Podcasts about Limp

It was a grim day for England in the second Ashes Test match at Adelaide Oval. Join The Cricket Podcast team as we dissect a disastrous Day 4 performance that saw the tourists "limp" to stumps, teetering on the brink of an insurmountable 0-2 series deficit. We break down the Australian bowlers' clinical execution, England's recurring batting frailties under lights with the pink ball, and analyze exactly where the match slipped decisively out of Ben Stokes' grasp. Is the Barmy Army already booking early flights home? We preview the inevitable Day 5 conclusion and ask tough questions about England's strategy and team selection for the remainder of the 2025 Ashes tour. This episode is a must-listen for all fans looking for immediate analysis, match highlights, and a dose of commiseration after another tough day for the English Test side. Tune in for expert insight and raw reaction to the pivotal moments from Adelaide's Day 4. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

We give recommendations for Albert Lea, talk strip clubs, and Juanita has a rant about medicaitons.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Michigan Weather and Women: Part 1 Love, bastards, and what we leave behind. Based on a post by CleverGenericName, in 4 parts. Listen to the Podcast at Connected. The Plumber, The Painter, and the Wind off the Lake Prologue I have never been much for following instructions or doing what I'm told. In eighth grade, we were assigned to make a volcano in science class. I figured that if the eruption looked good with a couple of tablespoons of baking soda, then it would look even better with the whole container! And what better place for a natural disaster than the teacher's desk at the front of the class. I was right; the whole container of baking soda produced an impressive explosion. What I didn't count on, however, was it producing a week-long suspension from school and a beating from my mother. In high school, we had to take an art class to graduate. Our teacher loved still life drawing and would ramble endlessly about how it revealed the beauty that is in the everyday objects that surround us. I guess he wanted us to reveal the beauty in the bowl of fruit that he had put in the middle of the classroom, but the most beautiful things that I could see were Brittany Johnson's D-cups which filled out her sweater gloriously. At the end of the class, there were 29 drawings of a bowl of fruit and one drawing of a beautiful girl's smile (amongst other details). Although I was suspended for two days, I got a date with Brittany who loved my drawing, so I feel like I came out ahead on that one. In my last year of school, the final mathematics exam asked the following question: Determine the points of intersection between the following parabolas and lines. Illustrate fully. While the other students slaved away to solve the listed problems in the allotted time, I fully illustrated a drawing of our math teacher, Mr. Aaronson, dancing a slow waltz in a field of sunflowers with Mrs. Stevens, the geography teacher. It was the worst-kept secret in the school that our two shyest teachers had massive crushes on each other, and after four years of watching them pine away, I thought they could use a little push. I failed the test, but Mr. Aaronson showed my drawing to Mrs. Stevens during a particularly dull staff meeting, and when it made her blush and smile, he finally got up the courage to ask her out. They are now married and have a little girl who is as cute as a button. At the end of the year, Mr. Aaronson asked me if I planned to pursue math in the future, and when I assured him that I did not, he gave me a passing grade. So, what was my problem, you might ask? Was I just one of those kids who didn't give a shit and was destined for mediocrity or failure in life? Like many things, the answer is more complicated than it might first appear, but I am getting ahead of myself. Our story starts on an unusually cold and blustery afternoon in late October, on the north-eastern shore of Lake Michigan about a half hour's drive north of Petoskey, just outside a village called Good Hart. Chapter 1. It had been a busy day. The perfect storm of an early season snap freeze, strong winds, and lake-effect snow meant that there was a couple of inches of snow on the still soggy ground, along with a number of leaky or burst pipes, malfunctioning valves, and boiler issues as people cranked their heating systems up to full for the first time that year. As a plumber, though, I didn't mind. It just meant more work for me, which was always a good thing. At only 25 years of age, and despite being a master plumber, I was generally the last choice for folks to call, even in an emergency. Anyone with money chose one of the larger and more established plumbing contractors, leaving me with the jobs that they didn't feel were worth their time or effort. That's how I found myself pulling into the laneway of an older house, just off Lamkin Road down by the lake, late that Friday afternoon. It was my last job of the day, but I would be working over the weekend to catch up on my backlog, so I wanted to get it done. The house looked like it hadn't been updated since it was built, likely in the late fifties or early sixties, other than a couple of coats of paint and a new roof when the original finally gave up the ghost. The front gardens were neatly tended, however, and the property itself was stunning, with panoramic views in three directions out over the lake. The sun was just beginning to dip toward the western horizon as I drove up, so the trees cast long shadows across the laneway. The house was owned by Mrs. Wilma C. Anderson, who had called me earlier in the day to say that some of her radiators weren't working and that her boiler was making one hell of a racket when she turned it on. I told her to shut the system down and that I would look at it by the end of the day. She sounded quite elderly, and I didn't like the idea of her going without heat for a night during a cold snap. I rang the doorbell and waited until a tiny wisp of a woman answered. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall and looked older than the hills, but her face was full of life, and her eyes had a twinkle that spoke of humor and mischief. "Hi, Mrs. Anderson, I'm Davis Crawford. You called earlier about some issues with your boiler and heating system. How can I help?" Mrs. Anderson gave me an appraising look. "I wasn't expecting you to be such a handsome young man. If I were fifty years younger, I would tell you exactly how you could help me, and then I'd teach you a trick or two I learned over the years. But I am too old for that kind of foolishness these days, so I will just have to make use of your plumbing expertise instead. And please, call me Wilma." I couldn't help but laugh and blush at Wilma's surprisingly raunchy sense of humor. I liked her immediately. "Let's try that again. What seems to be the problem?" "Well, the biggest problem is that I am 91 years old and dying of cancer. The doctors give me less than a year to live. But aside from that, I really can't complain. I have had a good run of it." I cocked my head to one side and gave her a bemused look. "Oh, you were wondering what the problem is with my heating system. Well, I turned it on this morning when I got up, and the boiler sounded like there was someone trapped inside of it trying to hammer their way out. There was a worrisome hissing from some of the radiators, as well, and they weren't heating up worth a damn. "My husband, Phillip, used to take care of those things for us, but he has been gone for almost five years now, so I hate to think what you will find when you look around." "I'm sure I can help you, Mrs. Anderson,;" "Wilma, please." "Sorry, Wilma. Why don't you show me to the basement, and I will try to figure out what's wrong. Then I can get started on fixing it." On the way to the basement stairs, Wilma led me through her crowded but orderly living room. I couldn't help but notice the paintings on just about every surface of its walls. "You have a real eye for art, Wilma. Those paintings are beautiful." Wilma smiled wistfully at me and got a faraway look in her eyes as she replied. "Phillip and I were artists. I guess I still am, but I haven't felt much like painting since he passed on. Phillip painted portraits. He made a surprisingly good living at it; you would be amazed at what rich people will pay to see their lives immortalized in oil on canvas. I never had the knack. Phillip could make even the most corpulent and corrupt industrialist appear regal and wise. I could only ever capture what I actually saw in them, and I quickly discovered that they did not enjoy, or pay for, that kind of introspection. "So, I painted landscapes, and there is always a market for those. But I kept some of my favorite pieces, over the years, as you can see." As Wilma spoke, I took a closer look at the paintings. One, in particular, was striking; a portrait of a beautiful young woman, in her late teens or early twenties, with a stethoscope around her neck and her blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She was wearing a loose hoodie and was curled up in an Adirondack chair, reading a book. It was not what you would expect from a formal portrait, but it seemed to capture her essence in a way that no photograph could match. I must have stopped moving as I was drawn into the image, so Wilma gave me a minute before she continued. "That's the last painting that Phillip worked on before he passed. He didn't get the chance to finish it, but I still think it's his finest work." I couldn't help but agree. "Who's the model? She's beautiful." "That's my granddaughter, Erin. You can't tell from the portrait, but she's a real firecracker. As a grandparent, you're not supposed to play favorites, but she was very special to Phillip, and it hit her hard when he passed. There is more love in that one painting than in all the other portraits that he painted over his lifetime. Except for his first, of course, of me." "Where are Phillips' other works? Surely, they weren't all commissions that are now locked away in some dusty millionaire's palace." Wilma's expression turned bleak as she contemplated her response. "All of his other paintings were sold after he died. The kids said they would fetch a better price while there was an upswing of interest in his work after his death, so they insisted that they all go to auction as quickly as possible. They were probably right, I guess, although I loved his art more than I needed the money. But how do you argue with your kids when they have just lost their father?" "Do any of your children live nearby?" "They all moved far away. Phillip and I chose a wonderful spot to live and make our art, but a challenging place to raise a family. It's not so bad now, what with the internet, highways, and the like, but when we first moved here sixty-some years ago, it was very isolated. We were young and selfish, and our selfishness cost us dearly. "We thought that our children would grow to love this area over time, like we did. But they never did, and they left as soon as they could get away. My daughter, Samantha, is a retired lawyer and she and her third husband split their time between their loft in Manhattan and their beach house in the Bahamas. My son, Robert, is an oil executive down in Texas. Neither of them has been here in more than a decade, except for Phillip's funeral. "My baby, Max, passed away more than twenty years ago now of cancer. Erin is his granddaughter. She is a pediatrician, and she splits her time between the hospital in Petoskey and the children's hospital down in Grand Rapids. She comes to see me when she can, but she is very busy. My other relatives all live busy lives far away from here. We chose to live here, though, so I can't be too upset that the rest of the family chose to live far away. "But enough about me. What about you, Mr. Crawford? Do you have any children?" "It's just me and my siblings, I'm afraid, and it's been that way for quite some time. My oldest sister, Alison, is 20, and she goes to college at North Central Michigan, in Petoskey. She is planning to become a nurse practitioner. The rest of the gang still lives at home with me. Sharon is 17 now, so she kind of runs the show while I am working; Mary is 15 but going on 30, if you know what I mean; and Lane is the baby of the family at 12." "Where are your parents?" "I don't honestly know. We each have a different father, or at least we think we do. Sharon, Lane, and I have no idea who our fathers are, so there's a chance that we might be full siblings, but I doubt it. My mother never kept the same man around for long. Alison's father has been in and out of jail since before she was born and is currently serving a stint in federal prison. But Mary has it the worst of all of us. "My mother met Mary's dad on a weekend bender in Vegas, and he is a pretty big deal. Rich, famous, the kind of guy you see on TV and the cover of magazines. A real family man, except when it comes to Mary, whom he refuses to even acknowledge. He bought my mom's silence with a lump sum payment and a non-disclosure agreement. That money was supposed to be put in a trust for Mary, but my mom snorted and injected it all in less than a year. Mary has written to her father dozens of times and reached out to him on social media countless more, but he wants nothing to do with his bastard daughter. "As for my mom, she went away for the weekend almost seven years ago now and left me in charge. And I am still in charge, I guess. So, no time for dating or romance for me, and I think that I will be just about done with raising kids by the time that Lane goes off to college." Wilma gave me a look filled with more empathy than I had felt in a long time, maybe ever. "Anyway, I should take a look at your boiler and see what I can do about getting you some heat." I would have called the boiler in Wilma's basement old, but that wouldn't have done it justice. Frankly, it wouldn't have seemed out of place in a museum of heating and plumbing, and it was hanging on to life by the barest of threads. With only a year to live, however, I wasn't going to recommend to Wilma that she replace the whole system with something more modern and efficient. "I think I can fix your boiler so that it will hold on for another year or two, and I can patch a couple of leaks in the lines to the main radiators as well. One line to a radiator at the back of the house is completely shot, so I will shut that one off and be back to replace it later this week." "What's all that going to cost?" "It's free of charge, Ma'am. You've got enough to look after with your health and all, without having to worry about your heating system. I never had a grandma to spoil, at least not one that I know of, so it would be my pleasure to do this for you." "Please, it's Wilma. And it's a grandmother's prerogative to spoil her grandchildren, and not the other way around. But your kindness is mighty appreciated, Davis." It took me a couple of hours to shore up the boiler and repair the lines that were still in reasonable condition before I was finished for the day. As I got ready to leave, I found Wilma sitting alone in the living room reading an old paperback. "I'll call you later this week, once the replacement line for your radiator comes in." Wilma got a mischievous smile on her face. "Why, Davis, are you getting fresh with me?" "If I were older and more experienced, I would in an instant. But I hardly think I can compete with the memory of your Phillip." "Too true, too true. Alright young man, well thank you for taking the time to look after a foolish old woman on a cold October night." "I hardly think you're foolish, Wilma, but it's been my pleasure." I didn't get home from Wilma's until well after nine that night, and by the time I pulled into our gravel driveway, I was beat. The dilapidated old yard light mounted on the roof of the garage shone weakly down on the sloppy mix of gravel and mud that was our yard, and I could hear the excited barks of Munchkin, our rescue puppy. He was a mix of German Shepherd and Cane Corso, with some variety of northern dog thrown in, and he was mighty pleased to see me. I'm glad that someone was. I came into our small three-bedroom rental to find Sharon and Lane sitting at the dining room table working on his math homework. I wish that they reacted like Munchkin when they saw me, but Lane just grunted a hello, while Sharon looked up at me with a mixture of sadness and worry. "Mary is out with the McDougal brothers again. They showed up here a half hour ago, I told her not to go with them, but she wouldn't listen." "The McDougal brothers are assholes," was Lane's addition to the conversation, without even looking up from the table. He wasn't wrong. The oldest McDougall brother, Calum, was a couple of years ahead of me at school and was a bully and a braggart. Two of his three brothers had followed in his esteemed footsteps, while the jury was still out on the youngest, James. "I'm going to go get her. Next time that those boys turn up in our yard, let Munchkin lose on them." "Alright, dinner will be in the oven when you get back. Given 'em hell, Bro." The McDougal brothers lived just outside Pellston in the closest thing to a mansion that you could find in our neck of the woods. Their family owned the largest construction and maintenance company in the area and had most of the Public Works contracts sown up, along with a not inconsiderable portion of the private construction in our region as well. Their parents spent most of their time in Sarasota, Florida, though, and the brothers had free rein while they were gone. As I drove up their long, paved driveway, automatic floodlights came on, illuminating the ostentatious columns that flanked the entrance to their house. I parked in front of the nearest bay of their four-car attached garage while noting that there was another three-car garage further off to the right. I idly wondered who got to park in which garage. Rich people problems, I guess. I walked to the front door and let myself in. From the foyer, I could hear the loud thump of music coming from the back of the house, so I headed that way. As I passed through the kitchen, I nearly bumped into James, who was holding a couple of empty serving bowls. He stopped dead when he saw me, looking nervous, clearly not expecting anyone else to be in their house. Certainly not me, anyway. "Hey James, I am here to get my sister. Where is she?" He hesitated a moment before pointing toward the back of the house. "She's in the game room playing pool with the guys. We didn't force her to come here or anything, if that's what you're worried about." "Maybe that's true, James. But you know she is still a minor, and I am her guardian, so I'm going to fetch her and bring her home." James didn't like the sound of that, but I turned my back on him and followed the music to a large, sunken room at the back of the house, which had an expensive-looking pool table in the middle. The remaining McDougal brothers were either playing pool or smoking up on one of the couches that were scattered around the outside of the room. Calum was presiding over the festivities, while the Pistons game was playing on a wall-mounted TV that was bigger than some movie screens. Despite his family's blue-collar roots, Calum looked like an overgrown frat boy, with his preppy clothes and fifty-dollar haircut. Mary was sitting in the middle of one of the couches, with a McDougal brother on one side and one of their hangers-on on the other. She looked somewhere between uncomfortable and scared, but she gave me a defiant scowl. The music stopped, and everyone looked to Calum and then back at me. There was a nervous tension in the air. "Hi Calum, I'm here for my sister." Calum was now in a bit of a spot; he couldn't just let me come into his home and give him orders without losing face with his brothers and their cronies. But he also knew, or at least suspected, that my sister was underage. And then there was always the Pipe Wrench Incident. That always made people nervous to be around me. "That's not my problem. She told my brother that she wanted to party, so she's here to party. No one forced her to come, and she seems to be having a good time." I wondered if all of Calum's dates looked as scared and uncomfortable as Mary did at that moment when they were having a 'good time'. "Well, since she is still a minor and I'm her guardian, it's a bit of a problem. Or it could be. But I don't want to put a damper on your evening, so I'll just bring Mary home with me and we'll call it a night." Calum looked toward James who had just come back into the room with bowls now filled with potato chips. "Is that true, Limp dick? Did you bring an underage girl home to party with us?" James began to sputter before Calum shook his head in disgust. He pointed over at Mary. "Get the fuck out of here, and don't come back until you're sixteen," he said before turning back to me. "And you. Just get the fuck out of our house." It was a silent drive home. Mary refused to even look at me, staring out the window instead. When we pulled into our yard, Munchkin came running up to greet us, and Mary finally spoke. "You didn't need to embarrass me like that. I'm old enough to make my own choices, you know." "The law says you're still a minor. And you'll always be my sister. Those guys are no good, Mary. You know that." "James is different. He isn't like the rest of them." "Maybe that's true, or maybe not. But you don't hang out in a nest of rattlesnakes, just because there is a garter snake in there with them that you think is cute." After a pause and some continued barking from Munchkin, Mary finally looked over at me. "You're not my dad, you know. You can't tell me what to do." And there it was. It always came down to the same thing with Mary; her father's rejection of her. Over the years, it had undermined her self-esteem and destroyed her self-worth to the point where I wondered if they would ever recover. Unfortunately, I was just smart enough to see the problem, but I had no idea how to fix it. A brother's love can only go so far, I guess. "I know, Mary. I know. But I love you, and I am so proud of you, and I just wish that was enough." We sat in silence for another minute before she replied. "I wish it was too." Chapter 2. It took a couple of days for Mrs. Anderson's new radiator line to arrive, and I gave her a call when I went to pick it up. "Hi, Mrs. And; Wilma. I was just picking up the replacement line for your radiator, and I was wondering if you needed anything else from town, while I'm here. I was going to come by and install the line later this afternoon if that works for you." "That's very kind of you, Davis. Would you mind picking up a few groceries for me? I can send the store a list, so they will be ready for you when you get there." A couple of my calls that day took longer than expected, so it was late in the afternoon again by the time I made it to Wilma's place. The early season snow had mostly melted away, and her yard was now a combination of gravel and thick soupy mud that could swallow a tire as easily as it could swallow a boot. "Thank you for picking the groceries up for me, you're too kind." "It was no trouble at all, especially since I was coming out this way anyway. If you don't mind me asking, how do you usually get them?" "I used to have a young man up the way who would help me with groceries and yard work, and other small things, but now I am pretty much on my own." "What happened to him? Did he move away?" "No, he still lives in the same place that he always has, but I am pretty sure that my family paid him more not to help me than I was paying for his assistance." "What? That seems like a crappy thing for them to do to you." Wilma gave a resigned sigh and then offered me a coffee while she told me her story. "I think I told you the last time you were here, that most of my family has moved on from this place, except my granddaughter Erin. The rest of them already have an agreement in place with a developer, the McDougals, to turn this property into a high-end resort for the Fudgies, so they have someplace to spend their money after visiting Mackinac Island." "Fudgies," was what the locals called the tourists from down south who descended on the upper peninsula in the summer. "If you don't mind me asking, just how much land do you own?" "Well, Phillip and I didn't have much to spend our money on over the years, so we bought up many of the nearby properties when they went up for sale. We ended up with at least a quarter mile of land that fronts onto the lake, without even really trying." I let out a low whistle. "That must be worth a small fortune. I can understand your family's interest." "At first, they didn't care if I stayed in the house after Phillip died. They figured that I would follow soon enough. After a few years, however, they started to get impatient, and it's fair to say that they are now actively encouraging me to leave, by foot, by car, or in a box. They have generously offered to put me out to pasture in a warehouse for the old and infirm, though, to await my impending doom. "With my cancer, their wish is finally going to come true. By this time next year, I will be sipping coffee with Phillip in whatever afterlife we atheists get to enjoy. Actually, who am I kidding? If there is an afterlife for Phillip and me, the first thing I'm going to do when I get there is get on my knees, undo his belt buckle, and then show him just how much I've missed him these past five years. Wilma looked a bit startled as if she had just remembered that I was still there. "I'm sorry, Davis. You probably didn't need to hear that last part. I just miss him so much. I still see him in the trees and along the shore, and I sometimes hear his voice in the wind off the lake." "It's all good, Wilma. I just hope that my brother and sisters get to experience the kind of love that you and Phillip had someday." "What about you, Davis? Don't you deserve to experience that kind of love as well?" "Maybe I deserve it, Wilma, but I don't think I am going to find it. It's been tough; real tough, looking after my family all these years. I have done things that I am not proud of, but that needed to be done. I don't regret them; I would do anything to protect the people I love. But I doubt that anyone would be able to love me, once they found out what I've done." "I think you are selling yourself short, Davis. We are all artists, and we are all worthy of love." With that, Wilma offered to top up my coffee before I started replacing the broken line. As the evening's shadows deepened, I saw her watching me with compassion and concern in her eyes. Once I was finished, I felt her hand on my shoulder, and she gave it an empathetic squeeze. "A penny for your thoughts?" I stopped what I was doing and turned to look at her. "It's my sister, Mary. I am losing her. She is so hurt and angry that she is beginning to make bad choices, and I don't know how to help her. I've tried to be her brother, parent, and friend, but I'm failing at all three." Wilma offered no judgment, good or bad. She just listened, and when I finished, she spoke. "Bring her over this Sunday around noon. Tell her to wear some old clothes that she doesn't mind getting dirty. You can come too if you would like and bring your little brother to do some fishing, but Mary will be spending her time with me." It wasn't easy convincing Mary to come to Wilma's. If you have spent time dealing with teenage girls, you know that they can be as stubborn as late-season ice on the lake. In the end, I resorted to threats and bribery to get her onboard, but she assured me that she would hate every minute she was there. Lane came with us as well, with the promise that we could spend the afternoon fishing off the end of Wilma's dock. By the time we arrived, Mary was sullenly glued to the passenger seat and wouldn't look up from her phone. Wilma waited a few minutes for Mary, but she stubbornly refused to leave the truck. Eventually, Wilma pulled on her rubber boots and walked over to the truck. She looked up at Mary and started speaking. "There are three things that I know are true. "The first, I've already shared with your brother. We are all artists because we are all worthy of love. But many of us lose our way. We are hurt and abandoned, and we are buried in shame. I was like that for many years. But my husband, Phillip, found me and taught me what it is to be loved. Not just the physical act; although he taught me about that as well; but the certainty that I was seen, known, and cherished. He showed me that I am an artist. You are an artist too. "Second, I am old, I have cancer, and I will die. Not today, and hopefully not tomorrow, but soon. And that is okay; we all die. I have lived a good life. And when I do, I hope that Phillip will be waiting for me with a glass of chilled white wine and his beautiful smile. My art may linger for a while once I am gone but, eventually, it too will be lost. "Third, the world is full of bastards. Your brother tells me that you and he are both bastards. I will tell you a secret that I have shared with very few people; I am a bastard too. "My mother was beautiful but poor. Her parents lost everything during the Great Depression, and she worked as a housemaid for a rich and powerful man to support her family. When she fell pregnant, he put her out on the street and refused to recognize her child, his daughter; me. Because of his rejection, I spent too many years steeped in shame and self-loathing. But eventually, I learned a hard truth; my father was a bastard by choice, while I was a bastard by birth. And those of us who are bastards by birth must never let the bastards by choice win. "Come inside when you're ready. I'm too old and it's too cold for me to stand here waiting for you." With that, Wilma turned and slowly made her way back to the house. Surprisingly, after a minute, Mary followed. When they reached the door, Wilma turned to look back at me. "It's time for you boys to go fishing. There is a warm breeze off the lake that will bring you good luck." Lane and I made our way down the hill to the dock in silence, our fishing rods, ice chest, and tackle box in hand. Unlike a seasonal dock that would be taken out of the lake each fall, Wilma's dock could be used year-round and was built with heavy timbers and steel bracing, so it could withstand the crushing force of the winter's ice. When we reached the dock, we felt the warm wind that Wilma had promised, and we chose our lures and began to cast. After a half hour of fishing, Lane broke the silence. "Do you think it's my fault?" "Do I think what's your fault, Bud?" "That mom left us. That she never came back. Do you think it's my fault?" I sighed as I thought about my answer. "No. It's not your fault. It's no one's fault, really, maybe not even hers. It's funny though, she brought some amazing people into this world. I wish she could have seen how incredible you and your sisters have turned out. But she made her choice, and that's on her, not you." Lane thought about my answer before he continued. "But you would be better off without me. Sharon would have more time to study for the scholarship she will need to get away from here. I try to be nice to Mary, to make her feel better, but I just seem to make things worse for her as well. And I see how hard you work to keep our family together. I feel like you would all be better off without me. If I weren't here, maybe Mom would come back home." I took a deep breath and tried to push down the anger that threatened to overwhelm me; anger at my mother for abandoning us, anger at myself for never being enough, and anger at a world that would leave my brother feeling like it would be better off if he didn't exist. I felt the wind off the lake as it blew across my face, drying my unshed tears before they were formed. As I was wondering how to unbreak my brother's heart, a particularly strong gust of wind blew through and Lane's fishing rod bent into a deep arc, the tip dancing wildly as a fish fought against the line. "Dad! Help;" The drag clicked furiously as the fish pulled line, as Lane fought to keep his rod tip up. I quickly set my rod aside and braced him, my hands held loosely beside his as he fought to reel in his catch. We worked together for what seemed like an eternity before he finally fought his fish to the side of the dock. I grabbed the net and saw that he had hooked a steelhead trout that was easily two feet long and must have weighed at least eight pounds if not more. It was a wonder the drag held steady, and his line didn't break during the fight. As I scooped up his catch, the steelhead's silver sides shimmered like polished chrome in the fading light, and it was so big that it took up over half the ice chest I had brought along to store our catch. Lane was flushed with excitement at landing such an impressive fish, and I was so proud of him that my heart almost ached. "Nice work, Son." He just looked up at me for a moment before throwing his arms around me in a hug. In the time since our mother left, he had never called me by anything other than my name. I never tried to be his dad; I didn't think I was qualified, but I guess that all of us need someone in our lives who will love us without conditions or end. "Never think that you're a burden on me or the family. Maybe you need a bit more from us right now than you can give back, but that's alright. Because sixty years from now, when I am old and can't wipe my ass anymore, you are going to be paying me back in spades, alright?" With that, we went back to fishing in companionable silence. I pulled in a few smaller ones, but nothing to match Lane's steelhead. A few hours later, the wind had picked up and it was getting colder, so we packed up our equipment and made our way back toward the house. Halfway down the dock, however, a huge gust of wind swept through, and I heard a cry followed by a loud splash. Turning back, I saw that Lane's foot had slipped through a broken slat, and he had fallen off the dock. Without thinking, I dropped the ice box and rods and jumped into the water to help him. When I got him to shore, he couldn't put any weight on his ankle, and any efforts to do so were met with cries of pain. I quickly collected our discarded fishing gear and set it to one side, before helping him to slowly make his way back up the hill. The November chill quickly took hold of us as we walked, plastering our damp clothing to our skin, and we were shivering uncontrollably by the time we reached the house. I knocked but it took a minute for Wilma and Mary to come out from the studio at the back of the house. "I am sorry to cut things short, but Lane had an accident down at the dock and he sprained or maybe even broke his ankle. I am going to have to take him to the hospital in Petoskey to get it looked at before it swells up any further." Wilma looked at me with concern. "Maybe you should hold off at least for a little while. My granddaughter, Erin, the pediatrician, is coming for dinner tonight and should be here any minute. Why don't we let her take a look at it before you head into town? And let's get you out of those clothes; you must be freezing. I still have some of Phillip's things in the closet that might fit you." A few minutes later, I had changed into a pair of comfortable but slightly musty-smelling pants, with a warm sweater over a well-worn collared shirt. I was both taller and wider than Phillip had been, at least in the twilight of his years, so the pants were a bit short, while the sweater was tight across my shoulders. While I changed, Mary and Wilma had set Lane up on the couch with his ankle elevated on some pillows. I helped him change out of his wet clothing and into an old sweatshirt and shorts that fit over his swollen ankle. Once Lane was settled, Wilma and I talked quietly in the kitchen. "It's getting late, and you must be getting hungry, but I don't think I have enough to feed everyone." I thought for a moment. "We may be in luck. Lane caught the biggest steelhead I have ever seen earlier this afternoon, but I left it down by the dock after the accident. If you have a few potatoes and maybe a veg or two, I am sure I can whip something up that would feed us all." Wilma looked at me with a sly smile. "He cooks, he plumbs, and he cares for his family, all while cutting a dashing figure in my late husband's favorite sweater. You, Mr. Crawford, are a catch." "I am not sure about that, Wilma," I replied with a laugh, "But either way, this catch had better go and get our earlier catch, so I can get started on dinner." It took me almost half an hour to collect our fishing gear and bring it back up to the truck. By the time I was done, an older SUV was parked behind my truck, which meant that Erin had arrived. After I loaded the gear, I used the fishing knife and stained plastic cutting board that I kept in a bin under the back seat to clean and filet the steelhead before heading inside. From the doorway, I could see a head of sandy-blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail sticking up from the far side of the couch, and I heard a calm and melodic voice talking to Lane while Wilma and Mary looked on. I was so lost in that voice that I almost jumped when the latch on the door caught behind me. The head of sandy-blonde hair looked up at the sound, revealing a pair of amber, almost golden eyes. "You must be the father," said that same melodic voice, as those eyes bore their way into my soul. "It's Davis Crawford, and I'm the older brother." "Erin Anderson, nice to meet you. Can you get hold of your parents? We might need to take Lane to the hospital for some X-rays." "No," I replied more harshly than I intended. "No," I tried again, more gently but with an edge to my voice. "Our parents aren't around; I am as close as you're going to get. I am Lane's legal guardian if that helps." There was a slight pause as her amber eyes shifted from surprise to curiosity. "That helps a lot. Why don't you give me 15 minutes or so to take a look at this brave dude's ankle, then we can talk over some options, once I have a better sense of what's going on." "That okay with you, Bud?" I asked as I walked over to the couch. "Yeah, that should be fine," he replied, but his eyes were wide, and his cheeks were flushed. For a moment, I was worried that he might be running a fever, but then I got my first look at Erin, and I understood. Maybe she wasn't classically beautiful like a movie star or swimsuit model, but she was lean and fit, and from what I could see, had more than enough curves in all the right places. It was her face, however, that captured me. She had delicate features accentuated by her high cheekbones, and there was a softness to her expression that spoke of empathy and kindness. Her eyes, though intense, had a warmth that put me instantly at ease. I realized much too late that I had been staring at Erin for an uncomfortably long time while holding the bag of steelhead filets out like some kind of sacrificial offering. While I stood frozen, the look in Erin's beautiful eyes had shifted from curiosity to amusement; I would assume at the fish-carrying simpleton standing in front of her. "Thanks, Dr. Anderson; err, Erin. I appreciate your taking a look at him and; I am going to go cook us up some fish before I make an even bigger ass of myself." Wilma joined me in the kitchen, while Erin continued to assess Lane's injured ankle. We spent the next few minutes dicing the potatoes and veggies and tossing them with some olive oil, salt, and pepper before sprinkling the filets of steelhead with a mixture of herbs. I topped the fish with some slices of a less-than-fresh, but still edible, lemon I found in the fridge, before putting the whole thing in the oven. To be continued in part 2. Based on a post by CleverGenericName, in 4 parts, for Literotica.

Michigan Weather and Women: Part 1 Love, bastards, and what we leave behind. Based on a post by CleverGenericName, in 4 parts. Listen to the Podcast at Connected. The Plumber, The Painter, and the Wind off the Lake Prologue I have never been much for following instructions or doing what I'm told. In eighth grade, we were assigned to make a volcano in science class. I figured that if the eruption looked good with a couple of tablespoons of baking soda, then it would look even better with the whole container! And what better place for a natural disaster than the teacher's desk at the front of the class. I was right; the whole container of baking soda produced an impressive explosion. What I didn't count on, however, was it producing a week-long suspension from school and a beating from my mother. In high school, we had to take an art class to graduate. Our teacher loved still life drawing and would ramble endlessly about how it revealed the beauty that is in the everyday objects that surround us. I guess he wanted us to reveal the beauty in the bowl of fruit that he had put in the middle of the classroom, but the most beautiful things that I could see were Brittany Johnson's D-cups which filled out her sweater gloriously. At the end of the class, there were 29 drawings of a bowl of fruit and one drawing of a beautiful girl's smile (amongst other details). Although I was suspended for two days, I got a date with Brittany who loved my drawing, so I feel like I came out ahead on that one. In my last year of school, the final mathematics exam asked the following question: Determine the points of intersection between the following parabolas and lines. Illustrate fully. While the other students slaved away to solve the listed problems in the allotted time, I fully illustrated a drawing of our math teacher, Mr. Aaronson, dancing a slow waltz in a field of sunflowers with Mrs. Stevens, the geography teacher. It was the worst-kept secret in the school that our two shyest teachers had massive crushes on each other, and after four years of watching them pine away, I thought they could use a little push. I failed the test, but Mr. Aaronson showed my drawing to Mrs. Stevens during a particularly dull staff meeting, and when it made her blush and smile, he finally got up the courage to ask her out. They are now married and have a little girl who is as cute as a button. At the end of the year, Mr. Aaronson asked me if I planned to pursue math in the future, and when I assured him that I did not, he gave me a passing grade. So, what was my problem, you might ask? Was I just one of those kids who didn't give a shit and was destined for mediocrity or failure in life? Like many things, the answer is more complicated than it might first appear, but I am getting ahead of myself. Our story starts on an unusually cold and blustery afternoon in late October, on the north-eastern shore of Lake Michigan about a half hour's drive north of Petoskey, just outside a village called Good Hart. Chapter 1. It had been a busy day. The perfect storm of an early season snap freeze, strong winds, and lake-effect snow meant that there was a couple of inches of snow on the still soggy ground, along with a number of leaky or burst pipes, malfunctioning valves, and boiler issues as people cranked their heating systems up to full for the first time that year. As a plumber, though, I didn't mind. It just meant more work for me, which was always a good thing. At only 25 years of age, and despite being a master plumber, I was generally the last choice for folks to call, even in an emergency. Anyone with money chose one of the larger and more established plumbing contractors, leaving me with the jobs that they didn't feel were worth their time or effort. That's how I found myself pulling into the laneway of an older house, just off Lamkin Road down by the lake, late that Friday afternoon. It was my last job of the day, but I would be working over the weekend to catch up on my backlog, so I wanted to get it done. The house looked like it hadn't been updated since it was built, likely in the late fifties or early sixties, other than a couple of coats of paint and a new roof when the original finally gave up the ghost. The front gardens were neatly tended, however, and the property itself was stunning, with panoramic views in three directions out over the lake. The sun was just beginning to dip toward the western horizon as I drove up, so the trees cast long shadows across the laneway. The house was owned by Mrs. Wilma C. Anderson, who had called me earlier in the day to say that some of her radiators weren't working and that her boiler was making one hell of a racket when she turned it on. I told her to shut the system down and that I would look at it by the end of the day. She sounded quite elderly, and I didn't like the idea of her going without heat for a night during a cold snap. I rang the doorbell and waited until a tiny wisp of a woman answered. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall and looked older than the hills, but her face was full of life, and her eyes had a twinkle that spoke of humor and mischief. "Hi, Mrs. Anderson, I'm Davis Crawford. You called earlier about some issues with your boiler and heating system. How can I help?" Mrs. Anderson gave me an appraising look. "I wasn't expecting you to be such a handsome young man. If I were fifty years younger, I would tell you exactly how you could help me, and then I'd teach you a trick or two I learned over the years. But I am too old for that kind of foolishness these days, so I will just have to make use of your plumbing expertise instead. And please, call me Wilma." I couldn't help but laugh and blush at Wilma's surprisingly raunchy sense of humor. I liked her immediately. "Let's try that again. What seems to be the problem?" "Well, the biggest problem is that I am 91 years old and dying of cancer. The doctors give me less than a year to live. But aside from that, I really can't complain. I have had a good run of it." I cocked my head to one side and gave her a bemused look. "Oh, you were wondering what the problem is with my heating system. Well, I turned it on this morning when I got up, and the boiler sounded like there was someone trapped inside of it trying to hammer their way out. There was a worrisome hissing from some of the radiators, as well, and they weren't heating up worth a damn. "My husband, Phillip, used to take care of those things for us, but he has been gone for almost five years now, so I hate to think what you will find when you look around." "I'm sure I can help you, Mrs. Anderson,;" "Wilma, please." "Sorry, Wilma. Why don't you show me to the basement, and I will try to figure out what's wrong. Then I can get started on fixing it." On the way to the basement stairs, Wilma led me through her crowded but orderly living room. I couldn't help but notice the paintings on just about every surface of its walls. "You have a real eye for art, Wilma. Those paintings are beautiful." Wilma smiled wistfully at me and got a faraway look in her eyes as she replied. "Phillip and I were artists. I guess I still am, but I haven't felt much like painting since he passed on. Phillip painted portraits. He made a surprisingly good living at it; you would be amazed at what rich people will pay to see their lives immortalized in oil on canvas. I never had the knack. Phillip could make even the most corpulent and corrupt industrialist appear regal and wise. I could only ever capture what I actually saw in them, and I quickly discovered that they did not enjoy, or pay for, that kind of introspection. "So, I painted landscapes, and there is always a market for those. But I kept some of my favorite pieces, over the years, as you can see." As Wilma spoke, I took a closer look at the paintings. One, in particular, was striking; a portrait of a beautiful young woman, in her late teens or early twenties, with a stethoscope around her neck and her blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She was wearing a loose hoodie and was curled up in an Adirondack chair, reading a book. It was not what you would expect from a formal portrait, but it seemed to capture her essence in a way that no photograph could match. I must have stopped moving as I was drawn into the image, so Wilma gave me a minute before she continued. "That's the last painting that Phillip worked on before he passed. He didn't get the chance to finish it, but I still think it's his finest work." I couldn't help but agree. "Who's the model? She's beautiful." "That's my granddaughter, Erin. You can't tell from the portrait, but she's a real firecracker. As a grandparent, you're not supposed to play favorites, but she was very special to Phillip, and it hit her hard when he passed. There is more love in that one painting than in all the other portraits that he painted over his lifetime. Except for his first, of course, of me." "Where are Phillips' other works? Surely, they weren't all commissions that are now locked away in some dusty millionaire's palace." Wilma's expression turned bleak as she contemplated her response. "All of his other paintings were sold after he died. The kids said they would fetch a better price while there was an upswing of interest in his work after his death, so they insisted that they all go to auction as quickly as possible. They were probably right, I guess, although I loved his art more than I needed the money. But how do you argue with your kids when they have just lost their father?" "Do any of your children live nearby?" "They all moved far away. Phillip and I chose a wonderful spot to live and make our art, but a challenging place to raise a family. It's not so bad now, what with the internet, highways, and the like, but when we first moved here sixty-some years ago, it was very isolated. We were young and selfish, and our selfishness cost us dearly. "We thought that our children would grow to love this area over time, like we did. But they never did, and they left as soon as they could get away. My daughter, Samantha, is a retired lawyer and she and her third husband split their time between their loft in Manhattan and their beach house in the Bahamas. My son, Robert, is an oil executive down in Texas. Neither of them has been here in more than a decade, except for Phillip's funeral. "My baby, Max, passed away more than twenty years ago now of cancer. Erin is his granddaughter. She is a pediatrician, and she splits her time between the hospital in Petoskey and the children's hospital down in Grand Rapids. She comes to see me when she can, but she is very busy. My other relatives all live busy lives far away from here. We chose to live here, though, so I can't be too upset that the rest of the family chose to live far away. "But enough about me. What about you, Mr. Crawford? Do you have any children?" "It's just me and my siblings, I'm afraid, and it's been that way for quite some time. My oldest sister, Alison, is 20, and she goes to college at North Central Michigan, in Petoskey. She is planning to become a nurse practitioner. The rest of the gang still lives at home with me. Sharon is 17 now, so she kind of runs the show while I am working; Mary is 15 but going on 30, if you know what I mean; and Lane is the baby of the family at 12." "Where are your parents?" "I don't honestly know. We each have a different father, or at least we think we do. Sharon, Lane, and I have no idea who our fathers are, so there's a chance that we might be full siblings, but I doubt it. My mother never kept the same man around for long. Alison's father has been in and out of jail since before she was born and is currently serving a stint in federal prison. But Mary has it the worst of all of us. "My mother met Mary's dad on a weekend bender in Vegas, and he is a pretty big deal. Rich, famous, the kind of guy you see on TV and the cover of magazines. A real family man, except when it comes to Mary, whom he refuses to even acknowledge. He bought my mom's silence with a lump sum payment and a non-disclosure agreement. That money was supposed to be put in a trust for Mary, but my mom snorted and injected it all in less than a year. Mary has written to her father dozens of times and reached out to him on social media countless more, but he wants nothing to do with his bastard daughter. "As for my mom, she went away for the weekend almost seven years ago now and left me in charge. And I am still in charge, I guess. So, no time for dating or romance for me, and I think that I will be just about done with raising kids by the time that Lane goes off to college." Wilma gave me a look filled with more empathy than I had felt in a long time, maybe ever. "Anyway, I should take a look at your boiler and see what I can do about getting you some heat." I would have called the boiler in Wilma's basement old, but that wouldn't have done it justice. Frankly, it wouldn't have seemed out of place in a museum of heating and plumbing, and it was hanging on to life by the barest of threads. With only a year to live, however, I wasn't going to recommend to Wilma that she replace the whole system with something more modern and efficient. "I think I can fix your boiler so that it will hold on for another year or two, and I can patch a couple of leaks in the lines to the main radiators as well. One line to a radiator at the back of the house is completely shot, so I will shut that one off and be back to replace it later this week." "What's all that going to cost?" "It's free of charge, Ma'am. You've got enough to look after with your health and all, without having to worry about your heating system. I never had a grandma to spoil, at least not one that I know of, so it would be my pleasure to do this for you." "Please, it's Wilma. And it's a grandmother's prerogative to spoil her grandchildren, and not the other way around. But your kindness is mighty appreciated, Davis." It took me a couple of hours to shore up the boiler and repair the lines that were still in reasonable condition before I was finished for the day. As I got ready to leave, I found Wilma sitting alone in the living room reading an old paperback. "I'll call you later this week, once the replacement line for your radiator comes in." Wilma got a mischievous smile on her face. "Why, Davis, are you getting fresh with me?" "If I were older and more experienced, I would in an instant. But I hardly think I can compete with the memory of your Phillip." "Too true, too true. Alright young man, well thank you for taking the time to look after a foolish old woman on a cold October night." "I hardly think you're foolish, Wilma, but it's been my pleasure." I didn't get home from Wilma's until well after nine that night, and by the time I pulled into our gravel driveway, I was beat. The dilapidated old yard light mounted on the roof of the garage shone weakly down on the sloppy mix of gravel and mud that was our yard, and I could hear the excited barks of Munchkin, our rescue puppy. He was a mix of German Shepherd and Cane Corso, with some variety of northern dog thrown in, and he was mighty pleased to see me. I'm glad that someone was. I came into our small three-bedroom rental to find Sharon and Lane sitting at the dining room table working on his math homework. I wish that they reacted like Munchkin when they saw me, but Lane just grunted a hello, while Sharon looked up at me with a mixture of sadness and worry. "Mary is out with the McDougal brothers again. They showed up here a half hour ago, I told her not to go with them, but she wouldn't listen." "The McDougal brothers are assholes," was Lane's addition to the conversation, without even looking up from the table. He wasn't wrong. The oldest McDougall brother, Calum, was a couple of years ahead of me at school and was a bully and a braggart. Two of his three brothers had followed in his esteemed footsteps, while the jury was still out on the youngest, James. "I'm going to go get her. Next time that those boys turn up in our yard, let Munchkin lose on them." "Alright, dinner will be in the oven when you get back. Given 'em hell, Bro." The McDougal brothers lived just outside Pellston in the closest thing to a mansion that you could find in our neck of the woods. Their family owned the largest construction and maintenance company in the area and had most of the Public Works contracts sown up, along with a not inconsiderable portion of the private construction in our region as well. Their parents spent most of their time in Sarasota, Florida, though, and the brothers had free rein while they were gone. As I drove up their long, paved driveway, automatic floodlights came on, illuminating the ostentatious columns that flanked the entrance to their house. I parked in front of the nearest bay of their four-car attached garage while noting that there was another three-car garage further off to the right. I idly wondered who got to park in which garage. Rich people problems, I guess. I walked to the front door and let myself in. From the foyer, I could hear the loud thump of music coming from the back of the house, so I headed that way. As I passed through the kitchen, I nearly bumped into James, who was holding a couple of empty serving bowls. He stopped dead when he saw me, looking nervous, clearly not expecting anyone else to be in their house. Certainly not me, anyway. "Hey James, I am here to get my sister. Where is she?" He hesitated a moment before pointing toward the back of the house. "She's in the game room playing pool with the guys. We didn't force her to come here or anything, if that's what you're worried about." "Maybe that's true, James. But you know she is still a minor, and I am her guardian, so I'm going to fetch her and bring her home." James didn't like the sound of that, but I turned my back on him and followed the music to a large, sunken room at the back of the house, which had an expensive-looking pool table in the middle. The remaining McDougal brothers were either playing pool or smoking up on one of the couches that were scattered around the outside of the room. Calum was presiding over the festivities, while the Pistons game was playing on a wall-mounted TV that was bigger than some movie screens. Despite his family's blue-collar roots, Calum looked like an overgrown frat boy, with his preppy clothes and fifty-dollar haircut. Mary was sitting in the middle of one of the couches, with a McDougal brother on one side and one of their hangers-on on the other. She looked somewhere between uncomfortable and scared, but she gave me a defiant scowl. The music stopped, and everyone looked to Calum and then back at me. There was a nervous tension in the air. "Hi Calum, I'm here for my sister." Calum was now in a bit of a spot; he couldn't just let me come into his home and give him orders without losing face with his brothers and their cronies. But he also knew, or at least suspected, that my sister was underage. And then there was always the Pipe Wrench Incident. That always made people nervous to be around me. "That's not my problem. She told my brother that she wanted to party, so she's here to party. No one forced her to come, and she seems to be having a good time." I wondered if all of Calum's dates looked as scared and uncomfortable as Mary did at that moment when they were having a 'good time'. "Well, since she is still a minor and I'm her guardian, it's a bit of a problem. Or it could be. But I don't want to put a damper on your evening, so I'll just bring Mary home with me and we'll call it a night." Calum looked toward James who had just come back into the room with bowls now filled with potato chips. "Is that true, Limp dick? Did you bring an underage girl home to party with us?" James began to sputter before Calum shook his head in disgust. He pointed over at Mary. "Get the fuck out of here, and don't come back until you're sixteen," he said before turning back to me. "And you. Just get the fuck out of our house." It was a silent drive home. Mary refused to even look at me, staring out the window instead. When we pulled into our yard, Munchkin came running up to greet us, and Mary finally spoke. "You didn't need to embarrass me like that. I'm old enough to make my own choices, you know." "The law says you're still a minor. And you'll always be my sister. Those guys are no good, Mary. You know that." "James is different. He isn't like the rest of them." "Maybe that's true, or maybe not. But you don't hang out in a nest of rattlesnakes, just because there is a garter snake in there with them that you think is cute." After a pause and some continued barking from Munchkin, Mary finally looked over at me. "You're not my dad, you know. You can't tell me what to do." And there it was. It always came down to the same thing with Mary; her father's rejection of her. Over the years, it had undermined her self-esteem and destroyed her self-worth to the point where I wondered if they would ever recover. Unfortunately, I was just smart enough to see the problem, but I had no idea how to fix it. A brother's love can only go so far, I guess. "I know, Mary. I know. But I love you, and I am so proud of you, and I just wish that was enough." We sat in silence for another minute before she replied. "I wish it was too." Chapter 2. It took a couple of days for Mrs. Anderson's new radiator line to arrive, and I gave her a call when I went to pick it up. "Hi, Mrs. And; Wilma. I was just picking up the replacement line for your radiator, and I was wondering if you needed anything else from town, while I'm here. I was going to come by and install the line later this afternoon if that works for you." "That's very kind of you, Davis. Would you mind picking up a few groceries for me? I can send the store a list, so they will be ready for you when you get there." A couple of my calls that day took longer than expected, so it was late in the afternoon again by the time I made it to Wilma's place. The early season snow had mostly melted away, and her yard was now a combination of gravel and thick soupy mud that could swallow a tire as easily as it could swallow a boot. "Thank you for picking the groceries up for me, you're too kind." "It was no trouble at all, especially since I was coming out this way anyway. If you don't mind me asking, how do you usually get them?" "I used to have a young man up the way who would help me with groceries and yard work, and other small things, but now I am pretty much on my own." "What happened to him? Did he move away?" "No, he still lives in the same place that he always has, but I am pretty sure that my family paid him more not to help me than I was paying for his assistance." "What? That seems like a crappy thing for them to do to you." Wilma gave a resigned sigh and then offered me a coffee while she told me her story. "I think I told you the last time you were here, that most of my family has moved on from this place, except my granddaughter Erin. The rest of them already have an agreement in place with a developer, the McDougals, to turn this property into a high-end resort for the Fudgies, so they have someplace to spend their money after visiting Mackinac Island." "Fudgies," was what the locals called the tourists from down south who descended on the upper peninsula in the summer. "If you don't mind me asking, just how much land do you own?" "Well, Phillip and I didn't have much to spend our money on over the years, so we bought up many of the nearby properties when they went up for sale. We ended up with at least a quarter mile of land that fronts onto the lake, without even really trying." I let out a low whistle. "That must be worth a small fortune. I can understand your family's interest." "At first, they didn't care if I stayed in the house after Phillip died. They figured that I would follow soon enough. After a few years, however, they started to get impatient, and it's fair to say that they are now actively encouraging me to leave, by foot, by car, or in a box. They have generously offered to put me out to pasture in a warehouse for the old and infirm, though, to await my impending doom. "With my cancer, their wish is finally going to come true. By this time next year, I will be sipping coffee with Phillip in whatever afterlife we atheists get to enjoy. Actually, who am I kidding? If there is an afterlife for Phillip and me, the first thing I'm going to do when I get there is get on my knees, undo his belt buckle, and then show him just how much I've missed him these past five years. Wilma looked a bit startled as if she had just remembered that I was still there. "I'm sorry, Davis. You probably didn't need to hear that last part. I just miss him so much. I still see him in the trees and along the shore, and I sometimes hear his voice in the wind off the lake." "It's all good, Wilma. I just hope that my brother and sisters get to experience the kind of love that you and Phillip had someday." "What about you, Davis? Don't you deserve to experience that kind of love as well?" "Maybe I deserve it, Wilma, but I don't think I am going to find it. It's been tough; real tough, looking after my family all these years. I have done things that I am not proud of, but that needed to be done. I don't regret them; I would do anything to protect the people I love. But I doubt that anyone would be able to love me, once they found out what I've done." "I think you are selling yourself short, Davis. We are all artists, and we are all worthy of love." With that, Wilma offered to top up my coffee before I started replacing the broken line. As the evening's shadows deepened, I saw her watching me with compassion and concern in her eyes. Once I was finished, I felt her hand on my shoulder, and she gave it an empathetic squeeze. "A penny for your thoughts?" I stopped what I was doing and turned to look at her. "It's my sister, Mary. I am losing her. She is so hurt and angry that she is beginning to make bad choices, and I don't know how to help her. I've tried to be her brother, parent, and friend, but I'm failing at all three." Wilma offered no judgment, good or bad. She just listened, and when I finished, she spoke. "Bring her over this Sunday around noon. Tell her to wear some old clothes that she doesn't mind getting dirty. You can come too if you would like and bring your little brother to do some fishing, but Mary will be spending her time with me." It wasn't easy convincing Mary to come to Wilma's. If you have spent time dealing with teenage girls, you know that they can be as stubborn as late-season ice on the lake. In the end, I resorted to threats and bribery to get her onboard, but she assured me that she would hate every minute she was there. Lane came with us as well, with the promise that we could spend the afternoon fishing off the end of Wilma's dock. By the time we arrived, Mary was sullenly glued to the passenger seat and wouldn't look up from her phone. Wilma waited a few minutes for Mary, but she stubbornly refused to leave the truck. Eventually, Wilma pulled on her rubber boots and walked over to the truck. She looked up at Mary and started speaking. "There are three things that I know are true. "The first, I've already shared with your brother. We are all artists because we are all worthy of love. But many of us lose our way. We are hurt and abandoned, and we are buried in shame. I was like that for many years. But my husband, Phillip, found me and taught me what it is to be loved. Not just the physical act; although he taught me about that as well; but the certainty that I was seen, known, and cherished. He showed me that I am an artist. You are an artist too. "Second, I am old, I have cancer, and I will die. Not today, and hopefully not tomorrow, but soon. And that is okay; we all die. I have lived a good life. And when I do, I hope that Phillip will be waiting for me with a glass of chilled white wine and his beautiful smile. My art may linger for a while once I am gone but, eventually, it too will be lost. "Third, the world is full of bastards. Your brother tells me that you and he are both bastards. I will tell you a secret that I have shared with very few people; I am a bastard too. "My mother was beautiful but poor. Her parents lost everything during the Great Depression, and she worked as a housemaid for a rich and powerful man to support her family. When she fell pregnant, he put her out on the street and refused to recognize her child, his daughter; me. Because of his rejection, I spent too many years steeped in shame and self-loathing. But eventually, I learned a hard truth; my father was a bastard by choice, while I was a bastard by birth. And those of us who are bastards by birth must never let the bastards by choice win. "Come inside when you're ready. I'm too old and it's too cold for me to stand here waiting for you." With that, Wilma turned and slowly made her way back to the house. Surprisingly, after a minute, Mary followed. When they reached the door, Wilma turned to look back at me. "It's time for you boys to go fishing. There is a warm breeze off the lake that will bring you good luck." Lane and I made our way down the hill to the dock in silence, our fishing rods, ice chest, and tackle box in hand. Unlike a seasonal dock that would be taken out of the lake each fall, Wilma's dock could be used year-round and was built with heavy timbers and steel bracing, so it could withstand the crushing force of the winter's ice. When we reached the dock, we felt the warm wind that Wilma had promised, and we chose our lures and began to cast. After a half hour of fishing, Lane broke the silence. "Do you think it's my fault?" "Do I think what's your fault, Bud?" "That mom left us. That she never came back. Do you think it's my fault?" I sighed as I thought about my answer. "No. It's not your fault. It's no one's fault, really, maybe not even hers. It's funny though, she brought some amazing people into this world. I wish she could have seen how incredible you and your sisters have turned out. But she made her choice, and that's on her, not you." Lane thought about my answer before he continued. "But you would be better off without me. Sharon would have more time to study for the scholarship she will need to get away from here. I try to be nice to Mary, to make her feel better, but I just seem to make things worse for her as well. And I see how hard you work to keep our family together. I feel like you would all be better off without me. If I weren't here, maybe Mom would come back home." I took a deep breath and tried to push down the anger that threatened to overwhelm me; anger at my mother for abandoning us, anger at myself for never being enough, and anger at a world that would leave my brother feeling like it would be better off if he didn't exist. I felt the wind off the lake as it blew across my face, drying my unshed tears before they were formed. As I was wondering how to unbreak my brother's heart, a particularly strong gust of wind blew through and Lane's fishing rod bent into a deep arc, the tip dancing wildly as a fish fought against the line. "Dad! Help;" The drag clicked furiously as the fish pulled line, as Lane fought to keep his rod tip up. I quickly set my rod aside and braced him, my hands held loosely beside his as he fought to reel in his catch. We worked together for what seemed like an eternity before he finally fought his fish to the side of the dock. I grabbed the net and saw that he had hooked a steelhead trout that was easily two feet long and must have weighed at least eight pounds if not more. It was a wonder the drag held steady, and his line didn't break during the fight. As I scooped up his catch, the steelhead's silver sides shimmered like polished chrome in the fading light, and it was so big that it took up over half the ice chest I had brought along to store our catch. Lane was flushed with excitement at landing such an impressive fish, and I was so proud of him that my heart almost ached. "Nice work, Son." He just looked up at me for a moment before throwing his arms around me in a hug. In the time since our mother left, he had never called me by anything other than my name. I never tried to be his dad; I didn't think I was qualified, but I guess that all of us need someone in our lives who will love us without conditions or end. "Never think that you're a burden on me or the family. Maybe you need a bit more from us right now than you can give back, but that's alright. Because sixty years from now, when I am old and can't wipe my ass anymore, you are going to be paying me back in spades, alright?" With that, we went back to fishing in companionable silence. I pulled in a few smaller ones, but nothing to match Lane's steelhead. A few hours later, the wind had picked up and it was getting colder, so we packed up our equipment and made our way back toward the house. Halfway down the dock, however, a huge gust of wind swept through, and I heard a cry followed by a loud splash. Turning back, I saw that Lane's foot had slipped through a broken slat, and he had fallen off the dock. Without thinking, I dropped the ice box and rods and jumped into the water to help him. When I got him to shore, he couldn't put any weight on his ankle, and any efforts to do so were met with cries of pain. I quickly collected our discarded fishing gear and set it to one side, before helping him to slowly make his way back up the hill. The November chill quickly took hold of us as we walked, plastering our damp clothing to our skin, and we were shivering uncontrollably by the time we reached the house. I knocked but it took a minute for Wilma and Mary to come out from the studio at the back of the house. "I am sorry to cut things short, but Lane had an accident down at the dock and he sprained or maybe even broke his ankle. I am going to have to take him to the hospital in Petoskey to get it looked at before it swells up any further." Wilma looked at me with concern. "Maybe you should hold off at least for a little while. My granddaughter, Erin, the pediatrician, is coming for dinner tonight and should be here any minute. Why don't we let her take a look at it before you head into town? And let's get you out of those clothes; you must be freezing. I still have some of Phillip's things in the closet that might fit you." A few minutes later, I had changed into a pair of comfortable but slightly musty-smelling pants, with a warm sweater over a well-worn collared shirt. I was both taller and wider than Phillip had been, at least in the twilight of his years, so the pants were a bit short, while the sweater was tight across my shoulders. While I changed, Mary and Wilma had set Lane up on the couch with his ankle elevated on some pillows. I helped him change out of his wet clothing and into an old sweatshirt and shorts that fit over his swollen ankle. Once Lane was settled, Wilma and I talked quietly in the kitchen. "It's getting late, and you must be getting hungry, but I don't think I have enough to feed everyone." I thought for a moment. "We may be in luck. Lane caught the biggest steelhead I have ever seen earlier this afternoon, but I left it down by the dock after the accident. If you have a few potatoes and maybe a veg or two, I am sure I can whip something up that would feed us all." Wilma looked at me with a sly smile. "He cooks, he plumbs, and he cares for his family, all while cutting a dashing figure in my late husband's favorite sweater. You, Mr. Crawford, are a catch." "I am not sure about that, Wilma," I replied with a laugh, "But either way, this catch had better go and get our earlier catch, so I can get started on dinner." It took me almost half an hour to collect our fishing gear and bring it back up to the truck. By the time I was done, an older SUV was parked behind my truck, which meant that Erin had arrived. After I loaded the gear, I used the fishing knife and stained plastic cutting board that I kept in a bin under the back seat to clean and filet the steelhead before heading inside. From the doorway, I could see a head of sandy-blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail sticking up from the far side of the couch, and I heard a calm and melodic voice talking to Lane while Wilma and Mary looked on. I was so lost in that voice that I almost jumped when the latch on the door caught behind me. The head of sandy-blonde hair looked up at the sound, revealing a pair of amber, almost golden eyes. "You must be the father," said that same melodic voice, as those eyes bore their way into my soul. "It's Davis Crawford, and I'm the older brother." "Erin Anderson, nice to meet you. Can you get hold of your parents? We might need to take Lane to the hospital for some X-rays." "No," I replied more harshly than I intended. "No," I tried again, more gently but with an edge to my voice. "Our parents aren't around; I am as close as you're going to get. I am Lane's legal guardian if that helps." There was a slight pause as her amber eyes shifted from surprise to curiosity. "That helps a lot. Why don't you give me 15 minutes or so to take a look at this brave dude's ankle, then we can talk over some options, once I have a better sense of what's going on." "That okay with you, Bud?" I asked as I walked over to the couch. "Yeah, that should be fine," he replied, but his eyes were wide, and his cheeks were flushed. For a moment, I was worried that he might be running a fever, but then I got my first look at Erin, and I understood. Maybe she wasn't classically beautiful like a movie star or swimsuit model, but she was lean and fit, and from what I could see, had more than enough curves in all the right places. It was her face, however, that captured me. She had delicate features accentuated by her high cheekbones, and there was a softness to her expression that spoke of empathy and kindness. Her eyes, though intense, had a warmth that put me instantly at ease. I realized much too late that I had been staring at Erin for an uncomfortably long time while holding the bag of steelhead filets out like some kind of sacrificial offering. While I stood frozen, the look in Erin's beautiful eyes had shifted from curiosity to amusement; I would assume at the fish-carrying simpleton standing in front of her. "Thanks, Dr. Anderson; err, Erin. I appreciate your taking a look at him and; I am going to go cook us up some fish before I make an even bigger ass of myself." Wilma joined me in the kitchen, while Erin continued to assess Lane's injured ankle. We spent the next few minutes dicing the potatoes and veggies and tossing them with some olive oil, salt, and pepper before sprinkling the filets of steelhead with a mixture of herbs. I topped the fish with some slices of a less-than-fresh, but still edible, lemon I found in the fridge, before putting the whole thing in the oven. To be continued in part 2. Based on a post by CleverGenericName, in 4 parts, for Literotica.

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Leigh Ann welcomes Kenna Limp, a holistic nutritionist and photobiomodulation therapist. They delve into Kenna's journey from traditional medicine to holistic healing, driven by her personal health challenges. The discussion highlights the transformative power of F-scan and Firefly Light Therapy in treating chronic conditions like endometriosis, neuropathy, and Lyme disease. Kenna shares insights on the importance of addressing underlying pathogens and toxins, and the role of light therapy in promoting cellular healing and reducing inflammation. The episode also explores the benefits of combining these therapies with nutrition and detox support for comprehensive healing.Product Discount Codes + Links2025 Holistic Holiday Gift Guide: HereHerbal Face Food: Website (Discount Code: LAL30)Prolon Fast-Mimicking Program: Website (Discount Link Gives 25% off) Healing Alchemy Membership: Learn MoreGuest InfoKenna Limp - Website (check out her website for 10% off Cellcore parasite cleanses)Kenna Limp - InstagramRelated EpisodesPodcast Ep. 192: Keelia Ryan - Sacred Plant MedicinePodcast Ep. 184: Karen Hurd - A Biochemist Dives Deep Into the Science of Detoxing at a Cellular Level, Debunking Common Detox MythsWork w/Leigh AnnLearn: What is EVOX Therapy?Book: Schedule a Session or FREE Discovery CallMembership: What is The Healing Alchemy MembershipConnect w/Me & Learn MoreWebsiteInstagramTiktokYoutube

It was an action-packed Wednesday night in the Premier League with six big games. Jamie Carrigaher and Daniel Sturridge react to Arne Slot's Liverpool rescue draw as Florian Wirtz denied his first Premier League strike. Sturridge thinks Liverpool need time to figure things out, and Slot doesn't know his best XI yet.Listen to every episode of the Sky Sports Premier League Podcast here: skysports.com/sky-sports-premier-league-podcastYou can listen to the Sky Sports Premier League Podcast on your smart speaker by saying "ask Global Player to play the Sky Sports Premier League Podcast".For all the latest football news, head to skysports.com/premier-leagueFor advertising opportunities email: skysportspodcasts@sky.uk

They might look like ordinary women as they Instacart from Bristol Farms or strengthen their core at morning pilates. You might be standing behind them in line at Starbucks as they order their half-cream, half-caff, no whip, no foam, triple-pump chai latte with oat milk. They seem to be everywhere once you know how to recognize them. They're the target demographic for Audible's Bestsellers list. They account for the bulk of spending on sites like Amazon and Skims. Ever wonder how it is that Goop still stays in business? They live in the Hamptons, Brentwood, or Malibu. They're married to talk show hosts like Jimmy Kimmel. Or they're married to themselves. They're having Thanksgiving in a gated community in Montecito. They're cloning duplicates who parrot the talking points of the coven like abortion is healthcare and no human is illegal, and trans women are women. They've taught them to be strident, demanding, and intolerant with standards too high for any man, job, or country to meet. Their world before was idyllic - a utopia that kept them at the top because they ordered this new world in such a way that nothing and no one threatened their power. The future is female. It's time for women to rule. White Dudes for Harris. They call it the Great Feminization, but really, it's a coven of witches.Just before Charlie Kirk's assassination, Jezebel and Etsy cast a dark spell on Charlie. Why? Because they couldn't shut him up. In their world, they decide what people can and can't say, think, buy, or do. They've taken down the “story,” but it still exists on the Wayback Machine:These days, witches cater to more than just personal grudges. And it's not uncommon for them to channel their energy toward thwarting Republicans (there's even a subreddit devoted to casting nightly hexes on Trump). Are you interested in punishing Kirk for the years of regressive rhetoric he's shouted at America's youth and anyone within earshot? Here at Jezebel, we're about to find out if there's a spell for that.And:After placing my first spell, “MAKE EVERYONE HATE HIM,” I was left with more questions than answers. How long would it take to kick in? Should I have splurged for a pricier spell to make it work faster? Shortly after, the witch messaged me trying to upsell me a $50 “spell booster.” When I asked what it did, she explained it would “amplify the energetic support” of the main spell, or else I could let it unfold “in its natural timing.” I decided to trust the witch's will.And her closing paragraph:Sunday, August 24, passed. Nothing. Monday, still nothing. Tuesday rolled around, and I began to wonder if I'd been scammed. But then I reminded myself: this is witchcraft, not Amazon. The forces operate on their own schedule.Megyn Kelly reported exclusively on how this affected Erika Kirk after Charlie was assassinated, leaving behind two small children and a widespread movement that touched millions:What bothers them so much about Erika Kirk, other than that she is brave, kind, beautiful, and true, is what I once believed about the Christian Right. I'd never be able to live like that, I always thought. Then I saw what happened to the Left, to all of us, without religion. Now, we are a movement that believes it's okay to sterilize children and mutilate their bodies without their consent. We treat abortion like it's an act of empowerment.Erika Kirk put her faith in God and in her husband. These are mortal sins to the Wicked Witches of the Left. Thou shalt have no God before ourselves. We are the power because we are empowered. But unfortunately, it has resulted in a movement ruled by and defined by evil and hatred. Jennifer Welch, a prominent Wicked Witch of the Left who podcasts alongside a Renfield-like puppet whose name no one knows but who nods along numbly as Welch spits out her invective - “I call him Canks,” she says about Trump after her “Cankles McTaco Tits” went viral. These are the same people who pearl clutch over Trump calling a reporter “Piggy.” Bill Madden and Marco Foster are two of the feminized men dominated by the witches. They do nothing but post the ugliest things all day long on social media. They have found their perfect voice now in Jennifer Welch.Here is Walter Kirn and Matt Taibbi on Jennifer Welch:After Charlie Kirk was assassinated, the witches and their compliant male counterparts decided it was more than justified to celebrate his death, to splash around in his blood like the Manson family after they hit the home of Sharon Tate. It didn't matter to them even a little bit, just as the near-assassination of Trump didn't matter. Even death didn't satiate the beast. Charlie's brutal assassination wasn't enough. They wanted — NEEDED — more. And so the witches convened once again, with Joy Reid, Jennifer Welch, and her sidekick, whose name no one will ever know or remember, to word-vomit about their perceived enemies. Megyn Kelly was having none of it:Even the Real Clear Politics gang had words (full video here):And here is Erika's response, the one Tom Bevan references:If the spell on Charlie Kirk was to “make everyone hate him,” then it failed. If it was to shut him up, it also failed. His message will carry on. He is more beloved today than he ever was in life. It turns out that love is harder to kill than even people. Love lives on in the hearts of all of us. It spreads. It unites us. It redeems us. Love was what hundreds of thousands expressed in the wake of Charlie's death and even now. Charlie's memory lives on in clips of his tiny daughter running into his arms. In how he told the story of meeting Erika:And how he explained Newton's laws to his baby.Or money matters:They believe those who do not agree with them must be gotten rid of, and nothing else will satisfy. They will use emotional blackmail, uniform caterwauling, non-stop whining and complaining, and all of the other ways women have learned over the millennia to drive society to the brink of madness, and none of it will work.Unfortunately for the Wicked Witches of the Left, their power is about as useful as their policies and their candidates. Limp, dull, flaccid.Women like I used to be and witches like they are tend to our needs and our fragility. For years, we treated ourselves to therapy, yoga, meditation, Oprah, de-aging, antidepressants, and keto.Eventually, when we fixed ourselves and attempted to raise our perfect children, we overprotected them. In the wake of Columbine and 911, everywhere we looked, we saw danger. We thought every man was a potential child molester. We worried about school shootings, we worried about microplastics and pollution. We thought we could protect our kids to raise them with high self-esteem, but we forgot about strength and resiliency.We abandoned that in ourselves, and we never taught it to our children.What I've learned coming out of this era is that you can't control the world. Even if, as women, as mothers, as wives, as business owners, we'd like to have complete control over everything because we believe we could create a perfect world, I eventually realized you can't. It's not possible. Trump came along because we needed to be reminded of what it is to survive things, events, tragedies, wars, and words. The answer is not to control everything and everyone. The answer is to be strong and just to survive.And that's why these women are now witches, huddled over their cauldron, chanting out that their spells will never succeed and never hold power. Because they can't survive. If they can't survive words, and they can't survive Trump, and they can't survive open debate and Charlie Kirk, then they most certainly can't be in charge of this country. All anyone had to do was listen to Charlie and hear what he had to say. If you disagreed, debate him. Yet, you can hear in their messaging who they thought he was, and this was the worst they could say about him, from Jezebel:A cornerstone of Kirk's nightmare ideology is his insistence that, since gaining more independence, Western women are more miserable than ever. He tells auditoriums full of young women that our freedom is a flaw, not an achievement. He's obsessed with declining birth rates and idealizes the 1950s, when women's only “job” was tending to children and husbands. If we all abandoned our careers and returned to motherhood, we'd be happier, according to Kirk. Indeed, he fails to realize that I would be happiest if he would just shut up.She could not offer up a stronger argument to the contrary because look at her. She is proof that he was right. She's miserable. Jennifer Welch is miserable. All of the witches are miserable. I was miserable too. I know what it is to live the feminist lie, and I know what it is to look back at my life with regret. How can they sell that to young women? The Jezebel writer consoled herself with a petition that was launched on the Utah campus that would become the site of Charlie's murder. The petition was launched on Friday, August 22, and had already been signed over 3,800 times. Could this be the “MAKE EVERYONE HATE HIM” at work?”But the petition grew to 6,829, all of them in agreement that the university should prevent Charlie from speaking:Sign this petition to send a clear message that we stand united for a university that upholds the tenets of inclusivity, respect, and enlightenment. Let us work together to ensure that Utah State University remains a campus where all students feel safe, valued, and respected.Yeah, shutting him up by any means necessary sure sounds like “inclusivity, respect, and enlightenment” to me. Sounds more like the very definition of fascism, “conform or else.”These wicked witches and so much of the Left's once-mighty empire invented a version of Charlie Kirk that never existed and transformed him into a monster of their own making. They wanted to send a message to anyone who might think about disagreeing with them, on a college campus, no less. What are they teaching these kids? Not free speech or open debate.They invent monsters, chase those monsters, and then act shocked when loser nobodies pick up a gun and become their heroes. No, they aren't shocked. They are grateful. They should heed the wise words of Friedrich Nietzsche:Welcome to the abyss, Wicked Witches of the Left.//Tip JarMusic… This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.sashastone.com/subscribe

Short rest, tired bodies and a prime time Joe Burrow vs. Lamar Jackson AFC North showdown in Baltimore for the holiday. Luke Jones and Nestor limp into Thanksgiving with many concerns for the Ravens as the quarterbacks step up in weight class for the emerging defense and No. 8 tries to play through the pain. The post Luke Jones and Nestor limp into Thanksgiving with Lamar and Burrow concerns as Ravens host Bengals first appeared on Baltimore Positive WNST.

Limp...Tso...School...

Härmatisehõngulist sügissaadet alustasime kurikuulsat ERR-i isadepäeva episoodi kommenteerides ning Hando käivitas hakklihamasina. Mariann leidis et mõista “traditsiooniline perekond” võiks tähendada õnnelikku perekonda. Kus on aga see poliitik, kes on võtnud oma ülesandeks praeguse ajastu kõige suurema pettuse paljastamise?   Tähelepanu said ka laste ja noorte vaimne tervis, Von der Leyeni luureihalus, Limp Bizkiti kontsert ja putinism, Trump ja Epsteini failid, kanepi seadustamise tagajärjed Saksamaal, siga pidava naabri peale koputamine, Zelenskõi (ja) sõprade korruptsiooniskandaal, riiklik sõjahirmu vähendamise kampaania, e-valimised, tervisekassa geniaalne idee, kuidas arstid saavad haiguste pealt teenida ja sularaha keelustamine. Ning muidugi rääkisime põgusalt ka nädala pärast toimuvast vandenõude konverentsist Red Pill Eesti ning Marianni äsja ilmunud “Kobakäpa raamatust”, mis on osa eile alanud tellimiskampaaniast – telli Telegram.ee 6 kuuks (50€) ja saad kingituseks Marianni raamatu “Kobakäpa raamat ehk ebaõnnestumise headus (ja teadus)” Pilgrim Kirjastuselt (väärtus 18€)!  

Maharal Netzach Yisroel- Chapter 16 Part 1 (Why does Yaakov limp) by Rabbi Avi Zakutinsky

On episode 211 of the Sofa Kingdom Podcast Ian brother Shea returns   Find more Sofa Kingdom Podcast at SofaKingdomOfc on instagram https://www.instagram.com/sofakingdomofc/ Audio podcast is on all major podcast platforms just search "Sofa Kingdom Podcast"   General topics this episode Arrested Development, Michael Cera, sisu, Eddie Murphy, Golden Child,  AI music, The Witcher, Highlander, George RR Martin, Steven Seagal,     

Sunday Morning Worship with co-pastors Russ and Amy Jacks Dean. Join co-pastors Russ and Amy Jacks Dean each week for Sunday Morning Worship from Park Road Baptist Church in Charlotte, NC. As a progressive faith community, we embrace independent thought, community service, and social justice. Whether you're a longtime member or a first-time listener, we invite you to reflect, grow, and worship with us. For more information, visit ParkRoadBaptist.org. Find us on Social Media: @ParkRoadChurch Music used by permission of - OneLicense.net #A-721391

Gen. 33-35Sermon 11/16/2025Sermon Notes: https://www.opendoorcommunity.net/uploads/6/3/0/8/63085847/11-16-25.pdfMap: https://www.opendoorcommunity.net/uploads/6/3/0/8/63085847/map.pngEmail: PastorKenWilson@gmail.comWebSite: https://www.opendoorcommunity.net/YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/c/OpenDoorCommunityChurchAugustaFaceBook: https://www.facebook.com/OpenDoorCommunityAugustaDonations: https://www.opendoorcommunity.net/donations.html

Its a Best Of Episode this week: We give it our best shot this week despite some technical issues! We have a full show, talking the best movies to go in blind, the best made for dvd/streaming sequels, and more! Plus we talk about the awesomeness that is Micro Wrestling! All that plus so much more!

FULL SHOW : AC/DC MCG Tonight, so Cherry Bar owner James Young is with us and he's excited!!! What are the worst ideas the AFL has had? Roo had dinner at his parents house and Dave Hughes will talk Carlton in Sydney. Catch Mick in the Morning LIVE from 6-9am weekdays on 105.1 Triple M. To watch your favourite new Breakfast Radio crew in action, follow @molloy and @triplemmelb on InstagramSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

The Alan Cox Show

The Alan Cox ShowSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Pain near the posteromedial tibia is common in running and jumping athletes. Laura Anderson, physiotherapist and PhD candidate, is challenging the diagnostic labels "shin splits" and "medial tibial stress syndrome", and suggesting a new term: "load-induced medial leg pain" (LIMP). In today's episode, Laura explores ways to improve how you diagnose and manage shin pain in athletes, including how you talk with athletes about their condition. She discusses loading, red flags and the role of running retraining. ------------------------------ RESOURCES Diagnosing medial tibial stress syndrome (including flow diagram): https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/28179260/ Re-naming MTSS as Load Induced Medial Leg Pain (LIMP): https://www.jospt.org/doi/10.2519/jospt.2025.13411 Effectiveness of running gait retraining - systematic review: https://www.jospt.org/doi/10.2519/jospt.2022.10585

Rev Tim Udouj

Hast Ricky Sacks is joined by Ricard Cracknell, Jason McGovern and Marlon as a goal in each half from Fabian Schar and Nick Woltemade gave the Magpies a 2-0 fourth-round win on a difficult night for us at St James' Park where, although we had more possession and more shots on target than our hosts, we didn't really get going. Independent Multi-Award Winning Tottenham Hotspur Fan Channel (Podcast) providing instant post-match analysis and previews to every single Spurs match along with a range of former players, managers & special guests. Whilst watching our content we would greatly appreciate if you can LIKE the video and SUBSCRIBE to the channel, along with leaving a COMMENT below. - DIRECT CHANNEL INFORMATION: - Media/General Enquiries: lastwordonspurs@outlook.com - SOCIALS: * Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/LastWordOnSpurs * Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/LastWordOnSpurs * Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LastWordOnSpurs * YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/c/LastWordOnSpurs *Threads: https://www.threads.net/@lastwordonspurs *BlueSky: https://bsky.app/profile/lastwordonspurs.bsky.social WEBSITE: www.lastwordonspurs.com #THFC #TOTTENHAM #SPURS Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

JOIN US FOR THE MEMBERS-ONLY BONUS SHOW IMMEDIATELY AFTER THIS MAIN SHOW: INSERT HERE:   https://youtube.com/live/9GXwbGpx_4QJOIN OUR COMMUNITY! Exclusive Members-only content & perks! Only ~16 cents/day! $5/month! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC-GqXHAdxVUVMw2F_7h_X3Q/join Secretary of WAR Pete Hegseth's speech to America's gathered Generals and Admirals this past September 30 continues to send shock waves through our great nation's military services, driving a much-needed shake-up through the forces sworn to defend our Constitution against ALL enemies, foreign AND domestic. My good friend Kurt Schlichter, a military veteran and retired Colonel from the Army, yesterday published his excellent take on all this, and that's what I'll be sharing with all of you today. Join me LIVE at 11 AM ET as Kurt and I break it all down!“Fat Loser Generals Can Get Bent” – Kurt Schlichter, Townhallhttps://townhall.com/columnists/kurtschlichter/2025/10/24/fat-loser-generals-can-get-bent-n2665400I also invite each of YOU to join me in our desperate but worthy mission to save our great nation. The easiest way to do that? SUBSCRIBE! SUBSCRIBE! SUBSCRIBE! EVEN BETTER, BECOME A CHANNEL MEMBER! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC-GqXHAdxVUVMw2F_7h_X3Q/join : -)Episode 1055

Can the 49ers put another game in the bank with their M.A.S.H. unit? Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See https://pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Boomer reacts to the NYC mayoral debate. Chauncey Billups hit with mafia-linked poker charges. Pickles in bags? Limp pickles? C-Lo updates on Knicks' win over the Cavs. Steve Somers goes full phlegm on BT & Sal, while Trey Hendrickson claims Pound Town Drive. Plus, Knicks' Mitchell Robinson questions linger as Somers' on-air headphone woes get a revisit!

We hope you enjoy this shiur. If you would like to sponsor or dedicate any of our shiurim or help with the running costs please do not hesitate to get in contact with us at office@rabbiroodyn.com or WhatsApp +447791221449May Hashem heal the wounded, free the captives and lead our soldiers to a swift and painless victory.#jew #jewish #torah #torahfortoughtimes #rabbiroodyn #bringthemhome #rabbi #torahanytime #Judaism #Israel #shiur #responsetotragictimes #jewishunderstanding

Ecoutez RTL Matin avec Thomas Sotto du 15 octobre 2025.Hébergé par Audiomeans. Visitez audiomeans.fr/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.

In a game with an improved outing by the defense, the Baltimore Ravens did not have enough on offense to keep pace with the Los Angeles Rams. The Ravens lose and are 1-5 heading in the bye week. Conventional hoping says that Lamar Jackson returning to the lineup is the only hope on the other side of the bye. #nfl #ravensflock #baltimoreravens #losangelesrams Join us in YouTube Membership: https://www.youtube.com/c/410SportsTalk Follow us on social media: Instagram: @410sportstalk X (Twitter): @410_sportstalk Check out our merch: https://410-sports-talk.creator-spring.com/ Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This Make It Happen Monday is your permission slip to stop “limping along.” Jackie shares a personal story about a family health scare that exposed a sneaky belief: “it has to take a long time to rebuild.” Through a faith-forward mindset, forgiveness statements, and EFT tapping, she reframes hardship as a moment, not a life sentence. You'll learn how to identify “get back to where I was” language (a hallmark of unresolved trauma), write forgiveness and permission statements, reconnect to God as your Source, and move from survival to spiritual strength—without burning out. If you've been carrying it all yourself, this episode helps you remember who you are: a daughter of the Most High, designed to be supported, resourced, and wildly blessed. Key Takeaways “Limping along” is a mindset—not your identity. “Get back” language often signals unprocessed trauma; God leads you forward. Forgiveness statements create emotional release; permission statements restore power. You're designed to co-create with God—carried, guided, and provided for. Tapping accelerates breakthroughs without bypassing hard emotions. Timestamps / Chapters 00:00 Intro: What you think must be “hard & slow” 02:05 Story: Hospital, “limping along,” and the trigger moment 06:40 Spotting “get back” language + why it keeps you stuck 09:15 Faith lens: God doesn't limp—He multiplies 12:10 The tools: Forgiveness statements & permission statements 16:20 EFT tapping: release → remember → rebuild 20:35 Parts-of-Self: the burnt-out protector vs. the led creator 24:10 Build Without Burnout: being carried vs. controlling 28:00 Activation & affirmations you can speak today 30:30 How to go deeper with Jackie (membership + class) Try-It-Now Prompts “I forgive myself for believing __________.” (write 5–10) “I give myself permission to __________.” (write 5–10) Affirm: “I'm not limping; I'm led. I'm carried, supported, and supplied.” Pull Quotes “This is a hard moment, not a hard life.” “There's no going back—only forward with God.” “You don't hustle your way into healing; you're carried into it.” Resources & Links Join the Make It Happen Membership (today's full tapping session included): https://jackie-mcdonald.mykajabi.com/make-it-happen-membership Enroll in Build Without Burnout (this week): https://jackie-mcdonald.mykajabi.com/offers/Qj9TvP3o/checkout Connect on IG: @thejackiemcdonald | YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@thejackiemcdonald | Podcast page: https://www.jackiemcdonald.ca/podcast Tiktok: https://www.tiktok.com/@thejackiemcdonald Call to ActionIf this shifted your mindset, share it with a friend who needs the reminder: you're carried, not crushed. Screenshot & tag @thejackiemcdonald so Jackie can cheer you on.

HOUR #4 The Drive's Thirsty Thursday WEEK 5 - Ravens Limp Into Sunday vs Texans with PLETHORA of Injuries; AND- T-Mil's BEST BET$ TNF! full 2395 Fri, 03 Oct 2025 00:45:17 +0000 Ggt0PRB4gQzCUI0cZ6t2vSoYHa5vBvhX nfl,mlb,nba,baltimore ravens,afc,cj stroud,houston texans,ravens,demeco ryans,afc south,nfl news,texans,astros,rockets,mlb news,nba news,stroud,sports The Drive with Stoerner and Hughley nfl,mlb,nba,baltimore ravens,afc,cj stroud,houston texans,ravens,demeco ryans,afc south,nfl news,texans,astros,rockets,mlb news,nba news,stroud,sports HOUR #4 The Drive's Thirsty Thursday WEEK 5 - Ravens Limp Into Sunday vs Texans with PLETHORA of Injuries; AND- T-Mil's BEST BET$ TNF! 2-6PM M-F © 2025 Audacy, Inc. Sports

Max Rushden is joined by Barry Glendenning, Nicky Bandini and Jonathan Wilson as Liverpool lose back to back games, Spurs are lucky to win a point in Norway and Chelsea welcome back José Mourinho to Stamford Bridge. Help support our independent journalism at theguardian.com/footballweeklypod

Just yesterday, at least 40 people were killed in a stampede at Vijay, an Indian superstar's, political rally. Improve your English with this horrible tragedy.✅ Speak Better English With Me https://brentspeak.as.me/

Teachhoops.com⁠ ⁠https://coachingyouthhoops.com/season-checklist/⁠ ⁠GameChanger Website⁠ ⁠Dr Dish Website⁠ ⁠CoachingYouthHoops.com⁠ ⁠https://forms.gle/kQ8zyxgfqwUA3ChU7⁠ ⁠Coach Collins Coaching Store⁠ Check out.  [Teachhoops.com](⁠https://teachhoops.com/⁠) 14 day Free Trial Youth Basketball Coaches Podcast Apple link: ⁠https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/coaching-youth-hoops/id1619185302⁠ Spotify link: ⁠https://open.spotify.com/show/0g8yYhAfztndxT1FZ4OI3A⁠ ⁠Funnel Down Defense Podcast⁠ ⁠https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/funnel-down-defense/id1593734011⁠ Want More ⁠Funnel Down Defense⁠ ⁠https://coachcollins.podia.com/funnel-down-defense⁠ [Facebook Group . Basketball Coaches](⁠https://www.facebook.com/groups/basketballcoaches/)⁠ [Facebook Group . Basketball Drills](⁠https://www.facebook.com/groups/321590381624013/)⁠ Want to Get a Question Answered? [ Leave a Question here](⁠https://www.speakpipe.com/Teachhoops⁠) Check out our other podcast [High School Hoops ](⁠https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/high-school-hoops-coaching-high-school-basketball/id1441192866⁠) Check out our Sponsors [HERE](https://drdishbasketball.com/) Mention Coach Unplugged and get 350 dollars off your next purchase basketball resources free basketball resources Coach Unplugged Basketball drills, basketball coach, basketball workouts, basketball dribbling drills,  ball handling drills, passing drills, shooting drills, basketball training equipment, basketball conditioning, fun basketball games, basketball jerseys, basketball shooting machine, basketball shot, basketball ball, basketball training, basketball camps, youth basketball, youth basketball leagues, basketball recruiting, basketball coaching jobs, basketball tryouts, basketball coach, youth basketball drills, The Basketball Podcast, How to Coach Basketball, Funnel Down Defense FDD Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Ben Ennis and Brent Gunning kick off the week by celebrating the Blue Jays clinching a postseason spot! They gauge their concern following a lacklustre weekend in Kansas City, before sharing their take on the team's decision to move José Berríos to the bullpen. Does Friday's shellacking change how you feel about Max Scherzer's place in the playoff rotation? They guys also weigh in on the American League Central as the Guardians continue to close the gap on the Tigers. Later on, Ben and Brent shift gears to hockey as the Maple Leafs kicked off their preseason against the Senators. They share their thoughts on the team's 4-3 victory, what role Nick Robertson will play this season, and where Max Domi best fits on the roster. The morning duo wrap up the hour with a look back on Week 3 in the NFL following an action-packed Sunday!The views and opinions expressed in this podcast are those of the hosts and guests and do not necessarily reflect the position of Rogers Sports & Media or any affiliates.

I love Jeff's raw honesty as he discusses depression, loss, and being used around the world through his writing, broadcasting, and traveling ministry (not to mention his humour!). It's pure gold! Make sure to listen to this one.▶️ Watch this episode on YouTube hereCheck out www.jefflucas.org---

Chris is back from San Diego and we also return to the Fart Dungeon. We talk about Chris's voyage to San Diego, his newfound love for Petco Park and watching a dog surfing competition. But, this is a Cincinnati Reds podcast and we talk about the successes in San Diego and the massive failures in Sacramento. The ups and downs of the lineup, bullpen and starting pitching and how we look going down the stretch. Billy thinks we're toast but Chris thinks "the worms will turn". What do you think they'll do down the stretch? Also, Will Benson reigned this week, so why did he get pulled on Sunday?! The show is brought to you by Cincy Light, the flavor of Cincinnati!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Fred Sewell

September 12th, 2025 - We welcome back Dr. Anthony Stine to talk the trans connection in recent atrocities. Then we're joined by Dr. Sean Walsh to discuss academia, AI, and the depravity of reality. TheStationOfTheCross.com/ACT  

Tottenham have tasted defeat in the Premier League for the fist time under Thomas Frank after a hugely disappointing performance against Bournemouth at White Hart Lane. Not even the pre-match unveiling of Xavi Simons could inspire this Tottenham team to victory as they registered just one shot on target across the entire match. The international break curse lives on. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

This one was a long time coming. I finally got to sit down with Joey Campanelli — aka Joey Camps — who's been quietly putting together one of the wildest, most hardcore FKT resumes in existence. From a 2014 Appalachian Trail junk show with a ski pack and trench foot, to the 2017 self-supported AT finish that just happened to be three days behind Stringbean's historic run… Joey's stories are brutal, honest, and somehow hilarious.Consider supporting my fundraising efforts for the Trevor Project: https://give.thetrevorproject.org/JeffATWe dig into:Why he sucks at running (his words)Getting into FKTs by way of Ironman, Utah mountains, and ultra-running girlfriendsThe infamous "Limp-a-thon" after tearing his quad on the ATHow to do 50-mile days in pain… for weeksThe mindset behind Nolan's 14 and why he slept in an altitude tent for itNutrition strategies involving watch alarms and resupply math in gas stationsWhat it's like being second-fastest ever on the AT… in the same year someone breaks the recordChapters:00:00 – Intro & Joey's FKT Origin Story03:30 – The AT Junk Show & Learning the Hard Way06:00 – The Limp-a-thon: Injury, Grit, and Nearly Beating Stringbean10:30 – Post-FKT Fallout & Mental Recovery13:00 – Nolan's 14: Obsession, Altitude Tents, and 41 Hours of Glory17:00 – Fueling, Mindset, and Why You Go All InSubscribe to Substack: http://freeoutside.substack.comSupport this content on patreon: HTTP://patreon.com/freeoutsideBuy my book "Free Outside" on Amazon: https://amzn.to/39LpoSFEmail me to buy a signed copy of my book, "Free Outside" at jeff@freeoutside.comWatch the movie about setting the record on the Colorado Trail: https://tubitv.com/movies/100019916/free-outsideWebsite: www.Freeoutside.comInstagram: thefreeoutsidefacebook: www.facebook.com/freeoutside

PRAY FOR:THOSE WHO HIDE THEIR SINTHOSE WHO HIDE THEIR WOUNDSTHOSE WHO HIDE THEIR INADEQUACIESTHOSE WHO HIDE THEIR FEARSTHOSE WHO HIDE THEIR SIN (SAID THAT ALREADY)THOSE WHO SEGMENT THEIR FAITHTHOSE WHO CONFORMTHOSE WHO SETTLETHOSE WHO LIMP ALONG IN LIFETHOSE WHO AVOID AND IGNORETHOSE WHO NEED HEALINGTHOSE WHO ARE COUNTERPRODUCTIVE TO THE KINGDOMTHOSE WHO ARE DETRIMENTAL TO OUR WITNESSTHOSE WHO ARE FRAUDS

Pastor Mike Haman continues in the "Follow Me" series by encouraging us on how to allow God to sustain us through our seasons of pain and struggle.

This episode of Dirty Little Secret on The Jubal Show dives into not one, but two jaw-dropping secrets. One caller has been faking an injury for 25 years, and another may have accidentally cost her friend $6,000 on their wedding day — all for a “hot” moment she couldn’t resist.

This episode of Dirty Little Secret on The Jubal Show dives into not one, but two jaw-dropping secrets. One caller has been faking an injury for 25 years, and another may have accidentally cost her friend $6,000 on their wedding day — all for a “hot” moment she couldn’t resist.

Get Pasterds Merch @ Meaningless Apparel: https://meaninglessapparel.etsy.com   PASTERDS LINKS: Pasterds Website: www.ingloriouspasterds.com Pasterds Twitter: www.twitter.com/PasterdsPodcast Michael Twitter: www.twitter.com/mjbaysinger Pasterds Threads: https://www.threads.net/ingloriouspasterds Michael Threads: https://www.threads.net/mjbaysinger Matt Threads: https://www.threads.net/the_big_lemattski Josh Threads: https://www.threads.net/thejmcasey Lucas Threads: https://www.threads.net/lucallen Instagram: www.instagram.com/ingloriouspasterds Facebook: www.facebook.com/pasterdspodcast   SUPPORT US ON PATREON TO JOIN THE PASTERDS PUB: http://www.patreon.com/pasterdspodcast WANT MORE HOT CONTENT?!? HEAD OVER TO PATREON TO GET ACCESS TO OUR ARCHIVED SPINOFF PODCASTS: Tao Te Matt, Deep Thoughts w/ Michael, Rumi-nations, Hymns of Reconstruction, TERD Talk & More!  http://www.patreon.com/pasterdspodcast  

How did YOU hurt yourself on vacation??? + WAR of the roses! 2nd DATE UPDATE! Johnjay's got a (dorky) game for you! + SOmuchMORE!!See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Thom Tillis finally showed some backbone and opposed Trump—because of the giant Medicaid cuts in the Big Fugly Bill—but now he has to self-deport from the Senate. Meanwhile, the bill funds a giant internal police force for Trump, and gives a handout to the Dr. Strangeloves of Silicon Valley who don't want AI regulated. It would also cripple wind and solar energy, which even the ex-shadow president says is insane and destructive. Plus, ICE's racial and ethnic targeting, the plutocrats are the biggest suck-ups, and Peter Thiel—the man who gave us JD Vance—isn't sure he wants the human race to continue.  Bill Kristol joins Tim Miller. show notes Bill's "Bulwark on Sunday" interview with Tom Joscelyn Douthat's interview with Thiel