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Roaring Twenties by Cary Vaughan The good thing about Blue Moon is that it's invisible, so it never gets raided. Bad thing is, being invisible makes it hard to find for the rest of us. You have to have a little magic of your own, which Madam M does, and finding places that aren't there is never much of a problem for her. Madam M has the car drop us off at the corner of Fifth and Pine, and she sends the driver away. I follow her down a damp sidewalk along brick buildings. It's early enough that the streets are crowded. Cars and people jammed up on their way to somewhere else, no one much looking around. A few wheezing horns honk, and the orange from the streetlights make polished steel and frowning faces seem like they're lit with embers. I shrug my mink more firmly over my shoulders. Madam M's has slipped down to her elbows, showing off the smooth skin of her back. We look like sisters, walking side by side in step. The alley she turns down looks like any other alley, and that passage leads to another, until we're alone with the trash cans and a yowling cat, under iron fire escapes and a sky-threatening rain. She knocks on a solid brick wall, blocks from any door or window, and I'm not surprised when a slot opens at head height. She leans in to whisper a word, and the door opens. The music of a three-piece combo playing jazz drifts in from down the hall, and it sounds like heaven. The doorman, a gorilla of a guy in a brown suit that must be tailored to fit those shoulders, looks us over and nods his approval. He's got a little something else, extra fur around the collar, on his hands, and tufting off his ears. When he smiles, he shows fang, and his eyes glint golden. At first glance, it's a normal crowd on a normal night. Flappers and fine women in evening gowns, men in suits, and even a few tuxes. Looking closer, I see the odd fang and claw, the glimmer of a fey wing, a bit of horn under slicked-back hair, other bits and pieces I might guess at, but I'd likely be wrong. These folk aren't drawing attention to themselves, so I won't either, because then they might start looking too closely at me and Madame M. Doorways lead to back rooms where you can find cards and craps and whatever else you might fancy. Madame M wants to talk to Gigi, the woman behind the beaded curtain, who runs the place, and I think it's a bad idea. But I'm not going to argue, because M's smarter about these things than I am. The back and forth and the deals, the secrets and the swindles. The things I'm smart about? Watching her back and seeing trouble a minute before it happens.
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To Heaven and Back A Doctor's Extraordinary Account of Her Death, Heaven, Angels, and Life Again A True Story by Mary C. Neal Prologue The best and most beautiful things in this world cannot be seen or even heard, but must be felt with the heart. Helen Keller God and his angelic messengers are present and active in our world today, and this involvement and intervention is both ordinary in its frequency and extraordinary in its occurrence. Despite leading what I would consider a very ordinary life, I have had the privilege of being touched by God in visible and very tangible ways. One of these experiences began on January 14, 1999, when I was vacationing in South America with my husband. While boating, I was pinned underwater in my kayak and drowned. I died and went to heaven. After a brief stay, I was returned to my body. I returned to my earthly life with two shattered legs and severe pulmonary problems. I was hospitalized for more than a month, wheelchair-bound for even longer, and did not return to my orthopedic surgery practice for more than six months. Many have described my accident as terrible and tragic. I describe it as one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. Not only did I have the privilege of experiencing heaven, but I continued to experience the intensity of God's world and conversed with Jesus several times in the weeks after my return. Through this experience and conversation, I gained an understanding of many of life's important questions, such as what happens when we die, why are we here, and why do bad things happen to good people? One of the several reasons for my return to earth was to tell my story to others and help them find their way back to God. During my initial recovery, I was invited to share my story with small groups in my community, and these people shared my story with their friends and family. In the process of sharing, I realized that my story does not really belong to me but to God and is meant to be shared. It has lessened people's fear of death and increased their passion for living a full and meaningful life. My story has deepened people's faith and given them hope for the future.
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Who Was Maria Tallchief? by Katherine Gourley Who was Maria Tallchief? Maria Tallchief was a ballerina, but she was not just another toe dancer. She was America's first prima ballerina. A prima ballerina is the star of the show, the very best dancer on the stage. Maria danced for kings and queens and presidents. She thrilled her audiences with amazing leaps and arabesques. Her performances as a swan queen, a sugarplum fairy, and a magical firebird stand out as some of the most beautiful chapters in American ballet history. She was a Native American, the daughter of a full-blooded Osage. Maria's story begins on the Osage Reservation in the rolling hills of northeastern Oklahoma. As a child, the beat of the tom-toms excited her. The rhythm of the drums filled the hollow of her bones. The songs of her people's past woke within her a love of dance and the prima ballerina she would one day become. Chapter 1. The Osage Reservation. Maria opened her eyes. She had fallen asleep in the living room, and now her father was carrying her upstairs. She snuggled closer against his warm body and stared at his shiny black hair. His dark eyes smiled down at Maria. Maria's first memory was that tender moment, waking to find herself safe in her father's arms. She was three years old, and her father seemed like a giant to her. Alexander Joseph Tallchief was six feet two inches. He had broad shoulders and a swaggering confidence that had won the heart of Ruth Porter, a farm girl from Kansas. He was Osage. She was Scottish and Irish. Maria came into the world on a cold winter day, January 24, 1925. The Osage Hills were a magical place for Maria. The prairie grasses bowed their heads and whispered in the wind. The Osage had lived on the plains of North America for many hundreds of years. Before the white settlers came, the prairie was a sea of grasses so tall that an Osage hunter had to stand on the back of his pony to see what lay beyond.
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The Idealist, Jeffrey Sachs and the Quest to End Poverty, Nina Monk Jeffrey Sachs pointed to the cup of Starbucks coffee in my hand. Before I had a chance to introduce myself, he said, You know, I've done a formal breakdown of what it would cost to fully fund the global prevention of malaria, and it's $2.50 a year for every American. $2.50. That's a single cup of Starbucks coffee. It was September 2006. A year earlier, Sachs' book The End of Poverty had been excerpted on the cover of Time magazine. It also made the New York Times bestseller list. I'd come across his name while reporting for Vanity Fair on Bono's involvement in Africa. Time and again, I'd hear references to Bono's guru. My name is Bono, and I am the rock star's student, to quote Bono's Forward to the End of Poverty. The man with me is Jeffrey D. Sachs, the great economist, and for a few years now, my professor. During the 1980s and 1990s, he was nicknamed Dr. Shock, the brilliant, controversial macroeconomist from Harvard who prescribed radical fiscal and monetary discipline, so-called shock therapy, to countries emerging from communism. He'd also had a distinguished academic career, but with the publication of The End of Poverty, he had become a celebrity. He'd also starred in MTV's documentary The Diary of Angelina Jolie and Dr. Jeffrey Sachs in Africa. In the movie, Jolie calls him one of the smartest people in the world. He has an insatiable, unselfconscious fascination with the world in all its complexity. What struck me after I'd spent some time with Sachs was his genius for reducing huge and complex issues to their essence. Above all, it's his ability to synthesize, to turn ideas into bullet points that has allowed him to move the issue of global poverty into the mainstream. He has convinced the developed world to consider his utopian thesis, that with enough focus, enough determination, and enough money, we can end the suffering of those still trapped by poverty. In fact, from Sachs's point of view, the problem can be solved by 2025, and it can be solved easily.
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The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, the Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing by Marie Kondo Introduction In this book, I have summed up how to put your space in order in a way that will change your life forever. Impossible? A common response and not surprising, considering that almost everyone has experienced a rebound effect at least once, if not multiple times, after tidying. Have you ever tidied madly only to find that all too soon your home or workspace is cluttered again? If so, let me share with you the secret of success. Start by discarding. Then organize your space thoroughly, completely in one go. If you adopt this approach, the KonMari method, you'll never revert to clutter again. Although this approach contradicts conventional wisdom, everyone who completes my private course has successfully kept their house in order, with unexpected results. Putting their house in order positively affects all other aspects of their lives, including work and family. Having devoted more than 80% of my life to this subject, I know that tidying can transform your life. Does it still sound too good to be true? If your idea of tidying is getting rid of one unnecessary item a day or cleaning up your room a little at a time, then you are right. It won't have much effect on your life. If you change your approach, however, tidying can have an immeasurable impact. In fact, that is what it means to put your house in order. I started reading Home and Lifestyle magazines when I was 5 and it was this that inspired me, from the age of 15, to undertake a serious study of tidying that led to my development of the KonMari method, based on a combination of my first and last names. I am now a consultant and I spend most of my days visiting homes and offices, giving hands-on advice to people who find it difficult to tidy, who tidy but suffer rebounds, or who want to tidy but don't know where to start. The number of things my clients have discarded, from clothes and undergarments to photos, pens, magazine clippings, and makeup samples, easily exceeds a million items. This is no exaggeration. I have assisted individual clients who have thrown out 245 liter garbage bags in one go. From my exploration of the art of organizing and my experience helping messy people become tidy, there is one thing I can say with confidence. A dramatic reorganization of the home causes correspondingly dramatic changes in lifestyle and perspective. It is life transforming. I mean it.
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THE RICHEST WOMAN IN AMERICA HEADY GREEN IN THE GILDED AGE by Janet Wallach CHAPTER 1. THE SPIRIT WITHIN The rancid smell of whale oil pervaded the air and perfumed the purses of New Bedford, Massachusetts, in 1841. When Herman Melville arrived at the wharves in search of work, square-masted whaling ships flew union jacks and tricolors alongside boats flying flags from Russia and Spain, but the stars and stripes waved for the largest fleet of whalers in the world. The local sloop, a Kushnet, sailing for the Pacific, gave Melville a place on its crew, and he soon began the expedition that inspired his masterpiece, Moby Dick. While his captain acquired provisions and assembled a crew, the rider strolled along the streets. On slippery cobblestones that sloped down to the river, he passed odd-looking sailors from near and far, dark-skinned men from Cape Verde, blonde-haired boys from the Netherlands, swarthy sailors from Portugal, dreaded cannibals from Fiji, tattooed natives from the South Seas, and runaway slaves newly arrived on the Underground Railroad from the South. Along the bustling waterfront, hundreds of men toiled on the boats. Cockers, riggers, carpenters, and other craftsmen slogged for adventure, escape, and a share in the profits. Sweat oozed from the pores of the sailors as they offloaded the casks of whale oil that lighted America's homes, lubricated its tools and instruments, and primed its paint and varnish. Salty language flowed from their lips as they lugged the whalebone that corseted and hoop-skirted the women, perfumed the ladies with ambergris, stayed the men's collars, handled the buggy whips and walking sticks, and entertained the children with chess pieces and piano keys. Whale oil was as valuable then as petroleum is now. While the sailors hauled the barrels, the captains inspected their ships. On the top decks, they checked the brick furnaces. As soon as the whales were caught, their blubber was burned down until it turned into oil. Squinting up at the crows' nests, the men saw the lookouts high on the mass where sailors at sea could spot the whales. They thrilled, recalling the words, Thar she blows! and prayed they had the right answer when they returned from their expeditions. What luck! Clean or greasy? the owners always asked, hoping the bark was slick with oil.
