Friday, October 24, 2014

From The Blogger - My First Formal Complaint

Well, I got my first "formal complaint" of content that needs to be removed.  You're provided a link that takes you to the complaint.  But there is no info!  None!  Lots and lots of complaints listed for others, but I cannot find the one for the link that was provided for me.

It is a post I made on October 1, 2012 titled "For Dog Lovers . . . ", which you can no longer view, cause it is blocked until I modify it.  They are waiting for me to edit it, to take off the offending picture.  I haven't a clue which one I am suppose to remove?  This is a really good post that has a few pictures, each one, I'm assuming, from a different source.  I'd like to remove the offending picture, but I haven't a clue which one is being asked to be removed.

Only one other time did someone complain about a picture that she had taken of a snowman that she claimed as hers.  She told me exactly which one it was and I removed it.  SOOOOOO much easier than making a formal complaint.  She told me (in the comment section), I removed it and done!

I understand that some people don't want their pictures on the computer and I will remove any pictures that you request me to.  Just make a comment - I read every one - and let me know which one to delete, or if you'd like recognition on your picture, I will post your name with the picture.  When I've received forwards with authors, I have always posted them.


Thank you so very much!!

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

"Information Please"

I was especially happy to receive this.
This was given to me years and years ago when ‘forwards’ were done with paper!!
A wonderful story that I have treasured for many years.
I had been looking through my papers for this and had been unable to find it.
So I  joyfully received it here as an email forward!!  Enjoy!!

"Information Please"

by Paul Villard

When I was quite young, my family had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well the polished oak case fastened to the wall on the lower stair landing. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I even remembered the number - 105. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked into it. Once she lifted me up to speak to my father, who was away on business. Magic! Then I discovered that somewhere inside that wonderful device lived an amazing person - her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing that she did not know. My mother could ask her for anybody's number and when our clock ran down, Information Please immediately supplied the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-receiver came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be of much use crying because there was no one home to offer sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver and held it to my ear. "Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two, and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information."

"I hurt my fingerrr-" I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.
"Nobody's at home but me," I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?".
"No", I replied. "I hit it with the hammer and it hurts".
"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could.
"Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it on your finger. That will stop the hurt. Be careful when you use the ice pick," she admonished. "And don't cry. You'll be alright".

After that, I called Information Please for everything. I asked for help with my Geography and she told me where Philadelphia was, and the Orinco--the romantic river I was going to explore when I grew up. She helped me with my Arithmetic, and she told me that a pet chipmunk--I had caught him in the park just that day before--would eat fruits and nuts. And there was the time that Petey, our pet canary, died. I called Information Please and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-up say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. Why was it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to whole families, only to end as a heap of feathers feet up, on the bottom of a cage? She must have sensed my deep concern, for she quietly said, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow, I felt better.

Another day I was at the telephone. "Information," said the now familiar voice. "How do you spell fix?". F-I-X." At that instant my sister, who took unholy joy in scaring me, jumped off the stairs at me with a banshee shriek-"Yaaaaaaaaaa!" I fell off the stool, pulling the receiver out of the box by its roots. We were both terrified--Information Please was no longer there, and I was not at all sure that I hadn't hurt her when I pulled the receiver out. Minutes later, there was a man on the porch. "I'm a telephone repairman. I was working down the street and the operator said there might be some trouble at this number." He reached for the receiver in my hand. "What happened?" I told him. "Well, we can fix that in a minute or two." He opened the telephone box exposing a maze of wires and coils, and fiddled for a while with the end of the receiver cord, tightened things with a small screwdriver. He jiggled the hook up and down a few times, then spoke into the phone. "Hi, this is Pete. Everything's under control at 105. The kid's sister scared him and he pulled the cord out of the box." He hung up, smiled, gave me a pat on the head and walked out the door.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. Then, when I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston-and I missed my mentor acutely. Information Please belonged in that old wooden box back at home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, skinny new phone that sat on the small table in the hall. Yet, as I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversation never really left me; often in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had when I knew that I could call Information Please and get the right answer. I appreciated now how very patient, understanding and kind she was to have wasted her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way back to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour between plan connections, and I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister who lived there now, happily mellowed by marriage and motherhood. Then, really without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please." Miraculously, I heard again the small, clear voice that I knew so well:"Information." I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you tell me, please, how to spell the word 'fix'?" There was a long pause. Then came the softly spoken answer. "I guess," said Information Please, "that your finger must have healed by now." I laughed.
"So it's really still you. I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during all that time...."
"I wonder," she replied, "if you know how much you meant to me? I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls. Silly, wasn't it?"
It didn't seem silly, but I didn't say so. Instead I told her how often I had thought of her over the years, and I asked if I could call her again when I come back to visit my sister when the semester was over.
"Please do. Just ask for Sally."
"Goodbye Sally."
It sounded strange for Information Please to have a name.
"If I run into any chipmunks, I'll tell them to eat fruits and nuts."
"Do that," she said. "And I expect one of these days you'll be off for the Orinoco. Well, good-bye."

Just three months later, I was back again at the Seattle airport. A different voice answered, "Information," and I asked for Sally.
"Are you a friend?"
"Yes," I said. "An old friend."
"Then I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally had only been working part-time in the last few years because she was ill. She died five weeks ago."
But before I could hung up, she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Villard?"
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down."
"What was it?" I asked, almost knowing in advance what it would be.
"Here it is, I'll read it-'Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean'"

I thanked her and hung up. I did know what Sally meant.

Paul Villard

Originally published June, 1966 Readers Digest

Sunday, October 12, 2014

70 Year Old Traffic Jam!

 For even more photos Click Here

Photos of a traffic jam stuck in the woods for 70 years

Around the town of Chatillon, Belgium, the end of World War II left a few creepy hallmarks of the armistice in the form of long lines of cars left abandoned by the hundreds in the woods. While one theory goes that the cars belonged to Americans who left them in a hurry on their way off the continent, Bored Panda points out that no one really knows for sure. While there were initially four giant pileups with over 500 cars, only one remains rotting in the woods, a monument to the inexorable creep of entropy.
Chatillion Car Graveyard, Belgium.
 All photo credits by Rosanne de Lange

Friday, October 10, 2014



Next Time, Ask Why First!!

An 8-year-old girl went to her grandfather, who was working in the yard and asked him, "Grandpa, what is a couple sex"? The grandfather was surprised that she would ask such a question, but decided that if she's old enough to know to ask the question then she's old enough to get a straight answer.

Steeling himself to leave nothing out, he proceeded to tell her all about human reproduction and the joys and responsibilities that go along with it. When he finished explaining, the little girl was looking at him with her mouth hanging open, eyes wide in amazement. Seeing the look on her face, the grandfather asked her,
"Why did you ask this question, honey"? 

The little girl replied, "Well, Grandma says to tell you that dinner will be ready in just a couple secs".


Craig's List Ad - too  good to not to forward


Fifty-year old manure  spreader. Not sure of brand. Said to have been produced in Kenya.  
 Used for a few years in Indonesia before being smuggled into the  US via Hawaii.  
Of questionable pedigree. Does not appear to have  ever been worked hard. Apparently, it was pampered by various  owners over the years. It doesn't work very often, but when it does it can sling manure for amazing distances. I am hoping to retire the  manure spreader this November.

I really don't want it  hanging around getting in the way. I would prefer a foreign buyer to relocate the manure spreader out of the country. I would be willing  to trade it for a nicely framed copy  of the United States  Constitution.

Location: Currently being stored in a  big white house in Washington, D.C.


Must love Rednecks