Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Sometimes you get an email that is true:
A Lady Named Irena - a true story
There recently was a death of a 98 year old lady named Irena.
During WWII, Irena, got permission to work in the Warsaw Ghetto, as a Plumbing/Sewer specialist.
She had an ulterior motive...
She KNEW what the Nazi's plans were for the Jews, (being German).
Irena smuggled infants out in the bottom of her tool box she carried, and she carried in the back of her truck a Burlap sack, (for larger kids).
She also had a dog in the back, that she trained to bark when the Nazi soldiers let her in, and out of the ghetto.
The soldiers of course wanted nothing to do with the dog, and the barking covered the kids/infants noises.
During her time and course of doing this, she managed to smuggle out and save 2500 kids/infants.
She was caught, and the Nazi's broke both her legs, and arms, and beat her severely.
Irena kept a record of the names of all the kids she smuggled out, and kept them in a glass jar, buried under a tree in her back yard.
After the war, she tried to locate any parents that may have survived it, and reunited the family.
Most of course had been gassed.
Those kids she helped got placed into foster family homes, or adopted.
Last year Irena was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize....
. . . . . . . Al Gore won, for doing a slide show on Global Warming.
Monday, July 07, 2008
My history with fireworks:
When I was a kid, my father was Vermont State Champion trapshooter in the handicapped division. He paid me 25 cents for each box of 12-guage shells I reloaded for him, so we had gobs of Hercules Red-Dot shotgun powder around the house, as well as a subscription to The Shotgun News. I saw an ad in the Shotgun News for empty Mark II Pineapple grenade casings, so, being a kid, I ordered one.
It arrived, I filled it with Red-Dot, put in a model rocket fuse and sealed the opening with candle wax (melted in a pot on Mom's stove...I'm not using a lit candle because even though I'm really stupid, I'm not friggin' suicidal!).
I bury the grenade in Mom's tomato garden next door to our neighbors' house, a pair of elderly and wonderful French-Canadians. I light the fuse and run like Jessie Owens.
Mom no longer has any tomatoes, there's a crater big enough to bury our dog in the garden, Mr. Rouleau dashes outside his house screaming expletives in French and I take off into the woods to develop my skills in unassisted living for two days before returning home to one seriously p*ssed-off mother and a father who, when he learned of the calamity, wet himself.
Fireworks, people. Let the pros handle them.
My father-in law watched a yukon burn up after a kid inside it somehow got his sack of fireworks ignited. The car filled up with smoke and one kid got seriously burned because he couldn't find his way out.
A guy got killed near here over the weekend making a sparkler bomb.
I don't get a big kick out of fireworks so much any more. Maybe when my kid(s) get older. Anyways, have fun, be careful, and if you have a funny story, by all means share it.