Dawn Harvey | Professional Voice Actor for Commercial & E-Learning

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Welcome to the land of magical. I hold all the answers to every question. I shall take you to a place beyond your wildest dreams. Trust me, my friends.

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Da-da-da-dum! Ha! We're gonna need to get some theme music.

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I don't care how you kill the little beast, but do it, and do it NOW!

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Oh, you are a disgrace to your species! Oh, and you really need a bath.

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I'll turn him into a flea. A harmless little flea. And then, I'll put that flea in a box. And then I'll put that box inside of another box. And then, I'll mail it to myself and when it arrives, I'll smash it with a hammer!

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Acting like the Queen of Mustard, instead of the name there's no account you are.

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Oh, darling, when mama says give it, you better give it till it hurts! Ow!

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Wait! Don't go. You didn't even let me say goodbye. I'll never see him again. I didn't get to say goodbye.

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You're with your fella, at the El Perroca Club, you're on that stage, and he has a front row seat, and you're SINGING YOUR HEART OUT!

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Ha! What our story needs is an ironic, unexpected event that would propel the hero into conflict!

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Just name your price, and I'll pay it. You don't know how hard it is being a woman, looking the way I do. I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way.

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Love's first kiss, and no fear of that, the little dwarves will think she's dead

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For the love of leotards, pull it out of me! Jeez, ya didn't gotta pull it THAT hard.

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To our beloved queen, oh that's me, this gift we send, oh I do it on gifs, as her 60 year reign comes to an end.

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And then, I'll see him wriggle like a worm on a hook!

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Charlotte was the first to know that the goslings had at last arrived. When the first gosling poked its gray-green head through the goose's feathers and looked around, Charlotte spied it and made the announcement. I am sure, she said, that every one of us here will be gratified to learn that after four weeks of unremitting effort and patience on the part of our friend the goose, she now has something to show for it. The goslings have arrived. May I offer my sincere congratulations. Thank you, thank you, thank you, said the goose, nodding and bowing shamelessly. Thank you, said the gander. Congratulations, shouted Wilbur. How many goslings are there? I can only see one. There are seven, said the goose. Fine, said Charlotte, seven is a lucky number. Luck had nothing to do with this, said the goose. It was good management and hard work. At this point, Templeton showed his nose from his hiding place under Wilbur's trough. He glanced at Fern, then crept cautiously toward the goose, keeping close to the wall. Everyone watched him, for he was not well liked, not trusted. What? He began in his sharp voice. You say you have seven goslings, there were eight eggs. What happened to the other egg? Why didn't it hatch? It's a dud, I guess, said the goose. What are you going to do with it? Continued Templeton, his little round beady eyes fixed on the goose. You can have it, replied the goose. Roll it away and add it to that nasty collection of yours. Templeton had a habit of picking up unusual objects around the farm and storing them in his home. He saved everything. Certainly, certainly, certainly, said the gander. You may have the egg, but I'll tell you one thing, Templeton. If I ever catch you poking, poking, poking your ugly nose around our goslings, I'll give you the worst pounding a rat ever took. And the gander opened his strong wings and beat the air with them to show his power. He was strong and brave, but the truth is both the goose and the gander were worried about Templeton, and with good reason. The rat had no morals, no conscience, no scruples, no consideration, no decency, no milk of rodent kindness, no compunctions, no higher feeling, no friendliness, no anything. He would kill a gosling if he could get away with it. The goose knew that. Everybody knew it.

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Billy had a beetle in a matchbox, or rather he hadn't. He had lost it. Silly Billy. "'Have you seen my beetle?' he asked the girl, but she hadn't. Along came a man with a sniffy-dog. "'Don't you worry,' said the man with the sniffy-dog. "'My sniffy-dog will soon find your beetle.' Off went the sniffy-dog. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Soon the sniffy-dog had found a hedgehog, two spiders, some worms and a bone, but not the beetle. "'I'll help find Billy's beetle,' said the hedgehog, and so the search continued. Suddenly the sniffy-dog stopped digging and took off like a rocket. "'Look at him go,' said the man. "'He can smell Billy's beetle.' But the sniffy-dog had not smelled Billy's beetle. He had smelled sausages. "'Leave, sniffy-dog, leave!' said the man. So the sniffy-dog grabbed the sausages and left. Now there was Billy, the girl, the hedgehog, the sniffy-dog, the man with the sniffy-dog, and the woman without the sausages, all looking for Billy's beetle, and a polar bear who had joined in for fun.

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Definitely friends, Jack thought. When he got close to the couple, he flashed the V is for victory sign at them, too. An angry look crossed the man's face. He cried out in alarm. He pulled his horse to a halt and pointed at Jack and Annie. Courage, resistance, he shouted. No, thought Jack, Gaston was right. In these times, you really didn't know who was a friend and who was an enemy. Behind the horse and cart, another motorcycle was rumbling down the road. The rider wore a gray uniform. The people in the cart flagged him down. Go, Jack cried. He and Annie wheeled around and raced their bikes against the wind. When Jack looked back, the motorcycle was coming toward them, fast. Ditch the bikes, Annie shouted. They skidded to a stop, dropped their bikes to the ground, and bolted through an opening in a hedgerow. Scraped by branches and thorns, they pushed their way through the narrow gap until they burst onto farmland. As they ran through a cow pasture, Jack looked around wildly for a place to hide. Barn, he cried, pointing. He and Annie ran toward a red wooden building next to a silo. When they drew closer to the entrance, they saw a man in white clothes putting two large milk cans into the back of a white truck. Help, cried Annie. The milkman looked startled. But as the motorcycle crashed through the hedge at the edge of the property, he seemed to understand everything at once. Quick, in the truck, he shouted. Jack and Annie scrambled into the back of the truck and found a hiding place behind rows of tall milk canisters. Crouching behind the canisters, they covered their mouths so no one would hear them gasping for breath. The milkman slammed the back door of the truck shut. There was a panel between the front seat and the windowless back area. Jack and Annie sat in the dark and listened to the motorcycle thunder closer, and then stopped. Through the closed door, they could hear bits of conversation from outside. Yes? Two, boy and girl. Resistance couriers? Yes, you are sure? Yes, good, thank you for your help. Moments later, Jack heard the motorcycle rev up and drive away. The milkman started his engine. Then, with the large canisters jiggling in their crates, the truck began bouncing over the road.

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Surprised that Ramona didn't demand another story, Beezus picked up 202 Things to Do on a Rainy Afternoon and began to read. She was learning how to make a necklace out of beans and pumpkin seeds, painted with fingernail polish, when a lovely sweet vanilla fragrance began to fill the house, and Beezus knew her birthday cake was safely in the oven at last. Ramona's unusual silence made Beezus glance up from her book. Ramona, she cried when she saw what her little sister was doing. Stop that right away. Ramona was busy pulling graham cracker crumbs out of the pocket of her overalls and sprinkling them across the rug. I'm Hansel, leaving a trail of crumbs through the woods, she said, digging more crumbs out of her pocket. My father is a poor woodcutter. Oh, Ramona, said Beezus. But she had to giggle at the picture of father as a poor woodcutter. Ramona sprinkled more crumbs on the rug, and Beezus knew she had to do something about it. Why don't you pretend you're Gretel? She suggested, because Gretel would not leave crumbs on the rug. Okay, agreed Ramona. That was easy, thought Beezus, and went on reading about making a complete set of doll furniture out of old milk cartons. How good her birthday cake smelled. She hoped mother would remember she had asked for pink frosting. She heard the oven door open and close. Mother must be peeking into the oven to see how my cake is coming along, she thought. Beezus read on, absorbed in the directions for making a vase out of an old tomato juice can. Something smells funny, she thought as she turned a page. Then she stopped and sniffed. The air was no longer filled with the lovely warm fragrance of a baking cake. It was filled with a horrid rubbery smell. That's funny, thought Beezus. I wonder what it can be. She sniffed again. Maybe somebody was burning trash outside and the smell was coming in through the window. Mother came into the living room from the bedroom. Beezus, do you smell something rubbery? She asked anxiously. Yes, and it smells awful, said Beezus. Ramona held her nose. Mother sniffed again. It smells as if something is scorching, too. Beezus went into the kitchen where she found the smell so strong that it made her cough. It's worse in here, Mother, she called, as she looked to see if anything was burning on the stove. Then Beezus remembered the oven. Mother, she said in a worried voice. You don't suppose something has happened to my birthday cake again? Of course not, said Mother. Coming into the kitchen and opening the window. What could happen to it? Just to be sure, Beezus cautiously opened the oven door. Mother! She cried, horrified at what she saw. Look! Ramona's rubber doll, Bendix, leaned over the edge of the cake pan, her head and arms buried in the batter. Her dress was scorched to a golden tan. Mother, repeated Beezus. Her birthday cake, her beautiful, fragrant birthday cake, was ruined. Is the wits done yet? Ramona asked. Ramona, began Mother and stopped. She couldn't think of anything to say. Silently she turned off the oven and with a potholder pulled out the doll and the remains of the cake. Ramona Geraldine Quimby, said Beezus angrily. You're just awful, that's what you are, just plain awful, spoiling your own sister's birthday cake. You told me to pretend I was Guero, protested Ramona. And Guero pushed the witch into the oven. Beezus looked at the cake and burst into tears.

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Black, antlerish handlebars. That's all she has time to glimpse before the gigantic spokes are swallowing her skirts. Her scream seems to break the bicycle in two. Machine explodes one way and rider another, smashing Blanche to the ground. She tries to spring up, but her right leg won't bear her. The lanky daredevil jumps up, rubbing one elbow as lively as a clown. C'est va, mademoiselle? The fellow is observant enough to read Blanche's nationality from her style of dress, but the voice. Not a man's, Blanche realizes, not a boy's even. This is a girl, for all the gray jacket, vest, pants, the jet hair hacked above the sunburned jawline. One of these eccentrics on whom San Francisco prides itself, which only aggravates Blanche's irritation. The young woman in pants holds out a hand, teeth flashing in a grin. Blanche slaps it away. For this female to run her down and then smirk about it. A long screech of brakes. Another horse car at the crossing, bearing down on them. The stranger offers her hand again with a theatrical flourish. Blanche grabs hold of the cool fingers and wrenches herself to her feet, hearing a seam rip under one arm. She staggers to the sidewalk, her skewed bustle bulging over one hip. But by the time Blanche has hauled her bustle straight and slapped the dirt from her skirts, the rider's back. Perched above the gigantic front wheel, she glides down the street to Blanche, then swings one leg over, hops down, and hits the ground running. Jenny Bonnet, she announces as if it's good news. The accent thoroughly American now, even if she says her surname in the French way, with a silent T. She tips her black hat to a natty angle. And you are? None of your business. Blanche blows at the strand of hair stuck to her damp lip and summons her crispest English. Because what she lacks in height, she can make up for in hauteur. Listen you, is she whatever. The next time you get the notion to make the street your playground. Yeah, this thing's the devil to steer, interrupts Jenny Bonnet, nodding as if they agree. She has only about six inches on Blanche up close. Didn't hurt you though, did I? Blanche bristles, I'm bruised from head to toe. No bones sticking out though. The young woman makes a show of looking her up and down, mugging for a laugh. No actual bloodshed per se? You might have killed us both, imbecile. Blanche jerks back and takes a few steps away. Instead, it appears we're both safe and sound, and so's my high wheeler. Jenny lets out a cowboy whoop. And oddly enough, Blanche's wrath begins to lift a little. Maybe it's the whisper of a breeze rising off the bay, where the mass of the quarantine junks and clippers seem to be swaying a little, unless that's a trick of the dusk. Or the soft trill from a flute player in some apartment overhead. The lights are flaring on in the cafes and shops along Kearney. And soon, Chinatown's border will be as glittering as a carousel. Let me buy you a drink, suggests Jenny, nodding toward Duran's brasserie. Blanche always likes the sound of that. As an apology? If you like, never found them worth the candle myself. Blanche hoists her eyebrows. If you're sorry, folks can tell, remarks Jenny. No use piling on the verbiage.

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In the morning, he was gone. The children came a fortnight later, unexpected and with considerable pain. A litter of four pink, wrinkled beasts with their twitching ears, so vulnerable and small. I feared they would not survive. It would be months before their armor would harden. Tiny nubs that would become their horns protruding from their snouts, skin slowly turning gray as it thickened. I would need to keep a close eye on them, so vulnerable and naive. The first child was torn apart in the night before it could even develop. I never even heard the predator's approach, stealing him off into the night. I was heartbroken, but tried to remain grateful that the rest were not taken. The second beast to die grew its armor well, sharpening his cutting horn on every rock he encountered with great pride and interest. The irony of his death was that the poisonous berries looked like any other edible ones. The third child, she was my shadow, a smaller version of myself with her father's horn. Her death was my greatest loss. A cry from the fourth child sent her running to aid her brother, the runt of the litter in trouble again. Squeals and grunts came from over a hill, jolting me from my nap. Her bleats for help intertwining with his, as I lurched to my feet and crowned the vista in time to see them both sucked helplessly down into the sand. Gone in a whisper, as the sun shone on and the wind blew on with indifference. In the blink of an eye, and in that moment, my armor hardened along with my heart, and something changed, something broke. Barely a turn of seasons and they were all gone. What did I have to show for it? Pain, remorse, doubt, and fear.

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There is one marked peculiarity about this paper, a thing nobody seems to notice but myself. And that is that it changes as the light changes. When the sun shoots in through the east window, I always watch for that first long straight ray. It changes so quickly that I never can quite believe it. That is why I watch it always. By moonlight, the moon shines in all night when there is a moon. I wouldn't know it was the same paper. At night, in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, lamplight, and worst of all, by moonlight, it becomes bars. The outside pattern, I mean, and the woman behind it is as plain as can be. I didn't realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind that dim sub-pattern. But now I am quite sure it is a woman.

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So, if Charlie didn't kill the boy, who did? Pearl asked. As it happens, we have someone in custody. Man by the name of Joe Bright. Goes by the street name Maradu. Does Mr. Johnson think you have the wrong man? He doesn't know we have him at all. We just arrested the suspect this evening on the testimony of a witness. An accessory? A young woman. It's too early to say whether she participated, though her testimony so far has been reliable. Pearl lifted the cup and let the steam warm her chapped face. What unfortunate timing. I guess we should let Mr. Johnson know. Hopefully before he kills anyone. A commotion up in the direction Alyssa and Deputy Sawyer had gone turned Detective Warren's head. He stood to investigate it. Detective, Pearl said. In the months after my husband was murdered, it was a homicide? Well, I don't suppose one can legally pin such things on a wild animal, but in my heart, that's exactly what I did. It was sixty-four years ago. The statute of limitations is probably long past. She gave the detective credit for preserving a patient face. Anyway, in the months after he was gone, I spent hours in the foothills with his rifle, shooting anything that moved. And when I realized the futility of that exercise, I started leaving the rifle at home. I wanted nothing more than for the beast to take me, too. She had regained his attention now. I wanted to die, Detective. What stopped you? My daughters. They were babies at the time. One day my mother brought them to me while I wandered. The infant was wailing and I didn't want to take her, but that stubborn woman. She forced me. From the corner of her eye, she found Donna, who was kneeling in front of Janet. The moment I held her in my arms, she stopped crying. And I never went to the hills alone again. Detective Warren was looking uphill. He said, I think they have one of Deshawn's men. I should go. I wanted to die, Detective, Pearl repeated. The man had already taken two steps away from her. And I wanted someone else to do it for me. Do you hear me, sir? He stopped and turned back, listening. If not for my children, I would have found a way. You know Mr. Johnson. What do you think he wants right now, with it being his child that was taken from him? The lawman put his hands in the pockets of his wool coat and pursed his lips. She said, I'll bet you he wants more than Charlie Fousey.

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So now, having all my fellow dwarfs firmly on her side, Snow became sulky and insolent when expected to help with the chores. I determined she had to go. All morning I racked my brain, trying to figure out some way to be rid of her. In the late afternoon, when she refused to even pick berries, one of the few things she could do without screwing it up—much. I grabbed the basket and went myself, and found the queen's huntsman skulking around the berry patch. We gave each other quite a fright, and I nearly gutted him with my knife. Once he calmed down and I convinced him it was merely a scratch—and no, my knife blade was not poisoned. Sheesh, what kind of dwarf does he think I am? He confessed he had come looking for Snow to warn her that the queen knew she was still alive. How? I asked. How could she know? The mirror, he replied. That pansy, tattletale mirror. So how did the mirror know the huntsman hadn't killed Snow, you ask? Well, it didn't, of course. But what better way to drive a vain queen batshit crazy than to tell her someone is more beautiful than she is? Even better if it's someone she would never be able to find—to destroy. From the mirror's point of view, it doesn't get any better than that. Short of killing Snow myself, I didn't see how we would rid ourselves of this dangerous pest. Unless— Unless— Unless—something occurred to me. What about that prince? He was of age to marry, Snow had said. Would the huntsman find him and entice him with the story of a beautiful princess in danger? Yes, yes, I know. The old damsel in distress ruse. So cliché. But it's cliché because it works. The huntsman agreed. He wasn't sure he could find the exact prince Snow had seen, but the annual convention of princes was being held in a few days' time, and there would be all manner of potential suitors for the huntsman to choose from. I could see a hunger in his eyes, the desire to see Snow before he left. But we didn't have time for them to play hide-the-salami, so I shooed him on his way, picked the berries I came for, and returned to the cottage to discover the huntsman wasn't as far ahead of the queen as he'd thought.

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The lights of a northbound vehicle become visible in the distance. Jill puts her hazard lights on and waves both arms. The driver stops and lowers his window. I hit a deer, I see that. It just ran right out, just before dawn, always the worst time. He walks toward the deer, she's still alive. Let's put her out of her misery. Isn't there anything we can do? The man softens as though he is speaking to a child. Look at her leg, she can't be saved. She's suffering. Wait a minute, wait, just wait. Jill pushes her hands through her hair, desperate to save the deer even as she knows it is impossible. She points at its back legs. Something's happening, look. She's moving again. The man walks around to see, shakes his head and says, I'll be darned. Two small hooves peek from under the tail. It takes Jill a minute to understand what she is seeing. Why don't I take this little guy to the provincial park? They'll know what to do. I should be there inside the hour. He holds out his arms to take the fawn from her. She steps back. Her mistake was holding it, touching the softness of its fur, looking into its eyes, smelling it. Once that happens, how can you give it up? It's okay, I've got it. Now you can't take him to Toronto, can you? He smiles. There is nothing for this one to eat at Swiss Chalet. She knows he is trying to make a joke. When she doesn't laugh, his voice softens. Don't worry, I'll have him to the park warden before he even wants to stand up. He approaches her cautiously, like she is as wild as the deer, and stops a safe distance from her. She buries her nose against the fawn's neck and wills herself to imprint its musty scent on her memory. Tears roll down her cheeks. She holds it out to him. He steps forward and takes the fawn from her. Her empty arms retain the memory of the wait, another baby gone.

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So, the lady in the purple hat and I went across the road to the Supreme Drugstore and left the old lady and the young man standing beside the dog. The old lady was still poking it here and there with her stick, and she seemed by this time to be sort of owning the dog, and in a way I suppose it was her dog as she'd found it first. And the crowd was growing around the dog, and people were saying, oh, what a pity, what a beautiful dog, why doesn't someone do something? But the lady in the purple hat and I felt, I think, that we were the kind of people who really do things, though I'm sure I wouldn't have known what to do if it hadn't been for her. Well, we hurried across the street to the Supreme Drugstore, and all the way she kept saying how fond she was of dogs, and I said I was too, and she said she loved her dog far better than she loved most human beings. In fact, she loved her dog far, far better than she loved her older brother, and I tried to think of something equally strong to say, only we haven't got a dog, and by the time we reached the payphone in the Supreme Drugstore, you'd think we both hated the whole human race and thought dogs should be in Parliament.

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When I think about the women on this court, I ask myself, will they use the tools of law as women, for all women? The real feminist issue is not whether biological males or females hold positions of power, although it is utterly essential that women be there. And I am not saying that viewpoints have genitals. My issue is what our identifications are, what our loyalties are, who our community is, to whom we are accountable. If it seems as if this is not very concrete, I think it is because we have no idea what women, as women, would have to say. I'm evoking for women a role that we have yet to make, in the name of a voice that, unsilenced, might say something that has never been heard. In the legal world of win and lose, where success is measured by other people's failures, in this world of kicking or getting kicked, I want to say there is another way. Women who refuse to forget the way women everywhere are treated every day, who refuse to forget that that is the meaning of being a woman, no matter how secure we may feel in having temporarily escaped it. Women, as women, will find that way.

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When you ask people about what it is like being part of a great team, what is most striking is the meaningfulness of the experience. People talk about being part of something larger than themselves, of being connected, of being generative. It becomes quite clear that, for many, their experiences as part of truly great teams stand out as singular periods of life lived to the fullest. Some spend the rest of their lives looking for ways to recapture that spirit. The most accurate word in Western culture to describe what happens in a learning organization is one that hasn't had much currency for the past several hundred years. The word is metanoia, and it means a shift of mind. To grasp the meaning of metanoia is to grasp the deeper meaning of learning, for learning also involves a fundamental shift or movement of mind. The problem with talking about learning organizations is that the learning has lost its central meaning in contemporary usage. In everyday use, learning has come to be synonymous with taking in information. Yes, I learned all about that at the training yesterday. Yet, taking in information is only distantly related to real learning. It would be nonsensical to say, I just read a great book about bicycle riding. I've now learned that. Real learning gets to the heart of what it means to be human. Through learning, we recreate ourselves. Through learning, we become able to do something we never were able to do. Through learning, we re-perceive the world and our relationship to it. Through learning, we extend our capacity to create, to be part of the generative process of life. This, then, is the basic meaning of a learning organization, an organization that is continually expanding its capacity to create its future. For such an organization, it is not enough merely to survive. Survival learning, or what is more often termed adaptive learning, is important. Indeed, it is necessary. But for a learning organization, adaptive learning must be joined by generative learning, learning that enhances our capacity to create. So, this book is for the learners, especially those of us interested in the art and practice of collective learning. For managers, this book should help in identifying the specific practices, skills, and disciplines that can make building learning organizations less of an occult art, though an art nonetheless. For parents, this book should help in letting our children be our teachers as well as we are theirs, for they have much to teach us about learning as a way of life. For citizens, the dialogue about why contemporary organizations are not especially good learners and about what is required to build learning organizations reveals some of the tools needed by communities and societies if they are to become more adept learners.

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Chapter 9, Secrets of a Happy Marriage. You would think with a title like that, that I actually know the secrets of a happy marriage. But no, I don't think there are real secrets. I think we just have to figure out what works for us and realize that those aren't the same things that sound great on a greeting card. For me, it helps to recognize the stages of a marriage. Discovering those patterns can be quite useful as you laugh hysterically over the concept that the two sexes could hope to live together in harmony. Let's take a look. The first week of a marriage is wonderful. You have all that money people have given you. You have all those toys that came as gifts. It's Christmas and you know how nothing else matters on Christmas morning. That's where you are. Alas, Christmas passes and the bells arrive. The stages are a little different after that. The first seven years are spent trying to make your mate more like you. Why? Because we spent all that time dating, pointing out the ways we're alike. You like sushi too? We are so much alike. So we want to extend that feeling. Of course, that becomes difficult since we exaggerated things during dating. I love ESPN too, should have been translated, I'll watch ESPN if I have a good book to read while it's on. So we're trying to reinvent our spouse in the image we created in dating days. Now there's a great recipe for disaster. The next seven years start with the realization that we don't really want someone who is just like us. So instead, we start trying to change our spouse into our ideal person. This is a time when that trait we love them for in the beginning becomes the enemy. That easygoing, laid back personality becomes a lack of ambition. That energetic, focused person becomes obsessive. We spend seven years before we discover that we really didn't like those traits that attracted us in the first place. If we make it through this stage, we're either doing great or we've been in a seven year coma. Then comes the 15th year. I think this one is the cardboard anniversary, isn't it? Yes, mine is a discount marriage. Some marital concepts start to suffer. A good sex life becomes accidentally bumping into each other in the hall. A conversation usually has no pronouns. Ready? Yeah. Wanna do Chinese? Fine. This stage may be misinterpreted as the I'm married to my sibling stage, which is a totally different thing in the hill country. But if we look more deeply, we realize that our focus has shifted off the other person and onto ourselves. That's when we start seeing that the changes we want in other people are actually reflections of what we want to change in ourselves. And we have to realize that our spouse is going through the same process. This is the time when we discover that we're married to a person who has different interests. We have to date them again and figure out how those interests mesh with ours. In other words, we have to start the whole doggone process over again. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Hey, David, I love ESPN, with a good book.

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While Cecile was busy helping set up the Paris networks, another young woman, Madeleine Pessoe, known to her friends as Betty, took off to travel from one end of France to the other to recruit new members for the resistance. Betty was twenty-six, the only child of a Parisian family of committed socialists. Her mechanic father had served a prison sentence for opposing French involvement in the First World War. As a small child, Betty had appeared so interested in politics that her father had nicknamed her La Petite Communiste. Drawn into the PCF like Cecile by the fate of the Spanish Republicans, Betty had abandoned her job as a secretary in a big firm and volunteered for resistance work as soon as war was declared. With so many of the men under arrest, she quickly became a crucial courier between Paris and the South. Splendor, fearless, elegant with her red nails and tailored suits, she was, she liked to say, the perfect candidate for life in the shadows. Often, she chose to sit with Germans on the trains going south, rightly confident that they would gallantly protect her at checkpoints, though these journeys, with money hidden in the false bottom of her suitcase and papers in the lining of her handbag, were terrifying. She particularly dreaded passing through Marseilles, where the suitcase was exposed and police stood watching the passengers arriving. Often she was stopped and searched. During the autumn of 1940, Betty was seldom not on the road. Walking miles in her high-heeled shoes, with weapons concealed in baskets of grapes, she begged for lifts from farmers across the demarcation line. On her journeys, she was sometimes able to catch up with her companion, Lucien Dolan, with whom she lived in a small apartment in Paris, though he was busy setting up youth groups in the free zone. On her travels, Betty used other names, sometimes calling herself Madeleine, Odette, or Gervaise, and would say she sometimes had trouble remembering who she was supposed to be. She found the long separations from Lucien hard, but, like Cecile, did not feel she had much choice in the matter.

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I am not a mountaineer. The point is brought home to me as I ascend an unnamed peak in the rocky mountains of British Columbia, south of Mount Tsar. I am tied to a rope with three other climbers and a guide. Two more rope teams are ahead of us, already invisible beyond a steep snow slope. I am swollen, soaked with sweat, gasping for air and silently cursing myself. I chose to be in this place, this elemental landscape of rock, ice, and snow. It is dark, unpredictable, inhospitably vertical, dangerous. In many ways, being here is utterly foolish, an unnecessary risk. I feel this deeply now. At 48, I am a little too old to be a novice climber, a little too thick around the middle. I have no particular history of athleticism or daring. But I am here, struggling. I have to keep moving. I brought this on myself and I'm still not sure why. We have gained and lost hundreds of meters of elevation in the last six hours. There have been only a few very short breaks during which we multitask, adjust gear, snack, change layers, drink water. I get the signal we are stopping, drop to my knees and throw my pack off onto the snow. At this moment, I don't care if it slides down the mountain. Thinking better of it, I secure it with my axe. I bend down to adjust my rented crampons for the sixth time today, cursing again, this time at my stupidity in believing one size could fit all. One size never fits all. The day starts in blackness at 4.30 a.m. Leaving my tent, I am dumbstruck by the dizzying array of stars, this astronomer's dream. I want to lie on my back and follow the path of the Milky Way, pick out distant suns, admire their hues of yellow, white, blue, and green, and think about heat, and light, and time until dawn breaks the spell. Instead, I look down at a pathetic circle of light my headlamp makes on the ground, trying not to trip over rocks, and join a snaking line of about 15 other climbers heading to a peak between Mount Cesar and Yodel, nicknamed Louise. Of the three novices here, I am by far the oldest. I feel like I'm in junior high, trying hard to seem like I belong, trying to do things right enough not to get noticed. I am last on the rope, a position I find psychologically difficult. Reason tells me I am not last because I am slow. I am no slower than anyone else. We all keep the same pace tied together as we are. Reason tells me the others will notice if I fall. The jerk on the rope will alert them. My crampons are back on, sort of, and I'm getting the signal we are moving again. I have to pee. I will have to wait. I double check my harness, put my pack back on, tighten the straps, and realize I didn't eat. It's too late for that. I try to remember why I am here, why I am climbing this mountain.

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Or the surprise can come in a simile, and her stories are rich in similes. Once he told me he loved me because I was like San Pablo Avenue. She goes right on to another, even more surprising comparison. He was like the Berkeley dump. And she is just as lyrical describing a dump, whether in Berkeley or in Chile, as she is in describing a field of wildflowers. I wish there was a bus to the dump. We went there when we got homesick for New Mexico. It was stark and windy and gulls soared like nighthawks in the desert. You can see the sky all around you and above you. Garbage trucks thunder through dust billowing roads, gray dinosaurs. Always embedding the stories in a real physical world is just this kind of concrete physical imagery. The trucks thunder, the dust billows. Sometimes the imagery is beautiful. At other times, it is not beautiful, but intensely palpable. We experience each story not only with our intellects and our hearts, but also through our senses. The smell of the history teacher, her sweat and mildewed clothing in good or bad. Or in another story, the sinking soft tarmac, the dust and sage. The cranes flying up with the sound of shuffling cards. The caliche dust and oleander. She was always watching, even if only out the window, when it became hard for her to move.

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The story goes like this. On July 20th, 1969, as Neil Armstrong and his partner Buzz Aldrin zipped across the lunar landscape looking for a place to set their module down, they came within seconds of crash-landing. The problem was geology. There was just too much of it. And fuel. Too little. Rocks and boulders lay scattered all over the place, making a safe approach impossible. Aldrin mopped his brow. With one eye on the gas gauge and the other on the terrain, he issued Armstrong a stark ultimatum. Get this thing down. And fast. Armstrong, however, was decidedly more phlegmatic. Maybe, who knows, he'd never had time for twitchy backseat drivers. But with the clock running down, the fuel running out, and the prospect of death by gravity an ever-increasing possibility, he coolly came up with a game plan. Aldrin, he instructed, was to convert into seconds the amount of fuel they had left, and to start counting down. Out loud. Aldrin did as he was asked. Seventy. Sixty. Fifty. As he counted, Armstrong scrutinized the moon's unyielding topography. Forty. Thirty. Twenty. Still, the landscape refused to give an inch. Then, with just ten seconds remaining, Armstrong spotted his chance. A silver oasis of nothingness just below the horizon. Suddenly, imperceptibly, like a predator closing in on its prey, his brain narrowed its focus. As if he were on a practice run, he maneuvered the craft deftly toward the drop zone and performed, in the only clearing for miles, the perfect textbook touchdown. One giant leap for mankind, but almost, very nearly, one giant cosmological screw-up.

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As Shantideva explains this practice, first you realize that each and every other sentient being wants happiness and does not want suffering, just like you. In this fundamental way, you and they are equal. Then, when you consider that you are only a single person measured against an infinite number of other sentient beings, you realize that it would be completely ridiculous either to neglect the welfare of others or to use them for the sake of your own pleasure. It would be far more reasonable to dedicate yourself to their service. When you consider the situation this way, it becomes very clear. No matter how important you may be, you are only a single person. You have the same right to be happy as everyone else, but the difference is that you are one and they are many. To lose the happiness of a single person is important, but not so important as losing the happiness of many other beings. From this perspective, you can cultivate compassion, love, and respect for others. In a sense, all human beings belong to a single family. We need to embrace the oneness of humanity and show concern for everyone, not just my family or my country or my continent. We must show concern for every being, not just the few who resemble us. Differences of religion, ideology, race, economic system, social system, and government are all secondary.

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I am a soul. My form is peace. I am a resident of the land of peace, which is known as the land beyond sound. I, the soul, came here bodiless. I must now return home, bodiless. I am a soul. I am silence. I, the soul, am imperishable. I leave this body and go to play another part. I, the soul, am immortal. I am seated on the immortal throne of the forehead. I, the soul, first belong to the Father. There is me, the soul, and there is this costume. Even this body does not belong to me. I am a soul. Aum Shanti.

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Why do I color my hair? Well, duh, to cover the gray. My hair color gives me high gloss color and flawless gray coverage in just 10 minutes. I'm not ready to be gray quite yet. How about you?

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I never thought it could happen to me. At 53, I'd been feeling fine but turns out my cholesterol and other risk factors increased my chance of a heart attack.

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Turns out, one jar of strawberry jam and one jar of creamy peanut butter makes 35 delicious peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Well, that and 35 slices of bread. No, 70 slices of bread! Wow, that's a lot of bread.

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Expect to smolder without getting burned. Satin lips, bold eyes, and a look that has something to say.

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Flavor that'll knock your pants off. Thankfully, you'll be at home. TGI Friday's Takeout Skillet Meals. Eat bold, not bland.

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When you start with the perfectly delicious fresque states of lemonade, what else do you need? Maybe just an equally delightful hint of raspberries? Look, we made it flush.

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Hamburger. Barbecue hamburger. Hamburger pie. Hamburger stuffed peppers. Pepper stuffed hamburgers. Hamburger hash. Hamburger baked beans. Hamburger meatloaf. Hamburger tartare. Hamburger mornay. Hamburger surprise.

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Imagine the natural flavors of tropical citrus and juicy red grapes to create a rich, thirst-quenching taste with a natural twist and a modern kick that's worth savoring all year long.

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Over 50 years ago, an extraordinary group of faculty, students, and staff arrived on the rolling hills of Irvine Ranch.

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It seems like the same world, but it's different. It's better. Now you don't have to wait to get started or keep up with updates.

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The Vireana flavivirus has a diameter of 50 nanometers. It includes two types of surface proteins.

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Here's the thing. Life is a journey, full of challenging mountains to climb and unfamiliar seas to sail.

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Falls account for 25% of all hospital admissions and 40% of all nursing home admissions.

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In this video, we will show how you can manage procurement from the Workbench, update accruals, and distribute purchasing commitments by purchase order.

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So, what's a borrower's union? It's what you get when you combine a shopping club with a loan software platform.

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Next, we determine what strategies are needed to address the target shopper's needs and develop tactics and KPIs to outline how we'll address those needs to drive short- and long-term category growth.

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They are red, these wolves, with black and white tails, and the fur on their throats is white, and sweeps in a curve toward their eyes, giving them the look of laughing clowns. But it's the sassy hue of their coats that catches your eye. We're the top dogs here, their color proclaims. And they are, for these are Ethiopian wolves.

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Wherever you move to in the tour, you will always be able to see exactly where you are, and you will always be able to get to certain key parts of the tour quickly, including the overall tour index.

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The handmade pottery produced by Sea Group Craftsman is highly distinctive. This cup has the features of their characteristic polished incised ware. It has a round bottom and is bowl-shaped, although it is small enough to be considered a cup and was probably designed to hold food and drink.

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Alternative thinking is automating time-consuming and labor-intensive steps, allowing your team to concentrate on, well, how about the business? It's demanding real-time project and resource visibility and transforming IT into a visionary partner, not to mention beefing up that little thing known as ROI.

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Brennan makes an approach. The final decision to land will have to be made in a split second. Unable to see the road, he aborts the landing. With no other options, Brennan makes another approach. If the weather wants a fight, then this will be the battleground.

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Coal bed methane, CBM, is extracted by drilling. A CBM well begins as a water-producing well. The removal of the water pressure from the seam changes the hydrostatic pressure exerted on the methane molecules and allows them to rise naturally to the surface where they are collected.

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No matter the season, no matter the weather, Cadillac's exceptional all-wheel drive system is designed to deliver instinctual control and confidence behind the wheel. The result is peace of mind and an uninterrupted drive every time you're on the road.