I didn't go deep enough when I was there! Traders taking profits may also push it down:. Summer Of Oz Week 2. Tough sledding out here in WA. We've put in a lot of miles exploring along the "line of strike" gold producing zone. The few we're finding are where weathering has exposed deeper ground on the old pushes, plus the Z can find tiny gold the original detectors missed. They didn't miss much based on our return so far.
Our hearts were thumping yesterday when I got a deep low tone way down in the caprock. Luckily Nurse Paul was nearby and brought over the jackhammer. Paul put in a yeoman's effort on the hammer, Dennis and I traded off digging out the hole. We waved over the hole with everything we had, GPX, GPZ and , and with the exception of the it all sounded good, but it just never improved even after we were down over a foot. Finally even the was giving us a signal and we gave up for the evening. Paul went back this morning and finally pulled out some kind of hot rock, the story is much more detailed, but that's the jist.
No doubt Paul has his version of events. The weather has turned nasty, threatening rain and gusty winds. Camp Yank took some damage from the wind, turned over the prep table for cooking. Pots, pans, plates and everything associated got dumped into the dirt. Paul cleaned it up considerably, but I think he left some soap on my dinner plate, cuz I'm feeling a bit puny this morning.
We have the gazebo anchored on each end with an ATV to keep it from blowing away. Dennis gold photo is his cumulative, mine shows this weeks finds only. It's just a matter of time till we hit a big one. Flies continue to be a menace, they just don't quit. They're having a tough time today with these gusty winds, but they'll find a way. Custom Gold Maps Australia diy.
I can't find anything specific on making your maps on the forum. So what are the things available for us to use in making custom gold maps? Every state in Australia has its own mining department along with rules and regulations that differ from state to state. In particular small isolated gold occurrences. I often look around the fringes of existing gold fields looking for potential gold locations especially along fault lines with historical gold workings. The more remote the area the better, as there are fewer chances of modern detectors having worked the area in recent years.
Upcoming Events Aug PNW Miners Rally. Aug California State Gold Panning Championships. Sep Detectival UK Rally Oct Pound the Ground Adirondack Coast. Excuse me, sir. If we could use the phone. A capable mechanic, he earned sixty dollars a week. He deserved no salary for the work he planned to do this morning, but Mr. Sands, who left him in charge on Saturdays, would never know he had paid his hireling to overhaul his own car.
With Perry assisting him, he went to work. They changed the oil, adjusted the clutch, recharged the battery, replaced a throw-out bearing, and put new tires on the rear wheels—all necessary undertakings, for between today and tomorrow the aged Chevrolet was expected to perform punishing feats. On account of she was holding money for you.
Fifteen hundred dollars. I could see—the ineffable way they looked at me. Dick shrugged. As such. At noon, they put down their tools, and Dick, racing the engine, listening to the consistent hum, was satisfied that a thorough job had been done. Jolene urged that they sample the pie at once—no nonsense about leaving it to cool. Clutter, who had come into the kitchen. I just love her to death. Well, everybody does. Do you know what Mrs. Stringer says? Clutter, though unrelaxed herself, had a relaxing quality, as is generally true of defenseless persons who present no threat; even in Jolene, a very childlike child, Mrs.
An aunt—that seemed possible: a visiting spinster aunt, slightly odd, but nice. She weighed ninety-eight pounds; rings—a wedding hand and one set with a diamond modest to the point of meekness—wobbled on one of her bony hands. Jolene cut a piece of pie. Clutter and Kenyon, I know they never get tired of them. But the cook does—Nancy just turns up her nose.
No, no—why do I say that? Clutter, who wore rimless glasses, removed them and pressed her eyes. Jolene was silent. The note of panic in Mrs. Presently, more calmly, Mrs. Tiny things? Daddy and Mama—all of us—spent part of most years in California. By the ocean. And there was a shop that sold such precious little things. These cups. The only daughter of a prosperous wheat grower named Fox, the adored sister of three older brothers, she had been not spoiled but spared, led to suppose that life was a sequence of agreeable events—Kansas autumns, California summers, a round of teacup gifts.
When she was eighteen, inflamed by a biography of Florence Nightingale, she enrolled as a student nurse at St. However, Herb was handsome, he was pious, he was strong-willed, he wanted her—and she was in love. But wherever he goes, he remembers how I dote on tiny things.
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It only cost a penny. The second year of the marriage, Eveanna was born, and, three years later, Beverly; after each confinement, the young mother had experienced an inexplicable despondency—seizures of grief that sent her wandering from room to room in a hand-wringing daze. Between the births of Beverly and Nancy, three more years elapsed, and these were the years of the Sunday picnics and of summer excursions to Colorado, the years when she really ran her own home and was the happy center of it.
But with Nancy, and then with Kenyon, the pattern of postnatal depression repeated itself and, following the birth of her son, the mood of misery that descended never altogether lifted; it lingered like a cloud that might rain or might not. And so, along paths bordered by tender regard, by fidelity, they began to go their semi-separate ways—his a public route, a march of satisfying conquests, and hers a private one that eventually wound through hospital corridors.
But she was not without hope. You can carry them in a shoebox. Some years earlier, Mrs. Clutter had travelled to Wichita for two weeks of treatment and remained two months. Afterward, Mrs. Clutter was alone in the house. Kenyon and Mr. Helm, to whom she could confide anything, did not come to work on Saturdays. She might as well go back to bed—the bed she so rarely abandoned that poor Mrs. Helm had to battle for the chance to change its linen twice a week. There were four bedrooms on the second floor, and hers was the last at the end of a spacious hall, which was bare except for a baby crib that had been bought for the visits of her grandson.
If cots were brought in and the hall was used as a dormitory, Mrs. Clutter estimated, the house could accommodate twenty guests during the Thanksgiving holidays; the others would have to lodge at motels or with neighbors. Clutter despaired of surviving either project. Both involved the necessity of making decisions—a process she had always disliked, and had learned to dread, for when her husband was off on one of his business journeys she was continually expected, in his absence, to supply snap judgments concerning the affairs of the farm, and it was unendurable, a torment.
What if she made a mistake? What if Herb should be displeased? The room she so seldom left was austere; had the bed been made, a visitor might have thought it permanently unoccupied. An oak bed, a walnut bureau, a bedside table—nothing else except lamps, one curtained window, and a picture of Jesus walking on the water. It was as though by keeping this room impersonal, by not importing her intimate belongings but leaving them mingled with those of her husband, she lessened the offense of not sharing his quarters.
She always wore a pair of these socks to bed, for she was always cold. And, for the same reason, she habitually kept her windows closed. Summer before last, on a sweltering August Sunday, when she was secluded here, a difficult incident had taken place. Like most of the people who were often entertained by the Clutters, Mrs.
Kidwell declined; a city-bred woman, easily fatigued, she wished to remain indoors. Later, while she was awaiting the return of the mulberry pickers, she heard the sound of weeping, heartbroken, heartbreaking. When she opened it, the heat gathered inside the room was like a sudden, awful hand over her mouth; she hurried to open a window. Lord, Lord, Lord! Kidwell sat down on the bed; she wanted to hold Bonnie in her arms, and eventually Bonnie let herself be held. All of you. Having a good time.
The best years, the children—everything. A little while, and even Kenyon will be grown up—a man. And how will he remember me? As a kind of ghost, Wilma. Now, on this final day of her life, Mrs. Clutter hung in the closet the calico house dress she had been wearing and put on one of her trailing nightgowns and a fresh set of white socks. Then, before retiring, she exchanged her ordinary glasses for a pair of reading spectacles. The two young men had little in common, but they did not realize it, for they shared a number of surface traits.
Both, for example, were fastidious, very attentive to hygiene and the condition of their fingernails. After their grease-monkey morning, they spent the better part of an hour sprucing up in the lavatory of the garage.
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Dick stripped to his briefs was not quite the same as Dick fully clothed. In the latter state, he seemed a flimsy dingy-blond youth of medium height, fleshless and perhaps sunken-chested; disrobing revealed that he was nothing of the sort but, rather, an athlete constructed on a welterweight scale.
The tattooed face of a cat, blue and grinning, covered his right hand; on one shoulder a blue rose blossomed.
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It was as though his head had been halved like an apple, then put together a fraction off center. Something of the kind had happened; the imperfectly aligned features were the outcome of a car collision in —an accident that left his long-jawed and narrow face tilted, the left side rather lower than the right, with the result that the lips were slightly aslant, the nose was askew, and the eyes were not only situated at uneven levels but of uneven size, the left eye being truly serpentine, with a venomous, sickly-blue squint that, although it was involuntarily acquired, seemed nevertheless to warn of bitter sediment at the bottom of his nature.
Because you have a wonderful smile. One of those smiles that really work. Actually, he was very intelligent. While he had fewer tattoos than his companion, they were more elaborate—not the self-inflicted work of an amateur but epics of the art contrived by Honolulu and Yokohama masters. Blue-furred, orange-eyed, red-fanged, a tiger snarled upon his left biceps; a spitting snake, coiled around a dagger, slithered down his right forearm; and elsewhere skulls gleamed, a tombstone loomed, a chrysanthemum flourished.
Having discarded his work uniform, he wore gray chinos, a matching shirt, and, like Perry, ankle-high black boots. Perry, who could never find trousers to fit his truncated lower half, wore blue jeans rolled up at the bottom, and a leather windbreaker. Scrubbed, combed, as tidy as two dudes setting off on a double date, they went out to the car. The distance between Olathe, a suburb of Kansas City, and Holcomb, which might be called a suburb of Garden City, is approximately four hundred miles. A town of eleven thousand, Garden City began assembling its founders soon after the Civil War.
An itinerant buffalo hunter, Mr. Buffalo Jones, had much to do with its subsequent expansion from a collection of huts and hitching posts into an opulent ranching center with razzle-dazzle saloons, an opera house, and the plushiest hotel anywhere between Kansas City and Denver—in brief, a specimen of frontier fanciness that rivalled a more famous settlement fifty miles east of it, Dodge City.
Along with Buffalo Jones, who lost his money and then his mind the last years of his life were spent haranguing street groups against the wanton extermination of the beasts he himself had so profitably slaughtered , the glamours of the past are today entombed. Anyone who has made the coast-to-coast journey across America, whether by train or by car, has probably passed through Garden City, but it is reasonable to assume that few travellers remember the event.
It seems just another fair-sized town in the middle—almost the exact middle—of the continental United States. Not that the inhabitants would tolerate such an opinion—perhaps rightly. Swell schools with every kind of sport. A temporary thing, I never planned to stay. But when the chance came to move, I thought, Why go? What the hell for? Beautiful churches. Nothing like that here. All equal, regardless of wealth, color, or creed. An occasional Methodist is welcomed, and once in a while a Democrat infiltrates, but on the whole the Establishment is composed of right-wing Republicans of the Presbyterian and Episcopalian faiths.
As an educated man successful in his profession, as an eminent Republican and church leader—even though of the Methodist church—Mr. Clutter was entitled to rank among the local patricians, but, just as he had never joined the Garden City Country Club, he had never sought to associate with the reigning coterie. Clutter was acting as chairman of a meeting of the Finney County 4-H Club.
Nancy and Kenyon had been conscientious members from the age of six. Toward the end of the meeting, Mr. Hideo Ashida. Know how the Ashidas moved here from Colorado—started farming out to Holcomb two years ago. As anyone will tell you. Anyone who has been sick and had Mrs. Ashida walk nobody can calculate how many miles to bring them some of the wonderful soups she makes.
And last year at the county fair you will recall how much she contributed to the success of the 4-H exhibits. So I want to suggest we honor Mrs. Ashida with an award at our Achievement Banquet next Tuesday. Ashida was bashful; she rubbed her eyes with her baby-plump hands and laughed. She was the wife of a tenant farmer; the farm, an especially windswept and lonesome one, was halfway between Garden City and Holcomb. After 4-H meetings, Mr. Clutter usually drove the Ashidas home, and he did so today. Ashida as they rolled along Route 50 in Mr. But thanks. All through that first hard year, gifts had arrived of produce that the Ashidas had not yet planted—baskets of asparagus, lettuce.
And Nancy often brought Babe by for the children to ride. Hideo says the same. We sure hate to think about leaving. Starting all over again. Maybe in Nebraska. Clutter, she turned to other matters. What he needs is teeth. Now, if your wife was to give you three gold teeth, would that strike you as a wrong kind of present? His reaction delighted Mrs. Ashida, for she knew he would not approve her plan unless he meant it; he was a gentleman. She ventured to obtain a promise now. At the banquet—no speeches, huh?
Not for me. The way you can stand up and talk to hundreds of people. And be so easy—convince anybody about whatever. By midafternoon, the black Chevrolet had reached Emporia, Kansas—a large town, almost a city, and a safe place, so the occupants of the car had decided, to do a bit of shopping. They parked on a side street, then wandered about until a suitably crowded variety store presented itself. The first purchase was a pair of rubber gloves; these were for Perry, who, unlike Dick, had neglected to bring old gloves of his own. Nothing can go wrong. Next, they were interested in rope.
Perry studied the stock, tested it. Having once served in the merchant marine, he understood rope and was clever with knots. He chose a white nylon cord, as strong as wire and not much thicker. They discussed how many yards of it they required. The question irritated Dick, for it was part of a greater quandary, and he could not, despite the alleged perfection of his over-all design, be certain of the answer. Dick tried. The kid and the girl.
And maybe the other two. They might have guests. The only sure thing is every one of them has got to go. Kenyon had built the chest himself: a mahogany hope chest, lined with cedar, which he intended to give Beverly as a wedding present. Now, working on it in the so-called den in the basement, he applied a last coat of varnish. Together Kenyon and Nancy had made a paint-splattered attempt to deprive the basement room of its unremovable dourness, and neither was aware of failure. Adjoining the den was a furnace room, which contained a tool-littered table piled with some of his other works-in-progress—an amplifying unit, an elderly wind-up Victrola that he was restoring to service.
This defect, aggravated by an inability to function without glasses, prevented him from taking more than a token part in those team sports basketball, baseball that were the main occupation of most of the boys who might have been his friends. He had only one close friend—Bob Jones, the son of Taylor Jones, whose ranch was a mile west of the Clutter home. Not far from River Valley Farm there is a mysterious stretch of countryside known as the Sand Hills; it is like a beach without an ocean, and at night coyotes slink among the dunes, assembling in hordes to howl.
Equally intoxicating, and more profitable, were the rabbit roundups the two boys conducted. But what meant most to Kenyon—and Bob, too—was their weekends, overnight hunting hikes along the shores of the river: wandering, wrapping up in blankets, listening at sunrise for the noise of wings, moving toward the sound on tiptoe, and then, sweetest of all, swaggering homeward with a dozen duck dinners swinging from their belts.
But lately things had changed between Kenyon and his friend. I used to think the same as you: Women—so what? If Bob was unavailable, then he would rather be alone, for in temperament he was not the least Mr. Leaving the varnish to dry, he went on to another chore—one that took him out-of-doors.
When he got there, he found one of the hired men loosening earth with a spade—Paul Helm, the husband of the housekeeper. Helm the late Mr. Helm; he died of a stroke the following March was a sombre man in his late fifties whose withdrawn manner veiled a nature keenly curious and watchful; he liked to know what was going on. Helm grunted. Helm were now tying plants. Suddenly, Nancy herself came jogging across the fields aboard fat Babe—Babe, returning from her Saturday treat, a bathe in the river. Teddy, the dog, accompanied them, and all three were water-splashed and shining.
Nancy laughed; she had never been ill—not once. Sliding off Babe, she sprawled on the grass at the edge of the garden and seized her cat, dangled him above her, and kissed his nose and whiskers. How that Skeeter could take a fence! By Thanksgiving? Helm picked up his spade. Crows cawed, sundown was near, but his home was not; the lane of Chinese elms had turned into a tunnel of darkening green, and he lived at the end of it, half a mile away.
But once he looked back. The boy rooting around in the garden. Nancy leading old Babe off to the barn. Like I said, nothing out of the ordinary. The black Chevrolet was again parked, this time in front of a Catholic hospital on the outskirts of Emporia. While Perry waited in the car, he had gone into the hospital to try and buy a pair of black stockings from a nun.
The notion presented one drawback, of course: nuns, and anything pertaining to them, were bad luck, and Perry was most respectful of his superstitions. Some others were the number 15, red hair, white flowers, priests crossing a road, snakes appearing in a dream. The compulsively superstitious person is also very often a serious believer in fate; that was the case with Perry. During the first of his three years in prison, Perry had observed Willie-Jay from a distance, with interest but with apprehension; if one wished to be thought a tough specimen, intimacy with Willie-Jay seemed unwise.
That was what amazed Perry. You exist in a half-world suspended between two superstructures, one self-expression and the other self-destruction. You are strong, but there is a flaw in your strength, and unless you learn to control it the flaw will prove stronger than your strength and defeat you.
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The flaw? Explosive emotional reaction out of all proportion to the occasion. Why this unreasonable anger at the sight of others who are happy or content, this growing contempt for people and the desire to hurt them? But these are dreadful enemies you carry within yourself—in time destructive as bullets. Mercifully, a bullet kills its victim. This other bacteria, permitted to age, does not kill a man but leaves in its wake the hulk of a creature torn and twisted; there is still fire within his being but it is kept alive by casting upon it faggots of scorn and hate.
He may successfully accumulate, but he does not accumulate success, for he is his own enemy and is kept from truly enjoying his achievements. A cinch, the Perfect score. Or Willie-Jay. But they had both been much in his thoughts, and especially the latter, who in memory had grown ten feet tall, a gray-haired wise man haunting the hallways of his mind. In the solitary, comfortless course of his recent driftings, Perry had over and over again reviewed this indictment, and had decided it was unjust. He did give a damn—but who had ever given a damn about him? His father?
Yes, up to a point. He drove to Las Vegas, sold his junk-heap car, packed his collection of maps, old letters, manuscripts, and books, and bought a ticket for a Greyhound bus. That much he had learned by telephoning the Reverend Mr. A decent job, and a home with some good people who are willing to help him. But what, he wondered when the anguish subsided, had he really expected from a reunion with Willie-Jay? Dick returned empty-handed.
After they had travelled in silence awhile, Dick patted Perry on the knee. What the hell would they have thought?
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Clutter uncap a Parker pen and open a checkbook. Like royalty, he was famous for never carrying cash. When those tax fellows come poking around, cancelled checks are your best friend. With the check written but not yet signed, he swivelled back in his desk chair and seemed to ponder. Herb was hardheaded, a slow man to make a deal; Johnson had worked over a year to clinch this sale. But, no, his customer was merely experiencing what Johnson called the Solemn Moment—a phenomenon familiar to insurance salesmen. The mood of a man insuring his life is not unlike that of a man signing his will; thoughts of mortality must occur.
Clutter, as though conversing with himself. Take Kenyon. Don Jarchow? Vere, too. Vere English—the boy my girl Beverly had the good sense to settle on. Johnson, a veteran at listening to ruminations of this sort, knew it was time to intervene. Clutter straightened, reached again for his pen. And pretty optimistic. The time was ten past six, and the agent was anxious to go; his wife would be waiting supper.
They shook hands. Then, with a merited sense of victory, Johnson picked up Mr. It was the first payment on a forty-thousand-dollar policy that, in the event of death by accidental means, paid double indemnity. With the aid of his guitar, Perry had sung himself into a happier humor. Dick, however, was choosy, and in bars his usual choice was an Orange Blossom. They passed the bottle to and fro. Though dusk had established itself, Dick, doing a steady sixty miles an hour, was still driving without headlights, but then the road was straight, the country was as level as a lake, and other cars were seldom sighted.
He hated it, as he hated the Texas plains, the Nevada desert; spaces horizontal and sparsely inhabited had always induced in him a depression accompanied by agoraphobic sensations. Never set my pretty foot here again. As though they were barring me from Heaven. And just look at it. Just feast your eyes. Dick handed him the bottle, the contents reduced by half.
All that talk about getting a boat? I was thinking—we could buy a boat in Mexico. Something cheap but sturdy. And we could go to Japan. Sail right across the Pacific. Wonderful, gentle people, with manners like flowers. Really considerate—not just out for your dough. And the women. One place called the Dream Pool. You stretch out, and beautiful, knockout-type girls come and scrub you head to toe. Dick switched on the radio; Perry switched it off. Or go to the movies in Garden City. Always, as long as I can remember, she was pretty and popular—a person, even when she was a little kid.
I mean, she just made everybody feel good about themselves. The first time I dated her was when we were in the eighth grade. Most of the boys in our class wanted to take her to the eighth-grade graduation dance, and I was surprised—I was pretty proud—when she said she would go with me.
We were both twelve. My dad lent me the car, and I drove her to the dance. Clutter may have been more strict about some things—religion, and so on—but he never tried to make you feel he was right and you were wrong.
So I drove over there, got there a little after seven. Just old Teddy. He barked at me. The lights were on downstairs—in the living room and in Mr. Sophie Harris. Let's be real: 'Torn' by Natalie Imbruglia is one of the best songs of the '90s. It still sounds great whether you catch it on daytime radio while waiting for a haircut or on the dance floor at a mate's wedding. Somewhat shockingly, her version which became a huge global hit in is actually a cover of the original by little known Aussie band Ednaswap.
Who knew, right? Nick Levine. Fact: this relatively underrated Prince gem is one of Frank Ocean's favourite songs. It's easy to see why the elusive one would fall for 'When You Were Mine': it's a devastatingly direct and desperate ode to the one who's slowly slipping away from you. You may hate power pop. What the hell does an year-old know about loss? Still, the kid sold it like nobody else, over chords that rise and fall like a roller coaster.
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And nothing hurts like first love. Even when baring his sobbing soul, he somehow seems unflappable. After that, make yourself a cup of tea, pull yourself together and get yourself back on Match. This is their biggest and best hit, however, and responsible for plenty of tear-stained dancing shoes over the years. Just ask electro-pop act Metronomy, who released this lo-fi melancholy meander at the tail-end of last year. That old chestnut, eh? Though this Bacharach-David song was originally sung by Tommy Hunt in and has since been covered by myriad musicians, including Dusty Springfield, Dionne Warwick, Isaac Hayes and Elvis Costello , no-one has been able to capture the desperation — and frustration — behind the lyrics quite like Jack White III.
Bonus: Sofia Coppola directed a lingerie-clad, pole dancing Kate Moss in the music video, which should at least help get your blood pumping again. Think your break-up is sad? And potentially hook up? Was this place also a brothel? Morrissey, the patron saint of very British heartbreak, outdid himself with this one. It is acceptable to sit around in a robe for days and take big bites of the pillow synthesisers, ice-cream crooning and cookie-dough drums comprising this most powerful and ballad-y of power ballads. Always pushing his liver and vocal cords to the limit, Nilsson injected histrionics and heart into the songs he covered like HGH.