He smiled at her, shaking his head. “I don't lose my way often.” He assured him, teasingly.

“Good.” She chuckled, nervousness. “I suppose you'd like a closer look at the place?” She asked, glancing around the porch.

“If you don't mind.” Sy nodded, glancing around as well.

Biting her lip, she stepped out onto the porch, the screen door closing with a soft bang. “I'm sure you saw a lot of the issues on your way up.” She explained, slowly stepping off the porch.

“I have.” Sy nodded, looking down and smirking at her bare feet. “Seems a lot of the boards are rotted and the house, and barn, could use a good fresh coat of paint.”

“That's the least of the problems.” She replied, looking at the side of the house as they rounded its corner, heading towards the barn. “There's several weak points in the roof, on both the barn and the house.”

“When was the place built?” He asked, touching the side of the house, flecks of paint brushing off under his fingertips.

“1921.” She answered, looking up to the top of the house, squinting in the bright sunlight. “I bought the place four years ago.” She explained, turning towards the barn.

“I can understand you wanting to fix up the house, being you live in it.” Sy commented, checking out the barn. “But, what do you want the barn with? If you don't mind me asking.”

“I'm considering turning it into my studio.” She answered, trying to push open the barn door.

“What do you do?” Sy asked, helping her push open the door; one handed, while she leaned her body into it.

“I'm a graphic designer and a photographer.” She explained to him, stepping inside the barn with him.

“That's cool.” He smiled at the back of her head.

“Thanks.” She replied, smiling at him over her shoulder. “So,” She gulped and glanced around the barn. “Do you think you can do the job?” She asked, regarding him.

Sy heaved a sigh and roamed around the barn for a moment, checking things out. “I'm more than sure I could.” He finally said, stopping in front of her and crossed his arms. “It might take a couple of weeks to finish. But, I can do it.”

“Great.” She smiled, relieved and excited to hear that he could.

“I can start right away, if you want.” He added, resolute.

“Sounds excellent.” She nodded, fidgeting and nervously twisting the hem of her tank top with her fingers. “I can get the tools for you.” She turned and left the barn, heading back towards her house.

Sy followed after her, staying on the top step of the porch, while she disappeared inside. “Here.” He smiled as she came back, carrying a heavy red and rushed toolbox; stepping forward to take it from her.

“If you need anything else, more tools or supplies, like, I don't know, lumber or whatever.” She mumbled, staring down at her bare feet, shyly. “Just ask.”

“I will.” Sy grinned down at her, hefting the toolbox and making the tools inside of it rattle.

With that, Sy gave her a gentlemanly nod of his head and stepped off the porch. He carried the heavy box of tools down the long driveway, back to his truck, still parked on the side of the road, where he left it. Opening the back hatch, he set the tool box down in the truck bed and opened it, checking out all the tools that were stored inside it.

“Not too bad.” He nodded, approving of the selection that was inside, then turned towards his first project for the place, the pathetic excuse and falling over the gate.

Digging his phone out of his pocket, Sy googled the closet hardware store, secured the toolbox in the back of his truck and hopped in behind the wheel and followed the directions into the town of Celina. He knew she told him to tell her if he needed anything while working on her property, but Sy had a sound enough savings, that he didn't mind spending his own money on bits and bobs. He browsed the aisles of the hardware store, picking up a couple of tools he would need and weren't in the box, then several boards of wood, to build a new gate.

“Thanks.” Sy muttered, nodding his head at the hardware store owner, collecting his things and packing them back into his truck.

Getting back to the farm, Sy parked close to the head of the driveway and got to work, tearing down the old gate and piled up the lumber to the side, out of the way. Without a power source, this far out, Sy relied on a trusty hand saw and the thick muscle of his arms to cut the fresh boards, still strongly smelling of the pine tree they were hewn from. He measured everything out, tucking the pencil behind his ear, as he leaned into the saw as he cut them to length and nailed them together, forming the new gate.

She watched him the whole time, from the upstairs window of her office. He was a hard and diligent worker. Taking painstaking time to double, or even triple, his measuring of the boards, before finally cutting them with a manual saw. In a matter of hours, he had the new gate made and started putting it up. Biting her lip and saving her work on her laptop, she went downstairs into her humble little kitchen, whipped up a couple of things, making some food and drinks, before texting him.

» If you're hungry, I made lunch.

Sy smiled at her text, putting the last screw into the gate and pushed it open with two fingers. Grinning and proud of his work, then turning back to his truck, he put all the tools away and cleaned up the rest of the mess he made, then drove through the gate, stopping long enough to get out and close the gate behind him, then went up and parked beside her own little car. She came out onto the porch, holding a plate of food and a tall glass of cold lemonade.

“Thank you.” He grinned at her, taking the plate and glass, and sitting down on the rickety porch swing, balancing the plate in his lap.

“You're welcome.” She mumbled back, so shy that she didn't meet his blue eyes.

Chuckling, Sy took a deep gulp of the lemonade, parched beyond belief after all the work he had done. He moaned as the cold tang washed over his tongue, refreshing him tremendously. “That is delicious, thank you.” He complimented her.

“Thank you.” She smiled, still fidgeting beside the swing. “I'll be inside, if you need me.” She said in a rush, and scuttled inside.

Sy tilted his head as the screen door slammed shut behind her. She was a curious person, always so nervous and shy, fidgeting and never meeting his eye. He wondered if his presence made her feel uncomfortable, he was wearing a red, DILLIGAF t-shirt, a tight pair of black jeans and boots. He was an imposing guy, with stacked muscle, which made his job in the Special Forces easier, and his head was shaved, while sporting a beard. Sy's whole presence came off as authoritative and commanding, it was a natural effect he had, it was one of the reasons he had advanced in the military and succeeded as a leader so well.

Sighing, he finished off his food and gulped down the rest of his lemonade, before getting up and carefully knocking on the wood of the door frame, peeking inside. The main door was half open and he could see into the foyer and the living room beyond that, the large rug on the hardwood floors and the mismatched couch and furniture of the living room, a flat screen tv mounted above the fireplace. He could just see around the corner into what looked like a dining room, seeing the edge of a table and a couple of chairs. She appeared from the other side of the door, looking up into his eyes for a moment, before dropping them down again.

“All finished?” She asked, quietly.

“I am, thank you.” Sy smiled at her, pressing his lips together. “It was really good, the best I've had so far, since coming home.” He told her, taking a step back as she opened the screen door, taking the dishes from him, their fingers brushing.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” He asked, gulping at the soft touch of her fingers.

“No, thank you.” She squeaked, drawing away from him. “I appreciate you fixing the gate.” She added, breathlessly.

“Of course, ma'am.” Sy smiled, chuckling softly. “I'll be back tomorrow and I'll have a look around the house and see what projects need more direct attention.” He explained to her, glancing around the porch.

“That sounds great.” She mumbled back, clearing her throat.

“I'll take my leave then.” Sy said, bowing his head to her, and heading back to his truck.

There was an infernal banging coming from outside, with a loud clattering that followed, all of it in a steady rhythm that was driving her crazy.

She was nuzzled into the warmth of her thick down blankets, in that heavenly position, where you found the perfect spot on the mattress to lay, and even the slightest movement will ruin it, in a millisecond. She growled into her pillow, still reluctant to move even the tiniest bit, but she couldn't take it anymore, and thrashed out of bed, in a fling of arms, legs, pillows and blankets.

“What in the world?” She huffed, pulling on an oversized hoodie and scrambled downstairs.

She froze, catching a glimpse out of the large bay window in her den, a huge male with a shaved head, and realized it was Sy. Gulping, she moved closer and watched him through the window. He wasn't in his red shirt and jeans this morning, but wore a blue tank top and a pair of basketball shorts, but still sporting his combat boots. He also had wireless earbuds in, head bumping to whatever he was listening to. Mustering some early morning courage and stepped over to the front door, pulling it open.

“Careful!” Sy called out, appearing from the other side of the house.

She looked down and saw a good amount of the boards of the porch were gone, and looked back up at him.

“Morning.” He smiled, one corner a bit higher in an amused way.

“Morning.” She squeaked back, burrowing into her hoodie a little bit.

“I thought I would start on the porch.” Sy said, looking over what he had already torn up.

“I-I can see..that.” She stammered, biting the inside corner of her lip, then looked behind her, to the coo-coo clock on the foyer wall.

It was seven in the morning, and Sy had already been on the farm for an hour and pulled up just about half of the wrap around porch. She looked back at him and was rather impressed by it, with a shy nod of her head, she went back inside and into the kitchen, setting up the coffee maker and got breakfast going. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, she glanced in the direction of the noise and followed it again.

“Would you like some breakfast or coffee?” She asked as Sy yanked up another warmed porch board, with his gloved hands, biceps bulging as he got it loose with a grunt.

Tossing the board into the growing pile, Sy wiped his sweaty face on his arms and turned to look up at her. “I would love some, if that's all right with you.” He answered, he only had a liquid breakfast of a tall black coffee from Starbucks as he left Austin for Celina.

“Pancakes, eggs and bacon, okay with you?” She asked, fidgeting.

“Yes, ma'am.” Sy nodded, smiling sweetly at her.

A smile twitched on her lips, before she turned on her bare feet and went back into the kitchen. She pulled open the refrigerator, pulling out the milk, eggs and bacon, before going into the pantry to grab the dry pancake ingredients. The coffee maker beeps as she whipped up the pancake batter and turned, pulling out two cups from the cabinet and setting up her own cup, before going back to the front porch.

“Coffee is ready, if you want to—come in—and get your cup ready.” She told him, shyly.

“Thank you.” Sy smiled at her, wiping his face again.

Pulling off his gloves, stuffing them into his back pocket, Sy entered the house, glancing around as he followed her into the kitchen. He found his cup by the coffee maker and smirked at it, it was a Texas Rodeo cup, a picture of a bucking horse on the background of the shape of Texas.

“I wasn't sure what you took in your coffee.” She commented as he stirred a single sugar into the cup and took a seat at the breakfast nook table.

“Either straight black, or with one sugar.” He replied, taking a sip of the steaming brown liquid, while he watched her finish mixing the pancake batter. “Depends on my mood.” He added, as she poured a bit of the thick batter into the sizzling hot skillet on the very old, blue and gas stove, that had to be made in the 1940's.

Easily. Sy thought, taking a deep gulp of his coffee.

“So, you live here alone?” He asked, lifting a brow at her and set it cup down on the table in front of him.

“I do.” She nodded, brushing her hair behind her ear, and flipped a couple of the pancakes.

“Does your family live nearby?”

She paused for a moment, her back stiffening at the mention of her family. “My mother passed away, when I was born.” She said, her voice strained. “I don't have any siblings and I don't know where my father is.” She explained, flipping the finished pancakes onto a plate by the stove and turned to the cardboard carton of eggs.

“How many would you like?” She asked, holding up a sooth, brown shelled egg.

“Three, please.” Sy replied, nodding his head to her. “Sunny side up.”

“What about your family?” She asked, cracking his eggs into the pan.

“No siblings and both of my parents are dead.” He answered her, leaning back in his chair. “My dad died of a heart attack, during my second deployment and my mom died of cancer, little over a year ago.” He explained, watching her baby his eggs.

“I'm so sorry.” She frowned, looking over her shoulder at him, with a look of pure sympathy, but no pity.

“It's all right.” Sy told her, his voice soft.

She fried the bacon with the eggs, then set the hot stack of pancakes and bacon on the table, setting Sy's plate of sunny side up eggs in front of him, with a container of syrup and a dish of butter, before handing him his fork. She sat down at the table, across from him, with her plate of two scrambled eggs, then took two pancakes and three pieces of bacon for herself, drizzling her pancakes with the maple syrup.

“Thank you, ma'am.” Sy smiled, before digging into his food.

“Lily.” She mumbled, staring at her untouched plate.

“Excuse me?” Sy frowned, looking up at her, fork posed at his mouth.

“Lily.” She replied, a little bit louder. “My name is Lily. You can call me, Lily.” She told him, meeting his eyes.

Sy grinned at her, lowering his fork and sitting up straighter. “All right then, Lily.” He nodded, loving the roll of her name off his tongue. “I'm Austin. But, everyone just calls me, Sy.”

Lily held her free hand out over their plates. “It's a pleasure.” She smiled at him, sweetly.

“Same.” Sy replied, gently taking her smooth and dainty hand in his big and calloused one.

Both of their faces warmed, before their hands pulled apart and they went back to finishing up their breakfast, having a polite and casual conversation as they did. With breakfast finished, Lily cleared away the plates and silverware, setting them in the sink to be washed later on, while Sy pulled his gloves back on and headed back out to finish pulling up the rest of the porch boards.

“Now that all the boards are pried up,” Sy explained as they ate lunch together in the kitchen. “I'll be able to start nailing down the new ones.” He told her, gulping down his glass of iced tea. “I'll put down the boards in front of the main door, so you can actually get out of the house, without having to be a hurdle jumper.” He laughed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Sy was true to his word, as he always was, he had all of the boards of the porch along the front of the house down, even though it took him until after sundown to pull it off. He sighed, as he drove the last nail in flush to the board. He stood with a groan, his knees and shoulders stiff and screaming from the hard work of the day. Gathering the strewn about tools, Sy put them back into the tool box and lugged that into the back of his truck.

“Lily.” He called out through the open screen door of the house, knocking gently on the door frame.

“Yes?” She called back, then appeared a moment later.

“I'm done for the day.” He told her, rubbing a hand over his bald head. “I'll be back tomorrow morning.”

“Bright and early, I'm sure, Captain.” She smiled at him.

Sy chuckled, he had told her a teeny bit about his career in the military, how he was a Captain and had spent more than ten years in the service, right out of high school, much to his parents' disappointment, since they wanted him to go to college. But, Sy wanted to serve his country, especially after the attacks in New York, causing him to enlist in early 2002.

“As always.” He grinned back, rubbing his palms on the thighs of his jeans. “Good night, Ms. Lily.” He bowed his head to her and stepped back.

“Good night, Sy.” She nodded back to him.

Sy got into his truck and sighed heavily, as he started the engine. He was exhausted beyond belief, he scrubbed at his face as he drove down the long driveway, stopping to open and close the gate as he left the property. He only got a couple miles from Lily's, when he decided he was just too exhausted to drive the three hours to Austin. So, he turned around and headed for Celina, knowing there was a small motel there that he could rent a room from for the night. There was also the upside of staying in the motel, it was only thirty minutes away from Lily's place, which meant he could get there earlier and could work for a few more hours.

Lily came out onto the porch, when she heard the hammering on the east side of the house stop. Her bare feet gliding over the smooth new boards on the porch. Rounding the corner, she found Sy with his back against the side of the house, where he was currently prying the warped siding off of. She chuckled, realizing he had apparently stopped for a short break and fallen asleep. She moved closer to him, watching his face pinch and his head shake, like he was trying to wake himself up, but couldn't.

“Sy?” She called to him, softly, kneeling down beside him. “Hey, Sy.” She reached out to touch his shoulder. “Austin.” She said his name, gently.

She had no sooner touched his shoulder, than he jerked violently and lunged towards her. Lily yelped and scrambled backwards, away from him. Sy shook his head several times and squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard, his entire body rigged.

“I'm sorry.” Sy pushed the words out of his throat. “I am so sorry, I didn't realize I fell asleep.” He said, sitting back where he had been. “I didn't hurt you, did I?” He looked over at her, his intense blue eyes scanning her for anything out of place, but only found her frightened and shaking.

“Lily.” He choked.

He had episodes like this, on and off over the last thirteen years, he had decked more than one of his men, who tried shaking him awake. He had even ended up choking one of his commanding officers, and needed his squad to pull him off and slap him back into consciousness. Sy had lost more than one friend and girlfriend over his episodes, nightmares and PTSD, he really didn't want to lose Lily over them.

“I'm-I'm f-fine.” She gulped, biting her lip and tried to calm herself down. “Are you?” She asked, pressing her back to the post that supported the porch roof.

Sy let out a hard breath, pressing a hand to his face and took a moment to settle his nerves, relieved that he hadn't hurt her. “I'm fine. I just didn't realize I fell asleep. I've been really tired lately.” He paused and dropped his hand.

“I've been tired for years.” He admitted out loud.

“You've been working from sun up to sun down, here for a month. That's without a day off, Sy.” She said, drawing her knees up to her chest. “You really should take a day off. When was the last time you had an actual day off?” She asked, studying him.

“What year is it?” He asked, chuckling at her.

“That's not good.” Lily said, shaking her head at him, then stood up. “All right, Syverson. You're officially off duty, effective now.”

“But, the siding?” He said, waving his hand over the unfinished siding on that side of the house.

“It can wait.” She told him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Well, what am I supposed to do then?” He asked, heaving a sigh and standing up.

“Whatever you like, Sy.” She said, turning back towards the house.

“What if I'd like to finish the siding?” He asked, smirking at her, impishly.

Lily turned, lifting a brow at him and narrowing her eyes, making him chuckle at her, throwing his hands up in defeat. He followed her into the house and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. In the month since Sy had taken the job on Lily's property, they had gotten close and she had made him feel more at home than he had ever felt, anywhere in the world. Now, that she had made him take the day off, Sy had no idea what to do with it. Since he was a little boy, he was working hard, either on his parents' small farm or dealing with his deployment in the middle east.

He stepped back out on the porch, smirking to himself as he stood on solid porch boards that didn't squeak and creak under his weight. He still needed to stain the boards, but he planned on doing that after he removed all the siding from the house and put up fresh ones. His only missing plan with the siding was finding out if Lily wanted him to stain those too or if she wanted the house painted a particular color. But, he'd figure that out tomorrow, for now, he started out over the slice of land out front of the house. The grass was almost as tall as he was and he knew she didn't have a mower, not even an ancient push mower, so it would be something else he'd need to get his hands on to tame the wild jungle of sun bleached grass and weeds.

Humming to himself and taking a sip of his coffee, Sy walked around the porch, surveying the work he had done on that side, with two thirds of the siding pulled off, then continued to the back of the porch. The backyard was just as vast and wild as the front and sides of the house. Her land butted up against another farm that looked like they grew wheat. He noticed a slight movement on the thin trail that cut through the overgrowth and stepped off the porch to follow it, stopping several yards away from the boundary line that divided the two properties, finding Lily leaning on the rusted metal gate, her arm held out above it as a dapple-gray horse came trotting up to her, taking the apple out of her outstretched hand. She rubbed the mare's nose, smiling softly at it, and pulled out another apple out of the pouch of her hoodie.

Sy smiled as he watched her feed and pet that magnificent creature. “A friend of yours?” He asked, alerting her to his presence.

Lily blushed at him, trying to bite back her smile. “You can say that.” She replied, feeling the horse nudge her gently, and produced another apple. “Her name is Juniper.” She explained, patting the side of the horse's neck.

“She's beautiful.” Sy replied, but his eyes were on her.

“Isn't she.” Lily agreed, grinning at the horse, oblivious.

Sy moved closer to them, his shoulder brushing Lily's as he reached out to pet the mare, chuckling at Juniper's snort and head shake. “She hasn't been a mare for very long.” He pointed out.

“Nope.” Lily shook her head. “She was born a little more than three years ago. My neighbor, her owner, mostly deals in wheat and corn, but his daughter is working on becoming a champion barrel racer. So, he bought Juniper, when she was about a year old.”

“She looks in good shape for it.” He commented, checking out the rest of the horse. “Have you seen any of her shows?” He asked, looking back at Lily.

“Sadly, no.” She shook her head, shyly. “I do know she won her last one.” She added, smiling up at him. “It was her first win, in the ten or so shows she's competed in.”

Sy smiled at her, she seemed and sounded so proud of the horse's owner winning the competition. “We should go to her next one.” He suggested, lifting his brows at her.

“What?” Lily squeaked, looking at Sy like a frightened doe.

“Yeah, it will be a great day off for me.” He grinned at her, liking the idea. “I've never seen you leave the property, either.” He added, his brow creasing as he thought about it. “I've only seen you go far enough to get the mail, come to think of it.”

“I don't know.” She gulped, licking her lips nervously. “I've had a lot of work lately.” She stammered, fidgeting and rubbing her hands on her thighs.

“You give me guff for not taken a day off, and won't take one yourself.” He teased her, lightheartedly. “What's the worst that can happen?” He asked, leaning against the gate. “It's not like the world will blow up.”

“It might.” She mumbled, toeing at the sparse gravel under her feet.

Sy could tell she was anxious about leaving the house, he could understand that, the world was a shitty place, and he had seen a lot of that first hand. But, he blew it off, figuring it was just the stress of getting all her work done on time.

“I'll think about it.” Lily said, biting her lip and shyly scrunching up her body.

“Good.” He smiled, hopeful.

PART II

[myhoardingsindia]

[foursquare12345-blog]

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[husheduphistory]

Evil in Arkansas: The Shattered Hopes and Horrors of the Crescent Hotel

When people arrived in Eureka Springs, Arkansas in May 1886 the excitement was palpable in the air. After two years of construction a new hotel was opening, but this was no typical boarding house. This hotel promised luxury, and it delivered. Large and airy rooms, an extravagant dining area, opulent gardens, swimming pools, tennis courts, fine linen, stables, and impressive landscapes all set the stage for a dream-like experience. It opened on such a positive note, but in 1940 when the owner walked out the doors for the last time they left a house of horror behind them.

The Crescent Hotel was an architectural marvel strategically placed amid natural wonders. The waters of the Ozarks were becoming known all over the nation for having alleged healing powers and the Eureka Springs Improvement Company, founded by the former Governor of Arkansas, knew the best way to get people to visit was to give them a place to stay. After two years of construction the hotel opened with a bang in the form of a gala ball, a full orchestra, and a banquet dinner for four hundred of the country’s most prestigious all traveling to Arkansas to experience what the Eureka Springs Times Echo called “America’s most luxurious resort hotel.” The opening night entertained former governors and the Republican presidential nominee James G. Blaine, but one person not mentioned was “Michael”, the Irish mason who fell to his death inside the building during construction.

The Crescent Hotel circa 1886.

As much as people enjoyed the parties and extravagance, it was not enough to keep a steady stream of visitors coming through the doors. When it became increasingly clear that nearly sixty natural springs in the region did not actually wield any healing abilities the reservations dried up leaving the future of the Crescent Hotel in question. Unable to keep its seventy-eight rooms full of tourists, the hotel transitioned into the Crescent College & Conservatory for Young Women in 1908. It became one of the most exclusive boarding schools in the country for “fine young ladies” while still functioning as a resort during the summer months. Newspapers advertised the school as having “Preparatory and College courses. Certificate privilege. Music. Art. Expression. Domestic Science. 23 new pianos. New $2,000 Kimball pipe organ. $300,000 fireproof building, elevator, rooms with private bath. Horseback riding is a prominent feature of life at the college.” The perks were printed, advertised, and sung for all to know. What was kept more quiet was that allegedly in the early years of the Conservatory a young woman fell to her death from one of the top-story windows. With the 1930s came the Great Depression and like the fate of the hotel before it, the money coming in was not enough to sustain it and the school closed in 1934.

Residents of the Crescent College & Conservatory for Young Women. Image via https://crescent-hotel.com/history.shtml 

On Thanksgiving Day 1925 the residents of Muscatine, Iowa had their radio stations tuned in to KTNT and were hearing the voice of Norman Baker for the first time. Baker, a former machinist, performance artist, and art instructor, had recently landed a license for a 500-watt station greatly due to his promises to “popularize Muscatine, Iowa throughout the world.” He knew his audience, a rural population that was deeply suspicious of “big business”, and his message became us -vs- them with Baker claiming he was in the corner of the rural people, launching venomous attacks on air against corporate trusts, Wall Street, and the American Medical Association, just to name a few. Strategically laced into the tirades were advertisements for the many mail order products Baker was selling to his audience. By 1929 Baker was already wealthy and well known, but then he heard about the doctor.

For many years Baker was a vocal critic of medical professionals and when he heard about Dr. Charles Ozias and his cancer sanitorium in Kansas City he declared on air that he was going to investigate. According to Baker, cancer was caused by aluminum products and surgeons looking to remove the disease from the body were only “cutters” looking for a payday. He announced that he was looking for five volunteers to be treated in Kansas City. The spots were quickly filled and in the spring and summer of 1929 they were treated by Dr. Ozias. By the fall of that year Baker was piecing together his new magazine, TNT, and in it he was planning a feature declaring that cancer did not require surgery, that a series of injections was the secret to curing the disease. By January 1930 he acquired an elixir recipe from Dr. Ozais and was freely proclaiming in his publication that the treatment was a success and that everyone could rest easy now knowing that cancer could be cured by his mixture of glycerin, carbolic acid, alcohol, brown corn silk, clover leaves, and a “tea” brewed from watermelon seeds. In the same year he opened his own hospital, the Baker Institute in Muscatine, a place he claimed could cure cancer easily and effectively. His words, advertisements, and creeds were all positive, but they were also blatant lies. What the public did not know was that none of the five volunteers were recovering. In December 1929 the first volunteer died and was quickly followed by the other four, all leaving their money to line Baker’s silk pockets.

Norman Baker. Image via Grossheim Collection/Musser Public Library/https://muscatinejournal.com/

In April 1930 Morris Fishbein, the editor of the Journal of the American Medical Association, came for Baker, his hospital, and his bogus “cures” for cancer that were killing people at an alarming rate. The response from Baker was furious and the result was a war of words filled with vitriol, accusations, and extravagant lies. In April 1930 the Journal of the American Medical Association stated:

“What is Mr. Baker doing with the money that he is snaring from the pockets of sufferers with cancer and wheedling from the funds of chiropractors, naturopaths, nostrum promoters and other medical malcontents? The viciousness of Mr. Baker’s broadcasting lies not in what he says about the American Medical Association but in the fact that he induces sufferers from cancer who might have some chance for their lives, if seen early and properly treated, to resort to his nostrum.”

Baker responded with a $500,000 lawsuit against the American Medical Association for defamation while also claiming that they sent armed assassins to kill him, assassins that he successfully fought off in a shootout. On May 12th 1930 he held an outdoor “demonstration” of his cancer cure, drinking a large amount of the concoction before performing open air surgery on a sixty-eight year old man he claimed had cancerous tissue on his brain. Before tens of thousands of people he opened the man's skull and applied his elixir before declaring “Cancer is cured.” People flocked to him. By the end of 1930 he had made today’s equivalent of 4.8 million dollars off of people’s suffering.

While business boomed for Baker the American Medical Association continued their fight, debunking his open-air demonstration and slamming his broadcasts using scientific fact against him. Finally, at the end of May 1931 his broadcast license was revoked and a warrant was issued for his arrest for practicing medicine without a license. Baker fled the state and spent some time in Mexico before returning to Iowa, serving one day in jail for his medical practice, and making an unsuccessful bid for a Senate seat. He left Iowa but in 1937 he resurfaced in Eureka Springs as the new owner of the Crescent Hotel.

The Crescent Hotel was reopened as Baker Hospital and the horrors immediately resumed. Claiming he could cure cancer and aided by the “healing springs” surrounding his “Castle in the Sky” thousands of people went to him, excitedly putting their lives directly into his deadly hands. Baker peddled multiple elixirs and advertised that they, along with fresh air, healthy food, and exercise were “proven” to cure cancer. With all its promises, its setting on a high hill overlooking the Ozarks, and its lavender and purple painted walls the Baker Hospital probably seemed like a soothing oasis when in fact what lay behind the doors was pure evil.

Baker Hospital advertisement. Image via https://crescent-hotel.com/history.shtml

Baker took in patients that had money and no nearby family, forcing them to sign papers willing all of their money and belongings to him should something happen to them. He also forced their signature on letters to be sent out at a later date stating that their health was vastly improving. He advertised treatments of elixirs and exercise but he left out that he also included drilling holes in patient’s skulls, painful injections, and brutal surgeries allegedly carried out in the dank basement. Those patients suffering and screaming were whisked away to the sealed off “psychiatric ward”, far from the eyes and ears of those touring the facility before unknowingly signing away a life to a madman. Relatives of patients would receive the pre-signed letters from their family members stating their improving health before finally getting one from Baker, regretfully informing them of their family member peacefully passing and requesting money to handle their final affairs. The money went into his pocket and the bodies were disposed of secretly while some pieces of those who passed before them rested in multiple jars stacked in the morgue and buried outside.

For approximately two years Baker preyed on the sick, unaware that he was being investigated by federal authorities. On September 1st 1939 Baker was finally arrested but the charge was not for medical malpractice, it was for mail fraud for sending out brochures claiming he had a cure for cancer.

On January 24th 1940 Baker appeared in court where he and two other employees of the Baker Hospital were convicted. Baker was fined $4,000 and sentenced to serve four years at the Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary. It was determined at his trial that Baker made approximately four million dollars from the dying patients. It is unknown exactly how many people lost their lives because of Norman Baker and his hospital.

Mugshot of Norman Baker. Image via https://crescent-hotel.com/history.shtml 

Baker was released from prison on July 19, 1944 after serving four years during which he stated “If I could keep my radio station open, I would make a million dollars out of the suckers of the states.” He moved to Florida where he lived until his death in 1958.

From 1940 to 1946 the hotel sat empty before passing through several hands and suffering a massive fire in 1967. On February 28th 1997 the building was purchased by current owners, member of the Roenigk family, who committed to a plan to restore the Crescent Hotel to its former glory. Today the Crescent Hotel offers guests fifteen acres of trails and gardens, guest rooms with balconies, fine dining, a swimming pool, and the New Moon Spa. Another feature of the Crescent Hotel draws heavily on its tragic past, the ghost tours. Considered “America’s Most Haunted Hotel” the guests of the Crescent frequently report sightings of apparitions, doors slamming on their own, disembodied voices, unexplained sounds and strange sensations. Some report seeing Baker, others report watching nurses walking down the hall, but others report activity that they attribute to Michael the Irish mason or to the women who called the former school home. 

The Crescent Hotel circa 2014. Image via Alan Islas https://commons.wikimedia.org/

While the horrors of the hotel are available to all guests through tours, the history archives on the fourth floor, and a Walking Tour Book available at the front desk, the man responsible for it all lays in a grave nearly 500 miles away in Muscatine, Iowa where he first planted the seeds of his monstrous medical scheme.  

The building was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 2016.

Grave of Norman Baker in Muscatin, Iown. Image via Findagrave.com.

****************************

Sources:

The 1886 Crescent Hotel & Spa https://crescent-hotel.com/history.shtml

Legends of America: The Haunted Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs https://www.legendsofamerica.com/ar-crescenthotel/ 

Historic Hotels of America https://www.historichotels.org/us/hotels-resorts/1886-crescent-hotel-and-spa/history.php 

Newspapers.com

FindAGrave.com

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 23

AO3 link here

It starts with England for their thirtieth anniversary. He surprises her with the tickets three weeks in advance, mid-August, so that she has enough time to arrange to be away. She’s been back since the end of the war, but mostly on business and they’ve never been together. Now Peggy takes him to what was once her house, sketching with hands and words the way things had been, the way that they still are in her memories, although the reality has changed so much. He had done the same as they went past now-demolished tenements and renovated schoolhouses back in Brooklyn. They walk arm in arm down London streets they once strode down in uniform, side by careful side, and marvel at how different it all has become.

After that, they chose somewhere new every year: Spain, Japan, Brazil, Morocco. They try to find native guides in each destination, someone to show off the hidden treasures that tourists don’t usually know about or take the time to see. Steve puts together albums to show the kids when they come home. As he flips through the pages, he notices that they have automatic positions that they assume for pictures together, wherever they are in the world.

They have been in Russia for a week before they go to Volgograd, and even then Steve delays. They go to a few museums, take a city walking tour, visit the Eltonsky Natural Park and its surprisingly lovely salt lake, and Peggy is wondering how much longer he is going to put it off when he asks her if she would like to do some shopping after lunch.

“Certainly,” she says, finishing off the last of the medovik she had ordered for dessert. “And it seems the perfect time for it: to be honest, I’m not sure that even I could tour another war monument.”

They pick up some general souvenirs for the kids - pretty little pottery dishes, elaborately painted Matryoshka dolls, lovely and delicate Orenburg shawls - at the various shops along the street. They are each carrying a weighty bag by the time they reach the music store.

“Good afternoon,” a woman’s voice calls in Russian from deep in the crowded shop, and a moment later she steps out to rest her hands on the counter. Her face is young but a bit careworn, a few silvery strands already sneaking into her hair, although it is hard to tell whether it is from age or simply the propensity for redheads to begin getting white hairs early.

“Can I help you?” she asks, looking between Peggy and Steve.

Peggy steps forward. “Good afternoon. We are visiting from America, and were doing some shopping in your neighborhood.” Her Russian is, as she would say with just a bit of satisfaction, quite serviceable. The woman smiles.

“We do not see many tourists here, so I am happy you were able to visit. Are you shopping for something special?”

Before Peggy can answer, there is the light, sharp sound of heels tapping downstairs and a small girl, red hair pinned back from her face, enters behind her mother.

“Mamochka, are you certain I don’t have my dancing class today?” she asks winningly, barely glancing at the strangers in the shop.

“Yes, Natashenka,” says the woman, with that mix of fondness and real weariness that Steve knows well. “I am certain that you don’t have your dancing class today, because it is Wednesday and you dance on Monday.”

“Ah.” The girl purses her lips, standing on her tiptoes and taking a few steps back and forth, running a finger along the counter.

“But Wednesday,” continues her mother, “is the perfect day to practice the violin, hmm?”

With a charming smile: “Are you sure? Maybe Thursday would be better.”

“Wednesday and also Thursday would be just fine for me,” and Steve stifles a laugh at the pout on Natasha’s face before she sighs and moves back among the rows of instruments and sheet music.

“I apologize,” says the woman, turning back to Steve and Peggy. “What were you looking for?”

“Our daughter plays the piano,” Peggy lies. “And we wondered if you might have some traditional sheet music for us to bring back. Folk songs, perhaps.”

“I’d like to explore the shop, if you don’t mind,” Steve says, knowing that his Russian is more formal and less fluid or practiced than Peggy’s. It doesn’t seem to matter; he is waved back as the two women fall into conversation.

The shop is narrow but fairly deep. There are thick carpets on the floors, handheld instruments along one wall - strings hanging or propped on stands, woodwinds in little carved nooks, a few brass items and an accordian interspersed between - and drawers along the other, presumably for sheet music. He follows the tentative plucking of violin strings back until he finds a little rehearsal space with music stands and a small upright piano. Little Natasha stands in the center with her shoes off, toes curling in the carpet as she rests the instrument on her shoulder.

“Hello,” he says, his voice pitched not loudly enough to disturb, but not softly enough for a secret either.

“Hello,” she returns, eagerly letting her bow rest against the floor as she turns to him, ready to be distracted.

“Would you play something for me?” he asks. “It can be anything you like.”

“I don’t know how to play songs I like yet,” she says, drooping a little. He smiles. He remembers a preference for - simultaneously - classical music and female fronted punk, but he doesn’t think that’s what this girl has in mind.

“Then maybe just something you’ve been practicing? I’d like to hear you.”

She takes a deep breath in and plays a simple but lively piece. Even he can hear the mistakes, but it’s pretty and more than he could ever attempt. The melody continues rising, not quite hitting a crescendo before she pulls the bow away and says, “That’s all I remember.”

He puts down his bag to clap politely. “That was very good,” he says. “I’m sure your mother is very proud.”

She makes a face. “She says that I could be better, that she started practicing when she was even younger than me. But she also says that Papa was born with a violin in his hand, and I don’t think that can be true.”

“I suppose you come from a very musical family,” Steve says, trying to blank his face although he suspects that a smile is still playing around his mouth.

“Mama says that music comes to us like water comes to the Volga.” She sets the violin on the piano bench and perches up on her tiptoes again. “But I have a secret.” She tilts her head in question, wondering if he is trustworthy, and he crouches automatically, tilting his head in receptive return.

She leans in a little before she whispers, “I want to be a dancer, not a musician.” She does a little pirouette, girlish and clumsy and eager, her arms out and toes barely avoiding being tangled in the carpet pile. She faces him again with an enormous smile, a little mischievous in a way that is familiar, free in a way that is not.

Steve thinks of the restraint in Natasha as he knew her, the deliberation taken with every action, even with her joy. He swallows against the pain in his throat.

“I think that you will be a very excellent dancer,” he says. “But music is good for learning too. My children did not learn about music from me, and needed to learn on their own.”

“How many children do you have?”

“Four.” He takes a photo out of his wallet and shows her. “My daughters,” he says, pointing. “And my son. And my grandsons. And two husbands and one wife.”

She looks at the smiling strangers in the picture then back up at him. “Why do you talk like that? Your words are so strange.”

“I’m American. I usually speak English. I haven’t spoken Russian in a long time.”

Natasha considers this, then declares magnanimously, “For a Russian, you do not speak very good Russian, but for an American you are excellent.”

“Thank you.” Steve laughs, and stands to his feet once more. “A friend taught me.”

He had not asked her to do it, but in those years of partnering on missions for SHIELD and then later, after Tony had stepped away and Clint had left and Bruce was locked in his lab, when it was just the shattered two of them helping to keep some sort of order...He never questioned when or why she started her little lessons, just took them in. He had trusted Natasha, had admired and fought beside her, had mourned her, mourns her still in some ways, but there was so much he had hoped to understand about her and never can.

The little girl who will never be Natasha Romanoff slips her hand into his. “She must have been a very good friend. I would not have so much patience.”

“She was,” Steve says, gently squeezing her small fingers, “a very good friend.”

The information he had to find her had been so limited. Red hair. Russia. “Natasha, daughter of Ivan,” Clint had reported to them, and despite its source, Steve trusted that more than he did whatever information had been fed to Zola. He assumed that Natalia Alianovna Romanoff was a Red Room created background, but even that couldn’t be certain.

“Less common names would have been quite helpful,” Peggy had said each time she watched Steve pore over SHIELD-provided records of births in Russia. Later, once they had narrowed things down and moved on to the photographs snapped by agents in the area on other assignments, she reminded him carefully that they did not know whether she had been born somewhere rural or at home, without complete records, with a different name, if her parents had perhaps never been in a position to meet at all. But Peggy also never stopped him or told him to give up or refused to transmit his requests. She would have done the same for a missing agent, an untraceable friend.

(There were so many factors and it was still quicksilver confusion, even after all this time, especially after all this time - the changes and their ripples. Twenty-five years ago, he had the SHIELD clipping bureau on a standing assignment for local Iowa birth announcements, ten years ago for circus advertisements. Now he’s moved on to crime blotters, and in the surrounding states too, but he hasn’t found a trace of Clint or his brother. He doesn’t know if they’ve disappeared or if he just hasn’t come across them.)

And then the Volgograd file had been delivered.

She was a year younger than had been claimed, not quite three in the picture he saw and more daughter of Alyona now, considering Ivan had been killed in a car accident before she could walk. Living in an apartment above the family music store, living in a world where the Red Room would never come knocking, where she would grow up entirely different from the person he had known. He had recognized her immediately.

He had told Peggy for several years that he hadn’t needed to see her, that he knew that she was safe and that was enough.

And then she suggested Russia. And suddenly he did want to see.

They are slightly quieter than usual but only slightly as they return to their hotel to deposit their bags, as they find a restaurant for dinner and chat over their meal (lamb-filled dumplings called beriki for Peggy, a delicious but less adventurous beef stroganoff for Steve), take a short walk and return to their hotel to get ready for bed.

Steve can’t sleep. He lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling until he finally whispers, “Peg? Are you awake?”

Though she’s turned over on her side and burrowed beneath the blankets, she answers immediately and with surprising lucidity. “Well, I was wondering how long you would take.”

“What do you mean?”

She eases over onto her other side to look at him even in the darkness. “You were going to ask me once again if I think that you’ve endangered the world further by shifting the circumstances that resulted in your friends becoming heroes. And I would remind you that people can have perfectly average and non-traumatic childhoods and still find courage within themselves when called for it, and also point out that fortunately, shifting the circumstances has created less of a need for a band of enhanced crime-fighters and will hopefully continue to do so. And then you were to have some sweet and honorable realization about human nature being good at the core and not needing the crucible of damage for that to come out, and you would tell me that I’m correct and kiss me and then finally be able to fall asleep.”

He laughs. “We’ve done this before, huh?”

“Several times,” she says dryly, but not without fondness.

“It’s hard for me to really take it in,” he says, turning toward her too. His voice is serious again. “I keep wondering if I’ve taken away these amazing people who could have been, who could have protected the world if we had made a mess of things.”

“Or,” she points out, equally serious now, “you’ve simply allowed them to be amazing in different ways, and to suffer less as they work toward it.”

He thinks of Bruce, in school even now, still brilliant, with a mother and stepfather he apparently goes to visit over breaks. Steve had glimpsed him once while visiting Drea in Boston. They had passed each other at the Public Gardens entirely by coincidence, Bruce grinning at a friend as they went down into the subway station in a way that Steve almost didn’t recognize, not noticing the man staring at him. He thinks of Sam, still a kid now. Military recruiters don’t come to high schools anymore. He remembers Natasha today, loved and loving, unbounded.

“It’s harder than I thought it would be,” he says. “Thinking of them out in the world, but that I’m the only one who will ever know the versions of them that I did. It’s hard to carry the reality of it alone, even if I think they’re better for it.”

“It’s always been hard, the things we carry, but worthwhile, I think. And necessary.”

He kisses her. “You’re probably right,” he says, stroking a thumb along her temple and brushing the hair back gently from her face.

“Hmm.” She turns back over, settling against him. After a moment she says, “Perhaps someplace warm and relaxing for next year?”

“We’ve tried that. You always say that you want to relax but then end up solving a local murder or getting rid of a corrupt police chief,” Steve points out.

“Well, precisely,” she says, and he laughs and puts an arm around her and allows himself to try for sleep.

More chapters here

[honeyrose-tea]

Gaia, Hephaestus, and Nyx?

Gaia: Where’s your favorite place in the world?

there are so many

the hike up to an old castle in Assisi, Italy, abundant with poppies and stone walls older than the city I was born in. the overlook across the town abundant with little shops that contain beautiful unique trinkets and friendly shop dogs. the view of rolling farmland in the distance, sectioned off to look like puzzle pieces. tiny centuries-old catholic churches with an otherwordly calm and reverence for those of every faith

the boat ride across the big canal in Venice, the land on either side clotted with beautiful old buildings. the museums preserving what was once a kingdom. gelato shops ans gondola rides and windows laden with flowers in every color you can imagine

a tiny park in midtown NYC with a single statue. pigeons and people rushing by and the feeling of peace and self-assured invisibility. signs and advertisements all around you blurring into a rainbow of stimulus as you observe quietly and in the still what is something much bigger than you, teeming, pulsing, alive and aware. a consciousness that everyone is part of, a loneliness that makes you feel more alive than anything you've ever felt before

an old church in rural eastern Kentucky. the feeling of history, the black and white pictures on the wall, the red-cushioned pews and chandelier that's missing a few crystals. the broken stained glass that lets in the summer air. peace, stillness. decades-old hymnals. typewriters in the office room. an entire town that is a time capsule. discarded boots on the road, flowers covered in dew, new life in a place that has not seen it in years

there are many beaches and lakesides and mountain overlooks which hold special places in my heart as well. there is my great aunt's house in the country, the garden in Capri, a small town in England not far from Stonehenge, and many others. I fall a little in love with every place I go. it's why I'm always torn between going back to those places or finding new ones when the opportunity to travel arises.

Hephaestus: What’s the coolest thing you’ve ever made or built?

hmmmm... I can't really say. I don't make much. I have some writing that I'm proud of, but not much. I made something for Eli's cousin, who adopted him and is a bit of a maternal figure for him, and I'm pretty proud of that. it was an organizer for their mail, made of pallet wood with removable wire baskets. I painted their surname up at the top in cursive and it just turned out really pretty and she was very happy with it

Nyx: What’s your favorite nighttime activity?

maybe this is a dumb horny answer, but what immediately comes to mind is masturbation/sex. the night is so still and calm and freeing. it truly feels like you have all the time in the world to devote to pleasure. the closeness, the peace, the ecstacy, the freedom of feeling like you're completely alone in the night. the feeling of being able to lay down and go to sleep right after, chest still heaving and near-immediate blissful unconsciousness. being at one with your body and/or the body of your partner in the darkness

I also like checking on my chickens at night. when they're all settled on their roosts and ready for bed I'll sing to them for a while, they seem to quite enjoy it

thank you for the ask, anon❤️

[hilarieburtonmorgan]

Inside Hilarie Burton Morgan’s Life on an Upstate New York Farm

The One Tree Hill star tells AD all about her new book and how she and her husband, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, have been dealing with social distancing

These days, Hilarie Burton Morgan is as likely to be sewing masks for first responders or washing the floors at her farmhouse as she is to be on your television. She stars on NBC’s Council of Dads, but she and her husband, The Walking Dead’s Jeffrey Dean Morgan, have largely left the typical Hollywood lifestyle behind. The couple and their ten-year-old son, Gus; two-year-old daughter, George; and a menagerie of animals—including three Highland cattle, five miniature donkeys, two dogs, chickens, ducks, and eight alpaca—have called the 100-acre Mischief Farm in upstate New York home since 2018.

“I’m always mopping these floors,” Burton Morgan tells Architectural Digest. “They’re these wide plank wood floors we found at a mom-and-pop reclaimed-wood company, and our muddy footprints are always there.”

On May 5, Burton Morgan released her first book, The Rural Diaries: Love, Livestock, and Big Life Lessons Down on Mischief Farm, about her life as a television star and her big move to the country. Here, the One Tree Hill alumna tells AD a bit more—specifically about how she’s coping during the current COVID-19 pandemic, which has led her to start projects around the house and has also spawned an AMC show called Friday Night In With the Morgans.

Architectural Digest: Your book seems perfectly timed for what we’re going through right now.

Hilarie Burton Morgan: I certainly didn’t plan on the book being as applicable as it is now. When I first started writing it, it was a response to joining social media. I saw a lot of people posting about their perfect beautiful lives sitting by their perfect pools, and ‘Doesn’t my butt look great?’ That wasn’t relatable to me. If it’s true that my book is timed right for the times we’re in, I know this: When I was dealing with rough patches, there were certain books that really inspired me. If my book can help someone, that’s the whole point of making art.

Hilarie Burton Morgan and her family reside on a working farm in upstate New York.

AD: In the book, you write about chopping wood and building chicken coops. Did all of this DIY stuff come naturally to you?

HBM: My mother didn’t have a housekeeper. We didn’t have anyone cut our lawn. Everything we did as kids was self-motivated and all hands on deck. I’m one of a lot of kids, and we always did home improvement projects as a unit. The book peels back a lot of glossy layers.

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AD: Interestingly, during quarantine, lots of city people are examining whether the country life would be right for them.

HBM: I’m seeing a lot of city people posting on social media about not having space to roam around. They’re being forced to reckon with themselves since they can’t fill themselves up with events, cocktails with friends, or meandering around for the fun of it. That was something I had to grapple with when I moved to this community. I live on a piece of land where you don’t see your neighbors unless you set out to see them. I had to reevaluate who I was and who I wanted to be. A lot of people in quarantine are spending quiet hours dealing with that same thing.

AD: Since you’re home more than ever, have you taken on any renovating projects?

HBM: Right now, I’m in the process of purging. I also fell prey to a Facebook ad recently and ordered Backdrop Paint, which just arrived. I have two productive hours during the day when my daughter naps. I pack in everything I can during that time, so I will be painting all of the walls that have taken a beating from my children. I get picked on for being witchy, but I’m painting them black—I’m still a Goth girl at heart.

Mischief Farm is home to a variety of animals including miniature donkeys.

AD: Obviously you’re also taking care of your farm animals. Do you have a favorite?

HBM: I like the ducks. They’re such weird animals. They have big personalities, which isn’t something I was anticipating. They’re also very aggressive toward the other animals—they push our cows out of the way and steal their food! I like bossy women and I like bossy children, so there’s that.

AD: Are there any outdoor projects you’re kick-starting right now?

HBM: I’m the gardener in the family, and my goal is to overplant this year. Right now, everyone is conscious of where their food is coming from, and I’d like to be able to provide friends of ours with fresh produce, like zucchini, beans, and tomatoes.

AD: How has filming Friday Night In With the Morgans from home helped you stay connected?

HBM: It has been really nice. My husband pitched the show without even telling me. I think he saw me trying to maintain a healthy household for two little kids while also watching the news at night and becoming completely overwhelmed. We want this half hour to be a lighthearted but sensitive space where people can go after a long week. It’s also nice for us because it’s the one hour out of the week that we get to be together. We’ve been picked up for four more episodes. It feels nice to keep our AMC crew working, and it’s also good because we’ve been profiling the efforts that people across the country are making, including small business owners, farmers, and doctors. This idea of supporting as many people as possible was an important element to me.

AD: I know you’ve also been doing that by making masks.

HBM: I live in a small community. The people getting these are my neighbors; they’re other parents from school. Taking care of them is very important to me. There was a lot of momentum in the mask-making movement early on, and we’re seeing it taper off a bit. The weather is getting warmer and people are starting to ease up a little bit, but for the foreseeable future, until there’s a vaccine, we need to protect our essential workers and exercise supreme caution. Everyone will need a mask, and not everyone sews, so I’m planning to keep making them.