A vardo (also wag(g)on, living wagon, van, and caravan) is a traditional horse-drawn wagon used by British Romani people as their home. Possessing a chimney, it is commonly thought of as being highly decorated, intricately carved, brightly painted, and even gilded. The British Romani tradition of the vardo is seen as a high cultural point of both artistic design and a masterpiece of woodcrafters art. The heyday of the living wagon lasted for roughly 70 years, from the mid-1800s through the first two decades of the twentieth century. Not used for year-around living today, they are shown at the Romanichal (British Romani) horse fairs held throughout the year, the best known of which is Appleby Horse Fair.
You arrived at Gaston’s exquisite log cabin just outside the village. It must be nice. You mused to yourself, having a place of your own, not having to worry about anyone. “I couldn’t but wondering you appear to be troubled?” Gaston raised an eyebrow, seeing your features, turn from joy to distaste very rapidly.
“Nothing is the matter. You needn’t worry about little old me.” You shrugged, brushed yourself off. Gaston still worried about you though. “That’s the thing, mademoiselle. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since the moment we met today in the village. “ Gaston whispered in a husky voice. Your faces were now only but a few inches apart.
Well, they don’t call them April showers for nothing. Today is the kind of day for curling up with a cup of coffee and some comfort food. So here’s a picture of a Diner. The first diner was created in 1872 by a man named Walter Scott in Providence, Rhode Island. Around 1858 he had been supplementing his income by selling sandwiches and coffee to night workers at the newspaper and patrons of men’s club rooms. But by 1872 business became so lucrative that he began selling food at night from a horse-drawn wagon parked outside the Providence Journal newspaper office as his primary job. The success of the early converted wagons inspired a few individuals to form companies and manufacture lunch wagons for sale. It is said that the first commercial production of lunch wagons began in Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1887 by Thomas Buckley. Buckley was successful and became known for his wagon design. These improved wagons allowed customers to stand inside, or sit on stools at counters thus removing the danger of inclement weather spoiling a cup of coffee. In 1893, Charles Palmer received the first patent for the diner and also built in the Worcester area until 1901. The lunch wagons became very popular because people could purchase inexpensive meals during the day but also at night during a time when most restaurants closed by 8:00 pm. During the Depression most diners were able to stay in business because of their relative inexpensiveness and after WWII, the demand for diners increased dramatically. Americans were eager to spend money and make up for the years that they had to do without for the war effort. During this time of population shifting from cities to the suburbs the look of diners began to change. This is when all stainless steel exteriors and large windows came into vogue. And the 1950s arrival of the Space Age also changed the look of the classic American diner. However, the 1950s also brought about the rise of fast food establishments, which were in direct competition with diners.
X2010.7.1.12500 Wurts Bros. (New York, N.Y.) [Interior of diner]. DATE:ca. 1939
Frankenstein but set in the Old West. (You're the only person I know who would find enjoyment out of this idea.)
OH BOY! I would…ok…that would be really cool though because *pushes glasses up nose* because like Walton could be an overzealous settler out West. Could be trying to expand the railroad, so many options. And Frankenstein’s narrative aligns with that Wild West tropes of “stranger-rides-into-town-things-get-intense” and “resoultion-via-confrontation-duel” aaaHHHH. *flails* And using the desert setting instead of the arctic? AHHH
Not to mention the potential to use the whole “manifest destiny”/privileged god complex comparison…Because Mary was making commentary on societal ills having root in prejudice and childhood abandonment/neglect (among other things, of corpse) but like…the Wild West setting makes for some really interesting translations to the Slavery/Reconstruction era or treatment of Native Americans and how dehumanizing/othering people as a means of gaining power is a systematic root of our national social ills like…
And The Creature would have to ride around on a horse drawn wagon because…the horses…they’re too smol.
“We, writers, painters, sculptors, architects and passionate devotees of the hitherto untouched beauty of Paris, protest with all our strength, with all our indignation in the name of slighted French taste, against the erection… of this useless and monstrous Eiffel Tower.”
- Petition Against Eiffel Tower
In 1886, a competition in France was held to design a flagship structure for the upcoming 1889 World Fair.
The Centennial Exposition Committee considered more than a hundred wildly varying submissions. The judges ultimately settled on the design for a colossal wrought-iron tower submitted by Alexandre Gustave Eiffel.
The plan was tremendously ambitious. The nearly 1,000-foot tower would dwarf the 555-foot Washington Monument, at that time the tallest structure in the world, and it would need to be built quickly.
Despite protests from some who decried the proposed tower as an eyesore antithetical to the spirit of Paris, construction began in January 1887.
Contending with soft soil and the danger of flooding from the Seine, Eiffel designed deep cement and stone foundations to hold up the base of the tower.
Within six months, the foundations were complete, and the wrought-iron girders of the tower began to sprout above ground level. More than 18,000 precisely shaped metal pieces were produced at Eiffel’s factory on the outskirts of Paris and carted to the construction site in horse-drawn wagons, where they were joined together by 2.5 million rivets.
Tower pieces were hoisted into position by creeper cranes, which rose on tracks as the tower gained height.
By the time Bastille Day rolled around on July 14, 1888, the tower had reached a height of 380 feet. With only eight months until the opening of the fair, workers had to start pulling 12-hour shifts. Noticing that it took too long for workers to descend to the ground for their lunch breaks, Eiffel had a canteen built on the first platform of the tower.
“A’right. We’re here. Go on, haul ‘im out.”, came the coarse voice of the caravan driver as the horse-drawn Hudson supply wagon came to a halt in front of the Hudson caravan way-station. In these moon-lit hours, the way-station was exceptionally quiet and empty given the occasion.
Standing at the entrance of the way-station were two humans clad in dark leathers, both wearing black hoods and masks. They stood in silence, waiting as a man suited in plate armor - a man outside of the Hudson payroll, Recke Stoutmantle - hauled a half-naked man out of the rear of the wagon. This man was none other than Recke’s dear cousin, Jedrek Stoutmantle. Jedrek was, for now, more bloodied than bruised, and was incredibly sluggish due to blood loss. As per instruction, he was also made blind by a black sack that had been pulled over his head before even arriving in the region. While the black-bagged man was ushered towards the masked sentries at the doorway of the station, another man, who was dressed far too exceptionally for such a situation, made his was through the open station doors.
“You’ve done quite the number, Miss Daae!” , announced Braxton, turning a glance towards the slump of a man as he was seized by the arms and dragged into the way-station.
“Was a pleasure. He was a -very- good little boy. Weren’t you.”, she taunted as the man was dragged through the doors. Be it out of weakness or defiance, the man offered no response that humored her. He was silent. “I’ll be waiting out here for Recke. We’ll leave once he’s finished.”
The mogul turned away from the woman, making way into the station at a casual pace while removing the many rings from his fingers one by one. “If you wish. This won’t take long.” These were the final words ushered before the man disappeared into the station and the doors shut behind him.
In the dreary basement of the way-station, Doctor Emrett worked promptly to ensure the black-bagged man wouldn’t bleed out in the midst of the occasion. It was true; Olivia Daae -had- done quite a number on the man. His tongue had been bit off and he’d been neutered like a dog. It was Doctor Emrett’s responsibility to ensure both of these wounds were sealed up before any of Mister Hudson’s beatings began lest the man bleed out. Cauterization was implemented with the use of a dagger blade and a candle flame; painful and crude but effective.
Braxton descended the steps leading into the dreary basement, passing his suit jacket off to Marge Grimwald upon reaching the bottom. While she moved to hang it neatly on the wall, the mogul would begin rolling up his white, pressed sleeves just past his elbow. Moving with haste, Miss Grimwald stepped away from the wall and to the phonograph that seemed quite out of place. The crank was twisted and the needle was dropped allowing for crackling music to pour from the bent brass horn and fill the room.
“Mister Hudson, sir? He’s ready.”, voiced Doctor Emrett, stepping back from the sacked man. And no sooner did the Doctor back away did the masked Red and Fensgrid move in to take his place.
The first two punches landed with bone-breaking force, knocking the man down into the cold stone floor. Unfortunately, the hits to follow were neither softer nor merciful. This beating proceeded for several minutes while the mogul observed. In those several minutes, the mans hands were broken, his nose and jaw, and his left arm to such a degree that it would never be usable again. His assailants utilized knuckle-dusters and hammers to carry out their instructions before finally hoisting the man to hang by the arms between the two. At such a point, the burly Dark Iron - Galfouh Diamond-eye - stepped in to lay a great barrage of punches into the mans torso.
All the while, the mogul continued to observe with a steely expression indicative of the mans consideration of this to be nothing more than business. After all, he had assaulted his company and threatened its operation. This was the only feasible consequence. While Galfouh continued to lay punch after brutal punch into the mans ribs, Braxton would raise his voice to speak over the bustle.
“When I was a young boy, my mother believed in the use of corporal punishment. She applied it to my everyday life, for almost any reason she could conceive. Even for the -smallest- things. Like not remembering to fetch fresh water before supper - or whatever that woman’s pathetic excuse for supper was. Naturally, you could assume that, as a child, I hated it. Every moment of it. But I simply can’t help but notice, being a grown man looking back on it all? After that evening, I never did forget to fetch the fresh water ever again. Sometimes all you need is a good beating to teach you a lesson.”
While he spoke, the mogul was wrapping his fingers around a single knuckle-duster and was closing the distance between himself and man beneath the black sack. “Hopefully, this will be lesson enough.”
His fist went forth with whatever strength that Mister Hudson could muster - which, to some, may have been an impressive amount. The brass knuckles connected with the center of the mans face with another sickening crack! It was with that punch that the beating - or at least Mister Hudson’s portion of the beating - had come to its end. In some manners, he was leaving in much worse a condition than when he arrived.
“Get him out of here.” The instruction was firm and curt, and not a moment later both Red and Fensgrid were dragging him back to Recke to be removed from the facility. “Mister Stoutmantle!”, he’d call to Recke as he dragged the beaten and broken man up the steps and into the facility, “You can consider any problems with your family to be otherwise forgiven.”
Stepping back outside and into the moonlight once more, the mogul would be wiping his hands clean of whatever blood had been sprayed through the black sack over the mans head when the final strike landed.
“Miss Daae. I must say, I’m rather impressed by your work. Shocked, to some degree. Thank you for your part.”
“Thank -you- for letting me play first.”, replied Olivia Daae.
A few more words were exchanged between Recke and Olivia before they both made for their departure, dragging along with them the still black-sacked, broken man, following a formal farewell from Mister Hudson himself. With silence returning to the way-station, only the dim phonograph music playing in the basement could be heard through the open door as Marge Grimwald got right to cleaning up the mess.
There wouldn’t be a single trace of the occasion come morning.
Built in 1887 near San Jose, California and run by UC Santa Cruz, this is the oldest mountaintop observatory in the world. Low clouds and fog can be a problem for viewing the sky in the bay area so it was built at an elevation that sits above the cloud line. So a foggy day in San Francisco is usually a sunny day at The Lick.
When construction started in 1876, everything was brought on horse or mule drawn wagons. This meant that the ascent to the top couldn’t be too steep and so the trail took a very winding path. Today the road is said to have exactly 365 turns to get up to the top—that could cause quite a bit of motion sickness in the car!
Title: Little Gypsy: A Life of Freedom, A Time of Secrets.
Author: Roxy Freeman
Page Count: 277
in 1979, Roxy Freeman grew up travelling around Ireland and England in a
horse-drawn wagon with her mother and father and five siblings. Life
was harsh but it was a childhood of freedom spent in harmony with
nature. Roxy didn’t know her time-tables but she could milk a goat, ride
a horse and cook dinner on an open fire before she was ten. But when the family came
to England, they faced prejudice and hostility and Roxy started
receiving the unwelcome attentions of a family friend known as ‘Uncle
Tony’, which she endured in secret for years. Then, one day, she told
the police about Tony and a manhunt ensued for the man newspapers dubbed
'Britain’s most-wanted paedophile’. Despite all of her difficulties,
Roxy developed a passion for music and her dancing skills took her
around the world. This
beautifully written story is a frank portrait of an extraordinary life,
and a unique insight into the lives of girls born into traveller
Trace held onto his brother’s hand tightly as they made their way through the town, the rain was coming down harder and both had to find somewhere to dry off least they get sick from how wet they had gotten, they tried to beg for shelter just for the night! they’ll be gone in the morning but every time they were denied which hurt meelu greatly. Why won’t anyone let them stay? his tears mingled with the rain as his little brother hugged him “nooo don’t start! if you start crying then i’ll….i’ll…” now there were two bawling twins as they couldn’t see from how hard the rain had gotten.
Both had wandered out of town and into the forest, the trees gave them some protection but not much as they realized they had gotten lost “t…tra…” meelu was so cold he could barely stop his teeth from chattering which resulted in his brother’s name being cut short. “i-i know m-me-meelu” they hugged each other s they kept walking through before exhaustion finally caught up with them, they couldn’t go on and both just decided to sleep under a random tree hoping they didn’t die while they slept.
*Through the chilly downpour, two figures steered a horse drawn wagon down the grass covered trail. Its wheels barely made any noise, neither did the horse’s hooves against the soft and wet ground. One of them held a lantern to light the way, only spotting someone from the corner of their eye. Making a tisking noise, they had their partner pull the animal to a stop before both descended and came over to the forms. The last thing the couple had expected were children, cold and pale at that. They looked not too great of shape even without the rain battering them.*
Poor things- Let’s bring them in, maybe having new bodies around will cheer her up.
*The mute seemed to agree, tugging their own hooded parka off to place around the boys, gently lifting the twins up together and turning back to the wagon. Placing them in the capped part of the transport, the unknown partners egged the animal back onto its task, trailing down the road for a few more miles to a large mansion. Hopefully, the mistress would be pleased at such a surprise.*
At 12:01 pm on 16 September 1920, horse-drawn wagon parked in front of the Assay Office on Wall Street exploded with 100 pounds of dynamite hidden in it.
The blast derailed a streetcar a block over and sent debris soaring as
high as the 34th floor of the nearby Equitable building. Pieces of the
wagon’s ill-fated horse landed hundreds of yards away. Stockbroker
Joseph P. Kennedy (father of John F. Kennedy), was
lifted off his feet, while hundreds of pounds of metal fragments—most likely iron sash weights—that
had been piled on top of the dynamite cut men to pieces. “I saw
the explosion, a column of smoke shoot up into the air and then saw
people dropping all around me, some of them with their clothing afire,” a
witness later told the New York Sun.
shattered windows rained down on the street and sidewalks. The
inside of the JP Morgan building across the street from the Assay Office was raked by debris. One piece crushed the
skull of 24-year-old clerk William Joyce as he sat at his desk.
Trading at the Stock Exchange stopped, and almost 2,000 New York
City policemen and Red Cross nurses converged on Wall Street to comb
through the wreckage. The initial explosion had killed 30 men and women (another 8 would later die from their wounds). Hundreds more were
injured, many of them burned or maimed by flying glass and shrapnel.
“There was no objective except general terrorism,” wrote the St. Louis
Post-Dispatch. “The bomb was not directed against any particular person
or property. It was directed against a public, anyone who happened to be
near or any property in the neighborhood.”
While Italian anarchists were blamed for the bombing, no one was ever arrested and no one ever took responsibility for the act.
This is just a little idea that’s been nagging at me, about how Emma would react to finding out about a certain one of Killian’s adventures. I’m going to rate this one T. 1040 words.
Emma hefted the cardboard box onto her kitchen table and
started with the business of unpacking the items they had gathered from Regina’s
vault. She plucked out the sealed jars
of dried stuff , the long thin bottles of potions that she probably shouldn’t
spill, and the storybook.
Wait, make that two
storybooks. Odd, she didn’t recall packing up more than one. These days the
things seemed to pop up everywhere, no doubt due to Henry’s Author status. She ran her finger over the embossed letters
before flipping open the front cover.
The first page let her know this was the Enchanted Forest
based on the clothes and the horses and wagons drawn there. The next page
showed her parent standing together, watching as someone rode off on a horse,
and that someone looked suspiciously like Killian in his long leather
coat. She didn’t realize that he knew
how to ride, but of course he did. He’d been in that forest for …
centuries? Excitement started in her
toes and jolted up her body as she realized she was holding a book about him.
She scooped it up and hurried over to the couch, where she could better settle
in and devour this story.
He was on a search for his ship. So this was that missing
year, when she was in New York with Henry, and dating Walsh. Walsh? What had she been thinking? The
thought of the man left her with no feelings at all, and had she actually
considered marrying him? Stupid, stupid Emma.
German horse drawn wagon InfanterieFahrzeug 5 (IF.5) with Zwillingslafette 36- Zwillingssockel 36 (pedestal mount 36 for two MG 34) mounted on the Hinterwagen (rear wagon) of the If.5 used as anti aircraft weapon.
This is sort of a follow-up to my previous post— to give additional details about the off-road trails I explore in Colorado.
Almost all of the trails I traverse are located in southwest Colorado (a bit north of Durango, around the towns of Ouray, Telluride and Silverton). These trails originated over 120 years ago as mining roads, traveled by pack mules and horse-drawn wagons. Consequently, they’re quite narrow, a bit dangerous, and entirely exciting.
There’s many ghost towns, abandoned mines, and relics to explore, and the raw, rugged beauty of the San Juan Mountains (part of the Rocky Mountains) definitely makes this one of my absolute favorite places in the world.
Frank Starbuck, last of the old time ranchers near Fairview, Colorado, manages a spread of 1,300 acres and 400 head of cattle, October 1972. He does it alone because it is too difficult and expensive to get help. Starbuck finds it easier to feed his livestock from a horse drawn wagon or sled than from a truck or tractor.
When it rains, it pours. But most of the time instead of the downpour being a little wet, it’s a hailing storm of shit. That shit-storm is what everyone so fondly refers to as “adulthood.”
I’m moving into a new apartment this week. And so in addition to paying my taxes, student loans, and all my bills, I had to pay for security deposit and first months rent. Also my car decided that it was going to shake every time I hit the brakes. Some of you might say that feels unsafe, but nay, I drive on in the face of terror. Fuck you, car. My bank account says you can shake all you want, but I’m broke until the next paycheck and need to drive you. I’ve lived in California for 20 years now. If an earthquake doesn’t fuck me up, a shaky car is just an adventure waiting to happen. I like to look at it like a road-block on Amazing Race. Our team is gonna get through this and crazy fucking Phil is gonna be standing at the end of the journey on a carpet with some smiley fuckin’ Tibetan monk welcoming me to my adult life.
Also, something just caught on fire in my kitchen. It’s been that kind of week.
In the midst of all this negativity and my constant thoughts of what a shitty and unsuccessful adult I am, I decided to try and put a positive spin on being broke as fuck.
Ten Reasons Being Broke is WAY Better Than Having Money
(And maybe some harsh realities)
1) Weight Loss : GUYS, I started a new diet today. It’s called the “I’m Poor And Can’t Afford Food“ diet! Pretty similar to Atkins actually. Except for you cut out all things that aren’t carbs in addition to all things that are. It’s pretty fucking awesome. I have been trying to get down to my goal weight for something like 4 or 5 months now and eating three meals a day just keeps getting in the way! As an actress this is especially hard, because my goal weight is always twenty pounds less than whatever I am! But right now I only have baby carrots in my fridge! I had a few for breakfast, a coffee for lunch, (total cheat meal,) and a few for dinner! The change I’m seeing in my body is incredible, and so fast too! It’s the diet I’ve been dreaming of, and with Summer right around the corner I couldn’t have become poor at a better time. I don’t even LIFT! All you rich fucks can keep your decadent butter and your smarmy fucking macarons. I’m not even a LITTLE hungry.
Reality: I swear to God if you come near me with a doughnut I’m going to eat your firstborn. The French Revolution makes so much sense to me. If you can’t find me in three days I’m probably outside the White House screaming the lyrics to “Do You Hear the People Sing.”
2) Lights Out: Let’s be real, WHO needs lights? That sounds horrible. I would much rather sit in my room and make shadow puppets on the ceiling using a flashlight that’s only dimly lit because no one owns fucking batteries anymore (and God knows I can’t afford any.) GO AHEAD, TURN THAT SHIT OFF. I don’t need a television or internet. I feel like Tiny Tim! If Dickens had met me before he had written A Christmas Carol that character would have been called Tiny Fuckin’ Effie. So what if you turn off my electricity? You know who else didn’t have electricity? Our forefathers. BAM. I’m a President just waiting to happen. God bless us, every one.
Reality: You know who else doesn’t have electricity? The Amish. I’m legit a lightbulb away from a beard and a motherfucking horse drawn wagon.
3) Who Needs a Doctor? NOT me. I am fine. So what if my tonsils get a little inflamed and my throat starts feeling like I’m swallowing glass? I laugh in the face of your antibiotics and thirty dollar copay. PPO HMO GMO Whatever the fuck you wanna call it, the Mayans were fine and they had all that holistic nature-y shit and no modern day medicine, so I’ll be a-the-fuck-okay. If I break something, it’s building character. An apple a day keeps the doctor away. I mean, I can’t afford the apple but like I said, I am SNARFIN’ those baby carrots these days so we’re golden. Carrots, apples, close enough.
Reality: Yo, you see any Mayans? No? It might be BECAUSE THEY’RE ALL DEAD.
4) Excuses: At this point, I am the BEST at coming up with excuses. I fooled the SHIT out of that AT&T lady. $90.00 bill with a late fee charge, what? I didn’t hear you? Oh, you sent me mail? I was in Sweden, I don’t get mail in Sweden, you know that. Mail requires me to be here and I just got back to here. You sent me numerous emails? I travel a lot. For business. And so my internet is really dodgy. See? I used the word dodgy, like Australians. Because of my extensive travel. You called me a few times this morning? I have a rare condition where I die momentarily every time bill collectors call me. Do I want to enroll in Autopay? What the fuck is that? YOU STOP TRYING TO SELL ME SHIT AT&T, TAKE MY NUMBER OFF YOUR CALLING LIST.
Reality: I have all of your letters unopened in a small pile on my dresser. I’m planning on using them for kindling when they turn the electricity off. At least I feel like I’m winning.
5) Social Outtings: For real though, WHO NEEDS FRIENDS? You’re all going out for a beer? Ain’t nobody got time for your cover charge and alcohol prices. I got my shadow puppets to keep me company and I am drunk on carrots and high off the burning and pungent smell of my youth melting away below my feet. #YOLO
Reality: But really, spot me like five bucks. Yesterday I named all of my walls. Lenny’s a fuckin’ hoot, we play ball, but Sebastian is a straight up dick.
6) MacGeffed: MacGyver has nothing on me when I am poor. I can make anything out of anything right now. My wine opener is packed up somewhere, and I am NOT buying a new one, but I have a fork and a screw that I took out of my coffee table and I will open the SHIT out of that bottle.
Reality: I have broken a lot of things in an effort to not have to buy new things. We call that irony.
7) Professional Borrower: I don’t like the term thief. I ran out of toilet paper a little while ago. There’s toilet paper in the bathroom at work. Two-ply in fact. Guess who has an abundance of two-ply toilet paper now. I didn’t have Q-tips for a while, but you know who does? My gym. The way I see it my membership includes all the Q-tips and cotton balls I could ever want. They should rename Crunch so that it includes CVS in it’s name somehow. Fuck that, I’m taking the towels too. Crunch, Bath, and Beyond.
Reality: You can’t go to jail for that, right? Wait, they have food in jail, right?
8) Well, I tried.
Reality: There aren’t ten fucking reasons. SURPRISE. NOT HAVING MONEY IS SHITTY. Money can’t buy happiness but dreams, aspirations, and fuckin’ baby laughter don’t pay for Sallie Mae to stop sending me mail.
Look, the harsh reality is that living is hard sometimes. If you’re pursuing your dreams and working on a career you don’t have yet, it can feel even harder. I’ve learned that the key is to take a quick power nap when you get knocked down, and then get the fuck up and carpe the fuck out of that diem. What’s the saying? What doesn’t kill you makes you want to rob the one percent of their money and then move to Europe and change your identity, but it also makes you stronger.