I TURN TO YOU

I Turn To You lyrics
Songwriters: Warren, Diane;

When I'm lost in the rain
In your eyes I know I'll find the light
To light my way, when I'm scared losing ground
When my world is going crazy you can turn it all around
And when I'm down you're there pushing me to the top
You're always there giving me all you've got

For a shield, from the storm for a friend, for a love
To keep me safe and warm, I turn to you
For the strength to be strong, for the will to carry on
For everything you do, for everything that's true, I turn to you

When I lose the will to win
I just reach for you and I can reach the sky again
I can do anything 'cause your love is so amazing
'Cause your love inspires me
And when I need a friend you're always on my side
Giving me faith taking me through the night

For a shield, from the storm, for a friend, for a love
To keep me safe and warm, I turn to you
For the strength to be strong and for the will to carry on
For everything you do I turn to you yeah

For the arms to be my shelter through all the rain
For truth that will never change for someone to lean on
But for a heart I can rely on through anything
For the one who I can run to oh I turn to you

For a shield from the storm, for a friend, for a love
To keep me safe and warm, I turn to you
For the strength to be strong, for the will to carry on
For everything you do, for everything that's true
For everything you do, for everything that's true, I turn to you

William Wilson

If you want to read Poe's original story, click here:

http://poestories.com/read/williamwilson

Strange Jobs

Strange Jobs Pay The Bills

Do you know what a celluloid trimmer does? Is the job of "Odor Judger" as bad as it sounds? Here's a sampling of some of the strange jobs out there.

Enlarge Image

Have you had some strange jobs in your life? Years ago I stole cars as a repo-man, had some adventures as an investigative process-server, and even handed out samples in grocery stores. Here are some other unusual jobs you can aspire to:

Wrinkle Chaser

This is the person that irons wrinkles from shoes as they are being made to ensure they are perfectly smooth when you buy them.

Chicken Sexer

This is a real job title. A chicken sexer sorts through baby chicks to determine if they are male or female, and then segregate them.

Citrus Fruit Colorer

A Citrus Fruit Colorer, with the help of steam and chemicals, gives citrus fruit a more natural coloring, because fruit is usually picked before it is fully ripe.

Celluloid Trimmer

A Celluloid Trimmer shaves down a golf club and then adds celluloid bands onto the golf clubs to make the leather grip stay in place.

Odor Judgers

Want to smell armpits all day to help make effective deodorants? I'm not sure why somebody other than some strange fetishist would want this job.

Furniture Tester

Now here's a good one. The La-z-Boy Company (and probably others) employs furniture testers to check out their recliners. Want to relax for a living?

Cowpuncher

You can herd, castrate and brand cattle. Then, when you get bored castrating cattle, you can repair fences, watering troughs and do other maintenance work on the ranch.

Alligator Wrangler

This is more of a dangerous job than a strange one, and probably not worth the pay, unless you get a T.V. show like the The Crocodile Hunter.

This is just a small sampling of the weird jobs out there. I understand that sumo-wrestlers need helpers in the bathroom, for example, and a friend of mine once had a job painting "Brake Release" on those little handles all day. Then there are the strange businesses you can start, but that's another story.

Steve Gillman has had an interest in all the many ways to make money since childhood. You can read about more strange businesses and jobs at his website:http://www.UnusualWaysToMakeMoney.com

Dangerous Jobs

Horrors of the Road by Fay weldon

Novelist, playwright and screenwriter Fay Weldon was born on 22 September 1931. She was brought up in New Zealand and returned to the United Kingdom when she was ten. She read Economics and Psychology at the University of St Andrews in Scotland, and worked briefly for the Foreign Office in London, then as a journalist, before beginning a successful career as an advertising copywriter. She gave up her career in advertising, and began to write full-time. Her first novel, The Fat Woman's Joke, was published in 1967. Fay Weldon is a former member of both the Arts Council literary panel and the film and video panel of Greater London Arts. She was Chair of the Judges for the Booker Prize for Fiction in 1983, and received an honorary doctorate from the University of St Andrews in 1990. She was awarded a CBE in 2001.

Click here to read a review by The New York Times:
http://www.nytimes.com/2003/12/07/books/notable-books.html?scp=2&sq=fay+weldon+%2B+the+garden+party&st=nyt

The Garden Party

If you want to read about Maeve Bincgy you can visit her site:

Click this link and go directly to it:

http://www.maevebinchy.com/

BRITISH MEALS

The first meal of the day in the morning is breakfast (usually eaten between about 7:30 and 9:00). Many British people eat toast with butter or margarine and jam (often strawberry, raspberry, apricot or blackcurrant jam), marmalade (a type of jam made from oranges) or Marmite (a dark brown spread made from yeast). Melon, grapefruit or fruit cocktail are popular. Others eat a bowl of cereal; for example, cornflakes or muesli with milk, or porridge (a mixture of oats, hot milk and sugar). A traditional English breakfast (also known as a cooked breakfast or a fry-up) is a cooked meal which may contain food such as sausages, bacon, kippers (herring - a type of fish - which has been covered in salt and smoked), black pudding, scrambled or fried or poached egg (for details about how to cook a poached egg, see: http://www.perfectpoachedegg.com), mushrooms, fried tomatoes, baked beans, hash browns and toast. People sometimes eat a boiled egg, dipping (dunking) strips of toast (soldiers) into the egg yolk. A continental breakfast is a small meal and is not cooked; for example, a bread roll or croissant with cheese or ham and a cup of coffee. The most common drinks at this time of day are orange juice or a cup of breakfast tea.

Many people have a tea-break at about 11:00 in the morning (elevenses). If a meal is eaten in the late morning instead of both breakfast and lunch, it is called brunch.

Lunch (sometimes called more formally luncheon) is the meal eaten in the middle of the day (usually between about 12:30 and 2:00). Many people eat a sandwich (also known as a butty or sarnie in some parts of the UK). Some people have a simple meal such as cheese and biscuits or soup and bread. A ploughman's lunch is a traditional lunch for farmers: a bread roll, Cheddar cheese, Branston pickle and salad, perhaps with a pork pie. It is also traditional for people to go to a pub with some friends for a pub lunch and a drink.

A Sunday roast is a traditional meal eaten by a family at Sunday lunchtime; for example, roast beef with roast potatoes, parsnips, peas, Brussels sprouts, green beans, Yorkshire pudding, bread sauce and gravy. Mint sauce or redcurrant jelly is often eaten with lamb, apple sauce with pork, and horseradish sauce (a type of mustard) with beef, cranberry sauce with turkey. Stuffing may be eaten with chicken or turkey.

A Christmas lunch: turkey, bacon, bread sauce, sprouts, potatoes

                                                          



Shepherd's pie,


                                                                                                                 



                                                                                   

Bangers (sausages) and mash potatoes

Ploughman's lunch                           

                                                                
 Roast beef, roast potatoes, green beans and gravy

            Fish and chips


Tea-time is a small meal eaten in the late afternoon (usually between about 3:30 and 5:00). People may drink tea, and often eat biscuits (American English: cookies), cakes or savoury foods such as sandwiches, crumpets or tea-cakes. Occasionally people may have a full afternoon tea or a cream tea: this includes a scone with jam and cream (usually either whipped cream or thick clotted cream) as well as a selection of sandwiches and cakes. For an example of a traditional afternoon tea menu, see the Ritz Hotel's site: http://www.theritzhotel.co.uk/tea/teamenu.asp

High tea is a light meal eaten in the early evening (for example, 6 o'clock) served with a pot of tea; this is popular in north England and Scotland. Supper is the most common name for the meal eaten in the evening (usually between 7:00 and 8:30). Dinner is another common name for supper, but sometimes it is also used to refer to lunch, especially when this is the main meal of the day. A dinner party is a formal evening meal to which guests have been invited. A common type of cooked meal in Britain is meat and two veg. This is a meat dish served together on the same plate with two types of vegetable, one of which is often a type of potato. It is common to eat a dessert (also known as a pudding, or informally as afters) after the main dish. You can see an example of a traditional English restaurant menu from the website of Rules, the oldest restaurant in London: http://www.rules.co.uk/rest/mfmenu.html.

Rice pudding

Fruit crumble and custard

                                             Trifle                                           

It is increasingly popular for British people get a takeaway or go to a restaurant instead of cooking at home, and often this is used as a chance to try different types of food. Most towns have an Indian restaurant, serving foods such as curry and chicken tikka masala. Chinese restaurants are also very common; popular dishes include sweet and sour pork and aromatic duck. Many people like Italian pizza and pasta dishes. Fast food restaurants often serve beefburgers or fried chicken. Fish and chip shops are still popular, especially in towns by the coast. There is an old tradition of eating fish on Friday.

British people enjoy eating snacks between meals. These include sweets (American English: candy) and crisps (American English: chips).

A Municipal Report

O. Henry

O. Henry (1862-1910) was the pen name of American author William Sidney Porter, a native of Greensboro, North Carolina, and more to his nature, a gypsy soul, who at various points in his life, was a bank teller, cowboy, sheep herder, merchant, miner, druggist, and journalist—as well as a convicted embezzler.

While in prison, Porter began writing short stories to help generate income in order to support his daughter Margaret. His numerous tales are renowned for their wit, wordplay, warm characterization, and twist endings. In fact, in literary parlance, an unexpected or surprising dénouement within any short piece of fiction is often referred to as an ‘O. Henry ending.’

http://www.manythings.org/voa/stories/A_Municipal_Report_-_By_O_Henry.html

Our story today is called "A Municipal Report." It was written by O. Henry and first published in nineteen-oh-four. Here is Shep O'Neal with the story.

(MUSIC)

STORYTELLE: It was raining as I got off the train in Nashville, Tennessee -- a slow, gray rain. I was tired so I went straight to my hotel.

A big, heavy man was walking up and down in the hotel lobby. Something about the way he moved made me think of a hungry dog looking for a bone. He had a big, fat, red face and a sleepy expression in his eyes. He introduced himself as Wentworth Caswell -- Major Wentworth Caswell -- from "a fine southern family." Caswell pulled me into the hotel's barroom and yelled for a waiter. We ordered drinks. While we drank, he talked continually about himself, his family, his wife and her family. He said his wife was rich. He showed me a handful of silver coins that he pulled from his coat pocket.

By this time, I had decided that I wanted no more of him. I said good night.

I went up to my room and looked out the window. It was ten o'clock but the town was silent. "A nice quiet place," I said to myself as I got ready for bed. Just an ordinary, sleepy southern town."

I was born in the south myself. But I live in New York now. I write for a large magazine. My boss had asked me to go to Nashville. The magazine had received some stories and poems from a writer in Nashville, named Azalea Adair. The editor liked her work very much. The publisher asked me to get her to sign an agreement to write only for his magazine.

I left the hotel at nine o'clock the next morning to find Miss Adair. It was still raining. As soon as I stepped outside I met Uncle Caesar. He was a big, old black man with fuzzy gray hair.

Uncle Caesar was wearing the strangest coat I had ever seen. It must have been a military officer's coat. It was very long and when it was new it had been gray. But now rain, sun and age had made it a rainbow of colors. Only one of the buttons was left. It was yellow and as big as a fifty cent coin.

Uncle Caesar stood near a horse and carriage. He opened the carriage door and said softly, "Step right in, sir. I'll take you anywhere in the city."

"I want to go to eight-sixty-one Jasmine Street," I said, and I started to climb into the carriage. But the old man stopped me. "Why do you want to go there, sir? "

"What business is it of yours?" I said angrily. Uncle Caesar relaxed and smiled. "Nothing, sir. But it's a lonely part of town. Just step in and I'll take you there right away."

Eight-sixty-one Jasmine Street had been a fine house once, but now it was old and dying. I got out of the carriage.

"That will be two dollars, sir," Uncle Caesar said. I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them to him, I noticed that one had been torn in half and fixed with a piece of blue paper. Also, the upper right hand corner was missing.

Azalea Adair herself opened the door when I knocked. She was about fifty years old. Her white hair was pulled back from her small, tired face. She wore a pale yellow dress. It was old, but very clean.

Azalea Adair led me into her living room. A damaged table, three chairs and an old red sofa were in the center of the floor.

Azalea Adair and I sat down at the table and began to talk. I told her about the magazine's offer and she told me about herself. She was from an old southern family. Her father had been a judge.

Azalea Adair told me she had never traveled or even attended school. Her parents taught her at home with private teachers. We finished our meeting. I promised to return with the agreement the next day, and rose to leave.

At that moment, someone knocked at the back door. Azalea Adair whispered a soft apology and went to answer the caller. She came back a minute later with bright eyes and pink cheeks. She looked ten years younger. "You must have a cup of tea before you go," she said. She shook a little bell on the table, and a small black girl about twelve years old ran into the room.

Azalea Aair opened a tiny old purse and took out a dollar bill. It had been fixed with a piece of blue paper and the upper right hand corner was missing. It was the dollar I had given to Uncle Caesar. "Go to Mr. Baker's store, Impy," she said, "and get me twenty-five cents' worth of tea and ten cents' worth of sugar cakes. And please hurry."

The child ran out of the room. We heard the back door close. Then the girl screamed. Her cry mixed with a man's angry voice. Azalea Adair stood up. Her face showed no emotion as she left the room. I heard the man's rough voice and her gentle one. Then a door slammed and she came back into the room.

"I am sorry, but I won't be able to offer you any tea after all," she said. "It seems that Mr. Baker has no more tea. Perhaps he will find some for our visit tomorrow."

We said good-bye. I went back to my hotel.

Just before dinner, Major Wentworth Caswell found me. It was impossible to avoid him. He insisted on buying me a drink and pulled two one-dollar bills from his pocket. Again I saw a torn dollar fixed with blue paper, with a corner missing. It was the one I gave Uncle Caesar. How strange, I thought. I wondered how Caswell got it.

Uncle Caesar was waiting outside the hotel the next afternoon. He took me to Miss Adair's house and agreed to wait there until we had finished our business.

Azalea Adair did not look well. I explained the agreement to her. She signed it. Then, as she started to rise from the table, Azalea Adair fainted and fell to the floor. I picked her up and carried her to the old red sofa. I ran to the door and yelled to Uncle Caesar for help. He ran down the street. Five minutes later, he was back with a doctor.

The doctor examined Miss Adair and turned to the old black driver. "Uncle Caesar," he said, "run to my house and ask my wife for some milk and some eggs. Hurry!"

Then the doctor turned to me. "She does not get enough to eat," he said. "She has many friends who want to help her, but she is proud. Misses Caswell will accept help only from that old black man. He was once her family's slave."

"Misses Caswell." I said in surprise. "I thought she was Azalea Adair."

"She was," the doctor answered, "until she married Wentworth Caswell twenty years ago. But he's a hopeless drunk who takes even the small amount of money that Uncle Caesar gives her."

After the doctor left I heard Caesar's voice in the other room. "Did he take all the money I gave you yesterday, Miss Azalea?" "Yes, Caesar," I heard her answer softly. "He took both dollars."

I went into the room and gave Azalea Adair fifty dollars. I told her it was from the magazine. Then Uncle Caesar drove me back to the hotel.

A few hours later, I went out for a walk before dinner. A crowd of people were talking excitedly in front of a store. I pushed my way into the store. Major Caswell was lying on the floor. He was dead.

Someone had found his body on the street. He had been killed in a fight. In fact, his hands were still closed into tight fists. But as I stood near his body, Caswell's right hand opened. Something fell from it and rolled near my feet. I put my foot on it, then picked it up and put it in my pocket.

People said they believed a thief had killed him. They said Caswell had been showing everyone that he had fifty dollars. But when he was found, he had no money on him.

I left Nashville the next morning. As the train crossed a river I took out of my pocket the object that had dropped from Caswell's dead hand. I threw it into the river below.

It was a button. A yellow button...the one from Uncle Caesar's coat.

(MUSIC)

You have just heard the story "A Municipal Report." It was written by O. Henry and adapted for Special English by Dona de Sanctis. Your narrator was Shep O'Neal. This is Susan Clark. Join us again next time for another American story on the Voice of America.

American Stories in VOA Special English

Celebrations (US)

Labor Day

In the United States and Canada, holiday (first Monday in September) honouring workers and recognizing their contributions to society. In many other countries May Day serves a similar purpose.

In the United States, Peter J. McGuire, a union leader who had founded the United Brotherhood of Carpenters in 1881, is generally given credit for the idea of Labor Day. In 1882 he suggested to the Central Labor Union of New York that there be a celebration honouring American workers. On September 5 some 10,000 workers, under the sponsorship of the Knights of Labor, held a parade in New York City ... (100 of 410 words)

A holiday celebrated in most industrialized nations is Labor Day. The first American Labor Day was celebrated in New York City in 1882. The holiday is similar to the May Day celebrations of labor and industrial production held since 1887 in socialist nations though it had a separate origin.

Memorial Day

formerly Decoration Day

in the United States, holiday (last Monday in May) honouring those who have died in the nation’s wars. It originated during the American Civil War (1861–64) when citizens placed flowers on the graves of those who had been killed in battle. A number of places claimed to have been the birthplace of the holiday. Among them, Columbus, Mississippi, held a formal observance for both the Union and the Confederate dead in 1866. By congressional proclamation in 1966, Waterloo, New York, was cited as the birthplace, also in 1866, of the observance in the North.

Martin Luther King JR. Day

in the United States, holiday (third Monday in January) honouring the achievements of Martin Luther King, Jr. A Baptist minister who advocated the use of nonviolent means to end racial segregation, he first came to national prominence during a bus boycott by African Americans in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1955. He founded the Southern Christian Leadership Conference in 1957 and led the 1963 March on Washington. The most influential of African American civil rights leaders during the 1960s, he was instrumental in the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which outlawed discrimination in public accommodations, ... (100 of 259 words) in the United States, holiday (third Monday in January) honouring the achievements of Martin Luther King, Jr. A Baptist minister who advocated the use of nonviolent means to end racial segregation, he first came to national prominence during a bus boycott by African Americans in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1955. He founded the Southern Christian Leadership Conference in 1957 and led the 1963 March on Washington. The most influential of African American civil rights leaders during the 1960s, he was instrumental in the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which outlawed discrimination in public accommodations, ...

Thanksgiving

annual national holiday in the United States and Canada celebrating the harvest and other blessings of the past year. Americans generally believe that their Thanksgiving is modeled on a 1621 harvest feast shared by the English colonists (Pilgrims) of Plymouth and the Wampanoag Indians. The American holiday is particularly rich in legend and symbolism.

Plymouth’s Thanksgiving began with a few colonists going out “fowling,” possibly for turkeys but more probably for the easier prey of geese and ducks, since they “in one day killed as much as…served the company almost a week.”

ARTICLEfrom theEncyclopædia Britannica

The Birthmark (By Nathaniel Hawthorne)

Click here to go to the main link and listen to the story.

http://www.manythings.org/voa/stories/The_Birthmark_-_By_Nathaniel_Hawthorne.html

Our story today is called "The Birthmark." It was written by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Here is Barbara Klein with the story.

(MUSIC)

STORYTELLER:

A long time ago, there lived a skillful scientist who had experienced a spiritual reaction more striking than any chemical one.

He had left his laboratory in the care of his assistant, washed the chemicals from his hands and asked a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days new scientific discoveries such as electricity seemed to open paths into the area of miracles. It was not unusual for the love of science to compete with the love of a woman.

The scientist's name was Aylmer. He had so totally given himself to scientific studies that he could not be weakened by a second love. His love for his young wife could only be the stronger of the two if it could link itself with his love of science.

Such a union did take place with truly remarkable results. But one day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer looked at his wife with a troubled expression.

"Georgiana," he said, "have you ever considered that the mark upon your cheek might be removed"?

"No," she said smiling. But seeing the seriousness of his question, she said, "The mark has so often been called a charm that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so."

"On another face it might," answered her husband, "but not on yours. No dear, Nature made you so perfectly that this small defect shocks me as being a sign of earthly imperfection."

"Shocks you!" cried Georgiana, deeply hurt. Her face reddened and she burst into tears. "Then why did you marry me? You cannot love what shocks you!"

We must explain that in the center of Georgiana's left cheek there was a mark, deep in her skin. The mark was usually a deep red color. When Georgiana blushed, the mark became less visible. But when she turned pale, there was the mark, like a red stain upon snow. The birthmark would come and go with the emotions in her heart.

The mark was shaped like a very small human hand. Georgiana's past lovers used to say that the hand of a magical fairy had touched her face when she was born. Many a gentleman would have risked his life for the honor of kissing that mysterious hand.

But other people had different opinions. Some women said the red hand quite destroyed the effect of Georgiana's beauty.

Male observers who did not praise the mark simply wished it away so that they did not see it. After his marriage, Aylmer discovered that this was the case with himself.

Had Georgiana been less beautiful, he might have felt his love increased by the prettiness of that little hand. But because she was otherwise so perfect, he found the mark had become unbearable.

(MUSIC)

Aylmer saw the mark as a sign of his wife's eventual sadness, sickness and death. Soon, the birthmark caused him more pain than Georgiana's beauty had ever given him pleasure.

During a period that should have been their happiest, Aylmer could only think of this disastrous subject. With the morning light, Aylmer opened his eyes upon his wife's face and recognized the sign of imperfection. When they sat together in the evening near the fire, he would look at the mark.

Georgiana soon began to fear his look. His expression would make her face go pale. And the birthmark would stand out like a red jewel on white stone.

"Do you remember, dear Aylmer, about the dream you had last night about this hateful mark?" she asked with a weak smile.

"None! None whatever!" answered Aylmer, surprised.

The mind is in a sad state when sleep cannot control its ghosts and allows them to break free with their secrets. Aylmer now remembered his dream. He had imagined himself with his assistant Aminadab trying to remove the birthmark with an operation. But the deeper his knife went, the deeper the small hand sank until it had caught hold of Georgiana's heart.

Aylmer felt guilty remembering the dream.

"Aylmer," said Georgiana, "I do not know what the cost would be to both of us to remove this birthmark. Removing it could deform my face or damage my health."

"Dearest Georgiana, I have spent much thought on the subject," said Aylmer. "I am sure it can be removed."

"Then let the attempt be made at any risk," said Georgiana. "Life is not worth living while this hateful mark makes me the object of your horror. You have deep science and have made great discoveries. Remove this little mark for the sake of your peace and my own."

"Dearest wife," cried Aylmer. "Do not doubt my power. I am ready to make this cheek as perfect as its pair."

Her husband gently kissed her right cheek, the one without the red hand.

(MUSIC)

The next day the couple went to Aylmer's laboratory where he had made all his famous discoveries. Georgiana would live in a beautiful room he had prepared nearby, while he worked tirelessly in his lab. One by one, Aylmer tried a series of powerful experiments on his wife. But the mark remained.

Georgiana waited in her room. She read through his notebooks of scientific observations. She could not help see that many of his experiments had ended in failure. She decided to see for herself the scientist at work.

The first thing that struck Georgiana when entering the laboratory was the hot furnace. From the amount of soot above it, it seemed to have been burning for ages. She saw machines, tubes, cylinders and other containers for chemical experiments. What most drew her attention was Aylmer himself. He was nervous and pale as death as he worked on preparing a liquid.

Georgiana realized that her husband had been hiding his tension and fear.

"Think not so little of me that you cannot be honest about the risks we are taking," she said. "I will drink whatever you make for me, even if it is a poison."

"My dear, nothing shall be hidden," Aylmer said. "I have already given you chemicals powerful enough to change your entire physical system. Only one thing remains to be tried and if that fails, we are ruined!"

He led her back to her room where she waited once more, alone with her thoughts. She hoped that for just one moment she could satisfy her husband's highest ideals. But she realized then that his mind would forever be on the march, always requiring something newer, better and more perfect.

Hours later, Aylmer returned carrying a crystal glass with a colorless liquid.

"The chemical process went perfectly," he said. "Unless all my science has tricked me, it cannot fail."

To test the liquid, he placed a drop in the soil of a dying flower growing in a pot in the room. In a few moments, the plant became healthy and green once more.

"I do not need proof," Georgiana said quietly. "Give me the glass. I am happy to put my life in your hands." She drank the liquid and immediately fell asleep.

Aylmer sat next to his wife, observing her and taking notes. He noted everything -- her breathing, the movement of an eyelid. He stared at the birthmark. And slowly, with every breath that came and went, it lost some of its brightness.

"By Heaven! It is nearly gone," said Aylmer. "Success! Success!"

He opened the window coverings to see her face in daylight. She was so pale. Georgiana opened her eyes and looked into the mirror her husband held. She tried to smile as she saw the barely visible mark.

"My poor Aylmer," she said gently. "You have aimed so high. With so high and pure a feeling, you have rejected the best the Earth could offer. I am dying, dearest."

It was true. The hand on her face had been her link to life. As the last trace of color disappeared from her cheek, she gave her last breath.

Blinded by a meaningless imperfection and an impossible goal, Aylmer had thrown away her life and with it his chance for happiness. In trying to improve his lovely wife, he had failed to realize she had been perfect all along.

(MUSIC)

ANNOUNCER:

"The Birthmark" was written by Nathaniel Hawthorne. It was adapted and produced by Dana Demange. Your storyteller was Barbara Klein.

How to get 'Hello' horribly wrong

My girlfriend grew up in Belgium and the summer after we got together she invited me to Brussels. On the day I arrived we went to meet her friend Aina for lunch. Aina worked at a University and we arranged to meet on campus. Everyone was out enjoying the good weather, so we bought sandwiches and sat in a circle on the grass. Aina is a popular girl, and pretty soon a guy she knew came over to say hello. This might not sound like much of a problem, but I'm Irish and how we say hello differs greatly to how they do it on the Continent. In Ireland, you approach a group of people, give one universal salutation and join the conversation. Not in Belgium.The guy kissed Aina on the cheek and struck up a conversation. He began to slowly make his way around the circle kissing hello as he went. Instantly alarm bells went off in my head. A memory surfaced that told me guys in Belgium kiss each other hello. Straight away I knew I was in trouble. Two questions sprang to mind. 1) Was this guy going to kiss me hello? 2) What was the proper way to do it? I was overcome by a sickening feeling of being massively under-prepared. What was the protocol? I felt nauseous. As I sat there thinking of what to do, the guy was getting closer. Finally he came to me. For a moment he just stood there, and I thought he might just say hello and sit down. No such luck. As I belatedly proffered a hand, he leant down and put his cheek in my face. My world froze. I can safely say I had no idea what to do. I had gone twenty something years without learning the technique for kissing another guy hello. It was like someone had presented me with an engine and said 'Fix that'. I really didn't have a clue where to start. Then for some reason my mind stepped back, and simple muscle memory took over. The only people I'd kissed hello to had been my granny and a handful of aunts. So I did the thing that came naturally, I planted one smack bang on his cheek. Not just a peck, but a full-bodied smooch. There may have even been a 'MWAH' sound as well, but I can't really remember.Instantly, the world around me came to a stop. All conversations halted,and for a moment there was nothing but silence. And then there was laughing. Oh how they laughed. Between guffaws Aina explained to the guy that I was Irish and that guys didn't kiss each other hello where I was from. I'm not entirely sure if he heard her, because at that point he just looked shell-shocked. I'm pretty sure he just fell back on his backside, and nodded some vague acknowledgment. I of course wanted the ground to swallow me whole.

by Sam Mulligan

Stereotypes

A European's Road Map

By Reginald Dale International Herald Tribune

WASHINGTON - In the United States, it is widely considered unacceptable to attribute people's behavior, good or bad, to their racial or ethnic origins. Ethnic stereotyping is taboo. In Europe, however, almost the reverse is true. Europeans tend to rely on ancient but often accurate national stereotypes to help them understand their neighbors. Both the French and the Germans, for instance, have pretty good, and similar, ideas of what constitutes a typical Englishman. While those ideas may often be caricatures, they also reflect centuries in which Europeans have observed each other, as trading partners and on the battlefield, at very close quarters. European stereotypes apply not just to individuals but to whole countries, too. Thanks to their differing histories, cultures and geographies, the European nations have developed distinct and recognizable personalities. Those personalities are often, in fact, more important than the official policies of national governments or their political complexions in explaining how European nations interact with one another. As the European Union approaches decisions on economic and monetary union that will be crucial to the destinies of its member nations, it is only natural that many of those nations should be indulging in stereotypical behavior. Traditionally aloof Britain is staying out of the planned single European currency, the euro; France is justifying its reputation for arrogance by demanding the top job in running the currency, and Germany is showing its self-righteousness in seeking to impose its own economic and monetary standards on everybody else. In Britain, Tony Blair's Labour government sounds more enthusiastic about the euro than its Conservative predecessor did. It is promising to join the currency in perhaps five years, provided Britain meets certain economic criteria. But the British people's dislike of the euro has not disappeared with the change of government. Everyone knows that the British will have to shed a great deal of historical and cultural baggage before they can agree to scrap the pound and accept the euro in the referendum that Mr. Blair has promised them. The big question is not whether Britain will fulfill the economic criteria but whether the British national character will change.In France, the advent of Lionel Jospin's Socialist-led government has done little to diminish the country's traditional Gallic conceit, the latest example of which is a proposal that the new European central bank be headed by Jean-Claude Trichet, the governor of the Bank of France. The proposal should not be dismissed just because it has irritated most of France's partners. France is traditionally good at getting its way in such things. Nor does it matter that the independent-minded Mr. Trichet would not necessarily run the bank the way Paris wants. Experience suggests that France would settle for the appearance of power if it cannot have the reality. Germany's national need is for reassurance, before it embraces the euro, that the currency's other members, especially Italy, will behave like sensible Germans. Here is an example of a damaging stereotype at work. Italy is stuck, at least in German eyes, with an image as an economically irresponsible and politically unstable country, even though it has probably been more successful than any other EU member in changing its economic and political behavior for the better to qualify for the single currency. That shows how difficult changing a stereotype can be. But the point is that even if Italy does succeed in radically upgrading its economic and political image, that need does not make it any less Italian. For most Europeans, the challenge is to achieve economic and political integration without losing the best of their national characteristics. Europe would be much less interesting without its ethnic stereotypes.
Tuesday, November 18, 1997, page 13

A. Let's come to terms with stereotypes, and recognize that stereotypes do contain some truth, but also can not be applied across the board. This lesson helps us improve our descriptive adjective vocabulary while we discuss perceived differences between nations through stereotypes. American food is fast food. OR Americans love guns.

Choose two adjectives that you think describe the nationalities listed below. Choose two countries of your own to describe.

• American _____ _____ _____ _____
• British _____ _____ _____ _____
• French _____ _____ _____ _____
• Japanese _____ _____ _____ _____

punctual tolerant romantic respectful hard-working emotional outgoing nationalistic well-dressed humorous lazy sophisticated hospitable talkative sociable serious quiet formal aggressive polite rude arrogant ignorant casual
B

1. Group the following adjectives under categories (taste, attitude, feelings, organization, etc) and indicate which are positive or negative traits.

appetizing, aloof, mean, polite, honest, solid, ardent, bland, pleasant, organized, friendly, tedious, sloppy, methodical, chaotic, systematic, tidy, unpleasant, nasty, passionate, tender, uninterested, cruel, organized, cold, negligent, horrifying, untidy, refined, insipid, flavourless, tasty, reliable, careless, unstable, romantic, uninteresting, sophisticated, dull ,disciplined, unresponsive, messy,

" Heaven is where the police are British, the cooks are French, the mechanics are German, the lovers are Italian and it is all organised by the Swiss. Hell is where the police are German, the cooks are English, the mechanics are French, the lovers are Swiss, and it is all organised by the Italians ".

Heaven is a ___________ place to be (fill in with an adjective)
What qualities make a good policeman/a cook/a mechanic/lover/ manager ?

A policeman should be

A cook should be

A mechanic should be

A lover should be

A manager should be

In this joke
the British are regarded as being

the French are portrayed as being

the Germans are considered as being

Italian men have a reputation of being

the Swiss are said to be

Hell is a_________ place to be (fill in with an adjective)

What is the inference made about
German policemen:British food:French mechanics:Swiss lovers:Italian management:

Do you think this is true?

What do these statements have in common?

2) Working on your own, write down five or six stereotypes for your own nationality.

3) Did the completed statements make you feel uncomfortable? Why? Why not?

4) In general, were your responses positive or negative?

5) List the stereotypes under positive, negative or neutral. What does this tell us about stereotypes?
6) Fill in the following questionnaire on your own and later discuss it with your teacher and colleagues. You may use :A= I agree B= I'm not sure C= I disagree

• 
  
  National stereotypes are dangerous because they may provoke racial prejudice.
• 
  
  Stereotypes contain a certain amount of truth.
• There is no such thing as national character and therefore the idea of national stereotypes is rubbish.
• The reason stereotypes exist is because people are afraid of diversity, change, and what is unknown. They prefer to cling to simple classifications, which maintain an old, familiar and established order.
• Stereotypes are simply harmless sorts of jokes we tell about other nationalities or groups of people.

7) What is, in your opinion, the best way to challenge a stereotype.

American Civil war

Check this link and find information
about the historical context of the short story The Silk Stocking

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Civil_War

Biography of Kate Chopin

Biography of Kate Chopin by Neal Wyatt
Kate Chopin was born Kate O'Flaherty in St. Louis, Missouri in 1850 to Eliza and Thomas O'Flaherty. She was the third of five children, but her sisters died in infancy and her brothers (from her father's first marriage) in their early twenties. She was the only child to live past the age of twenty-five.
In 1855, at five and a half, she was sent to The Sacred Heart Academy, a Catholic boarding school in St. Louis. Her father was killed two months later when a train on which he was riding crossed a bridge that collapsed. For the next two years she lived at home with her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, all of them widows. Her great-grandmother, Victoria Verdon Charleville oversaw her education and taught her French, music, and the gossip on St. Louis women of the past. Kate O'Flaherty grew up surrounded by smart, independent, single women. They were also savvy and came from a long line of ground breaking women Victoria's own mother had been the first woman in St. Louis to obtain legal separation from her husband, after which she raised her five children and ran a shipping business on the Mississippi. Until Kate was sixteen, no married couples lived in her home, although it was full of brothers, uncles, cousins, and borders.
She returned to the Sacred Heart Academy, where the nuns were known for their intelligence, and was top of her class. She won medals, was elected into the elite Children of Mary Society, and delivered the commencement address. After graduation she was a popular, if cynical, debutante. She wrote in her diary advice on flirting, "just keep asking 'What do you think?'" (Toth, 62).
She grew up during the Civil War and this caused her to be separated from the one friend she had made at the Sacred Heart Academy, Kitty Garesche. Her family were slave holders and supported the South. St. Louis was a pro-North city, and the Gareshe's were forced to move. After the war, Kitty returned and she and Chopin were friends until Kitty entered Sacred Heart as a nun. There is no other evidence that Chopin had any other close female friendships.
Kate's grandmother died three days before Christmas in 1863, the same year Kitty was banished. Kate's half-brother, George, died in the war of typhoid fever on Mardi Gras Day. Her father had died on All Saints day, eight years previously, and these unhappy incidents combined to create a strong skepticism of religion in Chopin.
In 1870, at the age of twenty, she married Oscar Chopin, twenty-five, and the son of a wealthy cotton-growing family in Louisiana. He was French catholic in background, as was Kate. By all accounts he adored his wife, admired her independence and intelligence, and "allowed" her unheard of freedom. After their marriage they lived in New Orleans where she had five boys and two girls, all before she was twenty-eight. Oscar was not an able business man, and they were forced to move to his old home in a small Louisiana parish. Oscar died of swamp fever there in 1882 and Kate took over the running of his general store and plantation for over a year.
In 1884 she sold up and moved back to St. Louis to live with her mother. Sadly, Eliza died the next year, leaving Kate alone with her children again. To support herself and her young family, she began to write. She was immediately successful and wrote short stories about people she had known in Louisiana. The Awakening was inspired by a true story of a New Orleans woman who was infamous in the French Quarter.
Her first novel, At Fault, was published in 1890, followed by two collections of her short stories, Bayou Folk in 1894 and A Night in Acadia in 1897. The Awakening was published in 1899, and by then she was well known as both a local colorist and a woman writer, and had published over one hundred stories, essays, and sketches in literary magazines.
As a writer, Kate Chopin wrote very rapidly and without much revision. She usually worked in her home surrounded by her children. The content and message of The Awakening caused an uproar and Chopin was denied admission into the St. Louis Fine Art Club based on its publication. She was terribly hurt by the reaction to the book and in the remaining five years of her life she wrote only a few short stories, and only a small number of those were published. Like Edna, she paid the price for defying societal rules, and as Lazar Ziff explains, she "learned that her society would not tolerate her questionings. Her tortured silence as the new century arrived was a loss to American letters of the order of the untimely deaths of Crane and Norris. She was alive when the twentieth century began, but she had been struck mute by a society fearful in the face of an uncertain dawn" (Ziff, 305).
While reading The Awakening remember that it is a kunstleroman, "a tale of a young woman who struggles to realize herself - and her artistic ability" (Huf, 69) and remember that Chopin, as well as Edna, was on a quest for artistic acceptance. That quest ended in an abrupt and frustrated manner when she died of a cerebral hemorrhage on August 22 1904.
(Much of the above information was gathered from Kate Chopin by Emily Toth, Verging on the Abyss by Mary Papke, and Kate Chopin: A Critical Biography by Per Seyersted. Below is a chronology of her life and work taken from Dyer's The Awakening: A Novel of Beginnings, xii-xv)
Chronology
1850 Born on February 8 to Eliza Faris O'Flaherty, a well connected St. Louisiana with French roots, and Captain Thomas O'Flaherty, a businessman from Ireland.
1855 Enters St. Louis Academy of the Sacred Heart. Father is killed in train accident.
1861 Confirmed in the Catholic Church by Archbishop Peter Richard Kenrick.
1863 Grandmother dies in January; half-brother George dies of typhoid fever.
1867 Begins keeping a commonplace book of poems, essays,sketches, criticism, etc.
1868 Graduates from Sacred Heart Academy.
1869-1870 Attends debutante parties, learns to smoke, and writes her first story, "Emancipation: A Life Fable," a short story about freedom and restriction.
1870 Marries Oscar Chopin; keeps journal of European honeymoon; moves to New Orleans; Oscar's father dies in November.
1871-1878 Has five sons, Jean, Oscar Charles, George, Frederick, and Felix. Oscar Charles becomes a professional cartoonist for the San Francisco Examiner and his daughter Kate, becomes a talented artist.
1879 Oscar closes his business in New Orleans and they move to Cloutierville where he runs several small plantations and a general store.
1882 Oscar dies of malaria, leaving Kate with a heavy debt and six young boys.
1883-1884 Kate tries to run Oscar's businesses and finally decides to move home to her mother's.
1885 Her mother dies. The attending doctor, Dr. Kolbenheyer, who is the model for Dr. Mandelet in The Awakening, continues to visit Chopin and encourage her writing.
1888 Begins reading Maupassant and writes "Euphrase."
1889 Publishes her first poem, "If It Might Be," in America. Writes four stories and publishes each of them.
1890-1892 Joins the Wednesday Club, founded by Charlotte Stearns Eliot, T.S Eliot's mother, but resigns two years later. Satire of club women appears in several of her stories, and in The Awakening in the depiction of Mrs. Highcamp's daughter.
1891 Writes "Mrs. Mobry's Reason" and "A Shameful Affair," which are published in the New Orleans Times-Democrat in 1893. Publishes more stories in Youth's Companion and Harper's Young People.
1894 Writes "A Respectable Woman" (Vogue) in January, introducing the character of Gouvernail, who reappears in The Awakening. Houghton Mifflin publishes Bayou Folk in March, and Chopin becomes nationaly known as a short story writer.
1897 A Night in Acadia, a second volume of short stories is published by Way and Williams of Chicago.
1897-1898 Writes The Awakening.
1899 The Awakening published by Herbert S. Stone and Company on April 22.
1900 Herbert S. Stone and Company reverses its decision to publish a third collection of short stories (it would not be published until Emily Toth's edition came out in 1991). Chopin writes four stories, only one of which is published.
1901 Writes and publishes only one story, "The Wood-Choppers."
1902 Publishes her last story, "Polly."
1904 Dies from a cerebral hemorrhage on August 22, after collapsing at the World's Fair, two days before.
© Neal Wyatt (1995) [contact at nwyatt@leo.vsla.edu] Kate Chopin Study Text

A Pair of Silk Stockings

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Short Story: 'A Pair of Silk Stockings' by Kate Chopin

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Now, the VOA Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.
(MUSIC)
Our story today is called "A Pair of Silk Stockings." It was written by Kate Chopin. Here is Barbara Klein with the story.
(MUSIC)
STORYTELLER:
Little Missus Sommers one day found herself the unexpected owner of fifteen dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money. The way it filled up her worn money holder gave her a feeling of importance that she had not enjoyed for years.
The question of investment was one she considered carefully. For a day or two she walked around in a dreamy state as she thought about her choices. She did not wish to act quickly and do anything she might regret. During the quiet hours of the night she lay awake considering ideas.
A dollar or two could be added to the price she usually paid for her daughter Janie's shoes. This would guarantee they would last a great deal longer than usual. She would buy cloth for new shirts for the boys. Her daughter Mag should have another dress. And still there would be enough left for new stockings — two pairs per child. What time that would save her in always repairing old stockings! The idea of her little family looking fresh and new for once in their lives made her restless with excitement.
The neighbors sometimes talked of the "better days" that little Missus Sommers had known before she had ever thought of being Missus Sommers. She herself never looked back to her younger days. She had no time to think about the past. The needs of the present took all her energy.
(MUSIC)
Missus Sommers knew the value of finding things for sale at reduced prices. She could stand for hours making her way little by little toward the desired object that was selling below cost. She could push her way if need be.
But that day she was tired and a little bit weak. She had eaten a light meal—no! She thought about her day. Between getting the children fed and the house cleaned, and preparing herself to go shopping, she had forgotten to eat at all!
When she arrived at the large department store, she sat in front of an empty counter. She was trying to gather strength and courage to push through a mass of busy shoppers. She rested her hand upon the counter.
She wore no gloves. She slowly grew aware that her hand had felt something very pleasant to touch. She looked down to see that her hand lay upon a pile of silk stockings. A sign nearby announced that they had been reduced in price. A young girl who stood behind the counter asked her if she wished to examine the silky leg coverings.
She smiled as if she had been asked to inspect diamond jewelry with the aim of purchasing it. But she went on feeling the soft, costly items. Now she used both hands, holding the stockings up to see the light shine through them.
Two red marks suddenly showed on her pale face. She looked up at the shop girl.
"Do you think there are any size eights-and-a-half among these?"
There were a great number of stockings in her size. Missus Sommers chose a black pair and looked at them closely.
"A dollar and ninety-eight cents," she said aloud. "Well, I will buy this pair."
She handed the girl a five dollar bill and waited for her change and the wrapped box with the stockings. What a very small box it was! It seemed lost in her worn old shopping bag.
Missus Sommers then took the elevator which carried her to an upper floor into the ladies' rest area. In an empty corner, she replaced her cotton stockings for the new silk ones.
For the first time she seemed to be taking a rest from the tiring act of thought. She had let herself be controlled by some machine-like force that directed her actions and freed her of responsibility.
How good was the touch of the silk on her skin! She felt like lying back in the soft chair and enjoying the richness of it. She did for a little while. Then she put her shoes back on and put her old stockings into her bag. Next, she went to the shoe department, sat down and waited to be fitted.
The young shoe salesman was unable to guess about her background. He could not resolve her worn, old shoes with her beautiful, new stockings. She tried on a pair of new boots.
She held back her skirts and turned her feet one way and her head another way as she looked down at the shiny, pointed boots. Her foot and ankle looked very lovely. She could not believe that they were a part of herself. She told the young salesman that she wanted an excellent and stylish fit. She said she did not mind paying extra as long as she got what she desired.
After buying the new boots, she went to the glove department. It was a long time since Missus Sommers had been fitted with gloves. When she had bought a pair they were always "bargains," so cheap that it would have been unreasonable to have expected them to be fitted to her hand.
Now she rested her arm on the counter where gloves were for sale. A young shop girl drew a soft, leather glove over Missus Sommers's hand. She smoothed it down over the wrist and buttoned it neatly. Both women lost themselves for a second or two as they quietly praised the little gloved hand.
(MUSIC)
There were other places where money might be spent. A store down the street sold books and magazines. Missus Sommers bought two costly magazines that she used to read back when she had been able to enjoy other pleasant things.
She lifted her skirts as she crossed the street. Her new stockings and boots and gloves had worked wonders for her appearance. They had given her a feeling of satisfaction, a sense of belonging to the well-dressed crowds.
She was very hungry. Another time she would have ignored the desire for food until reaching her own home. But the force that was guiding her would not permit her to act on such a thought.
There was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors. She had sometimes looked through the windows. She had noted the white table cloths, shining glasses and waiters serving wealthy people.
When she entered, her appearance created no surprise or concern, as she had half feared it might.
She seated herself at a small table. A waiter came at once to take her order. She ordered six oysters, a chop, something sweet, a glass of wine and a cup of coffee. While waiting to be served she removed her gloves very slowly and set them beside her. Then she picked up her magazine and looked through it.
It was all very agreeable. The table cloths were even more clean and white than they had seemed through the window. And the crystal drinking glasses shined even more brightly. There were ladies and gentlemen, who did not notice her, lunching at the small tables like her own.
A pleasing piece of music could be heard, and a gentle wind was blowing through the window. She tasted a bite, and she read a word or two and she slowly drank the wine. She moved her toes around in the silk stockings. The price of it all made no difference.
When she was finished, she counted the money out to the waiter and left an extra coin on his tray. He bowed to her as if she were a princess of royal blood.
(MUSIC)
There was still money in her purse, and her next gift to herself presented itself as a theater advertisement. When she entered the theater, the play had already begun. She sat between richly dressed women who were there to spend the day eating sweets and showing off their costly clothing. There were many others who were there only to watch the play.
It is safe to say there was no one there who had the same respect that Missus Sommers did for her surroundings. She gathered in everything —stage and players and people -- in one wide sensation. She laughed and cried at the play. She even talked a little with the women. One woman wiped her eyes with a small square of lace and passed Missus Sommers her box of candy.
The play was over, the music stopped, the crowd flowed outside. It was like a dream ended. Missus Sommers went to wait for the cable car.
A man with sharp eyes sat opposite her. It was hard for him to fully understand what he saw in her expression. In truth, he saw nothing -- unless he was a magician. Then he would sense her heartbreaking wish that the cable car would never stop anywhere, but go on and on with her forever.
(MUSIC)
ANNOUNCER:
You have heard the story "A Pair of Silk Stockings" by Kate Chopin. Your storyteller was Barbara Klein. This story was adapted and produced by Dana Demange. I'm Jim Tedder. Listen again next week for another American Story in VOA Special English.