Growing up in a warm weather city is one of the best things a child could possibly want. I went barefoot most of the time and when school beckoned, I sadly had to encase my happy feet in shoes. I remember rain; wonderful rain that left puddles in the soft sandy loam that was the street in front of my house. I would go out when the rains stopped and sit on the curb holding handfuls of the sweet smelling moist earth to my face. The scent of fresh cut grass came in second best. I inhaled the scent of Waco. I remember the Cotton Palace. Waco is in the heart of cotton country. A fair was held once a year and I would wander up and down watching snake charmers, dancing girls, strong men and of course, cotton candy. A large machine filled with wonderful toys was there for 5 cents to manipulate a claw and if luck was with you, you were a winner of some wondrous object. The only object I ever snared was a pencil clip and I remember that distinctly. I remember Juan. He sold tamales out of a box hung by a leather strap around his neck. The inside of the box was lined with shiny metal. The smell and taste of those steamy tamales still makes me sigh with pleasure. I remember W. Lee ODaniels and his hillbilly band. He was running for governor and the crowd loved him and his music; he became governor. I remember downtown, Goldstein, Miguel the largest department store in town. It had a small caf that served blue plate specials for 25 cents and just about everything else you wanted to buy. The best place of all was the ice cream parlor Palace of Sweets long marble counter, ice cream chairs and tables for the big people and the little people. I remember walking with my mother on summer nights on long strolls past Baylor University, the oldest college in Texas, which has the worlds largest collection of the works of Robert Browning. I remember going for ice-cream cones with my brother one day a week when cones were two for a nickel. I would slowly savor my cone on the way home and one disastrous day I dropped my cone in the dirt. My brother calmly handed me his cone saying, I dont like ice-cream anyway. I protested mildly and guiltily licked his melting cone the rest of the way home. I remember my father sitting close to a small radio listening to the ravings of Hitler. None of knew German, except my father, but we sensed heaviness in the air. I remember the buses with the Jim Crow section in the back, which in those days had very little meaning for me. Years later when I lived in Houston and became wiser, I would approach the public drinking fountains, labeled White and Colored and loudly proclaim I wonder how colored water tastes. I remember lying on a blanket at night and trying to find the Big Dipper. I remember the fireflies and the sound of crickets. Waco, tree lined streets, shacks down by the Brazos River, Castle Heights, the upscale community where a rich cotton baron had build his home to look like a castle complete with turrets. I was told it is now a museum. I remember people coming into our store to buy Brown Mule Chewing Tobacco little tin mules were imbedded in each piece. Ladies would come in and request in a quiet voice Garrett Snuff. It was not exactly ladylike to dip snuff. Waco, a town where people said, Yes mam and no mam. I was the only one in my classroom that refused to finish a sentence with a mam; I dont think Ive changed. I remember Cameron Park, a glorious natural park with spring water gushing out from crevices among the rocks; playgrounds, Sunday picnics, watermelon cuts (a term used for sharing a melon) which was brought from the icehouse, wonderfully cold. I remember Oakwood Cemetery, a wooded area where squirrels ran happily and birds were everywhere in abundance. Large marble angels guarding graves, small mausoleums, large blocks of intricately carved marble. It is the oldest cemetery in Texas
Long ago I had a book of poetry and one of the poems started or possibly ended with the lines Im a noodle, youre a noodle. Will you marry me? I had read and reread many of the poems during my very young life. When we moved so many years ago, my book didnt make the journey. However, over the years the words Im a noodle, youre a noodle have haunted me. They make me smile and remember how delighted I was reading from this magical book. I found among my belongings notebooks containing many poems I wrote in the 40s and 50s starting when I was in my late teens. I now find them quite remarkable in their psychological search for the meaning of life, my life. Some are humorous, some are quite sad but mostly I wrote randomly never expecting them to see the light of day. As I reread some of them, I thought they deserved a place in a book. Or to paraphrase, Im noodling around and trying to weave the rhythm of my words into a pleasing word picture. The first few pages include poems I wrote at the age of 9, 10 and 11. They are not necessarily noteworthy but I thought I should include them. The old saying is that writers write and I started early and returned to writing about ten years later with more poetry and then much later with short, short stories, a journal, a book and another book.
Butterflies are fragile and almost defenseless creatures but rely on a variety of strategy to protect them, blending into their environment so well it is almost impossible to detect them. I learned about pain and loss but my ability to take wing became my major defense. My father, an intellectual, arrived as a young man from Austria with a portfolio of plays, poetry and short stories. He spent his life in search of a dream to become a great writer that did not materialize. My quiet small mother was born in a small village in Hungary and she gave me the freedom to explore the world. Her warmth was my mainstay. In her eyes I could do no wrong. My silent melancholy father rarely talked. I grew up in h a home where conversation was restrained and I found myself doing all the talking. It became norm but I desperately needed to hear a sound even if it was only coming from my own lips. My brother, Morton, was an intelligent, composed gray eyed boy who also had a dream but death at the age of fourteen killed the dream and left me to grow up alone and lonely. I remember visiting Morton in the hospital as he lay foaming at the mouth in a coma. My life was never again the same. I was ten years old. I was friendly but had no real friends. I was lonely but did not spend much time alone. The beginning of my life was with no road map, no directions only following the scent of excitement, adventure and love. Watching a butterfly zigzag aimlessly across the meadow on a sunny morning, it could easily be taken for natures most carefree vagabond unhurried, unburdened, and even a little ditzy. But butterflies are purposeful, aggressive, sexually driven and smarter that most people think. When I was very little somebody asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up. I answered quiet emphatically; I want to be a dancing girl. Where it was luck, chance or karma, one way or the other I did become a dancing girl, dancing literally and metaphorically through life. Oh, how love played an extraordinary role in my life. I will always remember love, the highs, the lows, the pleasure, the pain, and ultimately the wonderment. Like the butterflies that use their sense of sight, touch, hearing, smell, and taste to survive in the world. Flying is a major defense of butterflies. I soon stretched out my wings and my journey began.
I have always prided myself on having a good memory but suddenly I looked in the mirror and saw a woman with white hair. Who was she? She looked familiar, but was she someone I knew? Internally, I am still this nubile creature anxiously awaiting another day, another adventure and every person a puzzle. Did I have all the adventures? Did I solve all the puzzles? Did I have a memory lapse? Did I move to another dimension? When did I get older? When did I grow up? Am I really wiser and mellower? I dont think so. All the people I have known and met have seen my face and that is where Ive been. The reflection of how others perceived me is the image I have of myself. There have been a variety of faces over the years but I seem to remember only the smiling, happy ones. I must have an erase mode that wipes out all the negative images I received. I feel the same as I did, ten, twenty, thirty years ago or I think I do. There is always, not necessarily a fire in my belly, but certainly there are an abundant number of embers that with a little fanning begins to glow. There is still the mischievous five year old, the sober twelve year old, and the earnest twenty-one and on it goes, but who is that woman I now see in the mirror. I guess I will just have to get in touch with my inner child and tell it You dont have to act your age but try to be considerate of that woman in the mirror. It could turn out to be you.
Intellectual Property Law is written in an informal, engaging and lively manner with an emphasis on explaining the key topics covered on intellectual property law courses with clarity. It focuses on the practical issues of United Kingdom law at the same time as demonstrating how the subject is being shaped by outside forces.
Intellectual Property Law is written in an informal, engaging and lively manner with an emphasis on explaining the key topics covered on intellectual property law courses with clarity. It focuses on the practical issues of United Kingdom law at the same time as demonstrating how the subject is being shaped by outside forces.
This book is a volume in the Penn Press Anniversary Collection. To mark its 125th anniversary in 2015, the University of Pennsylvania Press rereleased more than 1,100 titles from Penn Press's distinguished backlist from 1899-1999 that had fallen out of print. Spanning an entire century, the Anniversary Collection offers peer-reviewed scholarship in a wide range of subject areas.
Using a wide array of evidence drawn from poetry, fiction, diaries, letters, and examples of hairwork, Love Entwined traces the widespread popularity of the craft from the late eighteenth to the early twentieth century.
Butterflies are fragile and almost defenseless creatures but rely on a variety of strategy to protect them, blending into their environment so well it is almost impossible to detect them. I learned about pain and loss but my ability to take wing became my major defense. My father, an intellectual, arrived as a young man from Austria with a portfolio of plays, poetry and short stories. He spent his life in search of a dream to become a great writer that did not materialize. My quiet small mother was born in a small village in Hungary and she gave me the freedom to explore the world. Her warmth was my mainstay. In her eyes I could do no wrong. My silent melancholy father rarely talked. I grew up in h a home where conversation was restrained and I found myself doing all the talking. It became norm but I desperately needed to hear a sound even if it was only coming from my own lips. My brother, Morton, was an intelligent, composed gray eyed boy who also had a dream but death at the age of fourteen killed the dream and left me to grow up alone and lonely. I remember visiting Morton in the hospital as he lay foaming at the mouth in a coma. My life was never again the same. I was ten years old. I was friendly but had no real friends. I was lonely but did not spend much time alone. The beginning of my life was with no road map, no directions only following the scent of excitement, adventure and love. Watching a butterfly zigzag aimlessly across the meadow on a sunny morning, it could easily be taken for natures most carefree vagabond unhurried, unburdened, and even a little ditzy. But butterflies are purposeful, aggressive, sexually driven and smarter that most people think. When I was very little somebody asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up. I answered quiet emphatically; I want to be a dancing girl. Where it was luck, chance or karma, one way or the other I did become a dancing girl, dancing literally and metaphorically through life. Oh, how love played an extraordinary role in my life. I will always remember love, the highs, the lows, the pleasure, the pain, and ultimately the wonderment. Like the butterflies that use their sense of sight, touch, hearing, smell, and taste to survive in the world. Flying is a major defense of butterflies. I soon stretched out my wings and my journey began.
Growing up in a warm weather city is one of the best things a child could possibly want. I went barefoot most of the time and when school beckoned, I sadly had to encase my happy feet in shoes. I remember rain; wonderful rain that left puddles in the soft sandy loam that was the street in front of my house. I would go out when the rains stopped and sit on the curb holding handfuls of the sweet smelling moist earth to my face. The scent of fresh cut grass came in second best. I inhaled the scent of Waco. I remember the Cotton Palace. Waco is in the heart of cotton country. A fair was held once a year and I would wander up and down watching snake charmers, dancing girls, strong men and of course, cotton candy. A large machine filled with wonderful toys was there for 5 cents to manipulate a claw and if luck was with you, you were a winner of some wondrous object. The only object I ever snared was a pencil clip and I remember that distinctly. I remember Juan. He sold tamales out of a box hung by a leather strap around his neck. The inside of the box was lined with shiny metal. The smell and taste of those steamy tamales still makes me sigh with pleasure. I remember W. Lee ODaniels and his hillbilly band. He was running for governor and the crowd loved him and his music; he became governor. I remember downtown, Goldstein, Miguel the largest department store in town. It had a small caf that served blue plate specials for 25 cents and just about everything else you wanted to buy. The best place of all was the ice cream parlor Palace of Sweets long marble counter, ice cream chairs and tables for the big people and the little people. I remember walking with my mother on summer nights on long strolls past Baylor University, the oldest college in Texas, which has the worlds largest collection of the works of Robert Browning. I remember going for ice-cream cones with my brother one day a week when cones were two for a nickel. I would slowly savor my cone on the way home and one disastrous day I dropped my cone in the dirt. My brother calmly handed me his cone saying, I dont like ice-cream anyway. I protested mildly and guiltily licked his melting cone the rest of the way home. I remember my father sitting close to a small radio listening to the ravings of Hitler. None of knew German, except my father, but we sensed heaviness in the air. I remember the buses with the Jim Crow section in the back, which in those days had very little meaning for me. Years later when I lived in Houston and became wiser, I would approach the public drinking fountains, labeled White and Colored and loudly proclaim I wonder how colored water tastes. I remember lying on a blanket at night and trying to find the Big Dipper. I remember the fireflies and the sound of crickets. Waco, tree lined streets, shacks down by the Brazos River, Castle Heights, the upscale community where a rich cotton baron had build his home to look like a castle complete with turrets. I was told it is now a museum. I remember people coming into our store to buy Brown Mule Chewing Tobacco little tin mules were imbedded in each piece. Ladies would come in and request in a quiet voice Garrett Snuff. It was not exactly ladylike to dip snuff. Waco, a town where people said, Yes mam and no mam. I was the only one in my classroom that refused to finish a sentence with a mam; I dont think Ive changed. I remember Cameron Park, a glorious natural park with spring water gushing out from crevices among the rocks; playgrounds, Sunday picnics, watermelon cuts (a term used for sharing a melon) which was brought from the icehouse, wonderfully cold. I remember Oakwood Cemetery, a wooded area where squirrels ran happily and birds were everywhere in abundance. Large marble angels guarding graves, small mausoleums, large blocks of intricately carved marble. It is the oldest cemetery in Texas
This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it. This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work. Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. To ensure a quality reading experience, this work has been proofread and republished using a format that seamlessly blends the original graphical elements with text in an easy-to-read typeface. We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.
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