Best Price for kmbuy Unique Westernism Linenette Style Backpack – Fashion Casual Unisex School Travel Shoulder Rucksack Bag with Laptop Compartment / 42CM(H)*29CM(W)*12CM(T) (grey)

kmbuy Unique Westernism Linenette Style Backpack - Fashion Casual Unisex School Travel Shoulder Rucksack Bag with Laptop Compartment / 42CM(H)*29CM(W)*12CM(T) (grey)

kmbuy Unique Westernism Linenette Style Backpack – Fashion Casual Unisex School Travel Shoulder Rucksack Bag with Laptop Compartment / 42CM(H)*29CM(W)*12CM(T) (grey)

Brand : hotstyle
Sales Rank :
Color : Grey
Amazon.com Price : $29.99

Features kmbuy Unique Westernism Linenette Style Backpack – Fashion Casual Unisex School Travel Shoulder Rucksack Bag with Laptop Compartment / 42CM(H)*29CM(W)*12CM(T) (grey)

Material: 90% polyester linen + 5% PU + 5% polyester
Dimensions: 42cm(Height)*29cm(Width)*12cm(Thickness), adjuestable shoulder straps: 75CM to 95CM
Weight: 520g / Capacity: 16L (Medium capacity) / Max loading weight limiting: less than 4.0KG
Compartments: 2*outer zipper compartments, 2*sider bottle/umbrella pouch, 1*inner zipper pouch, 1*phone & licence pouch combined compartment, 1*laptop/tablet compartment (28CM width fits for device up to 16”)
For the crowd: Male or Female with height 150CM to 190CM

Descriptions kmbuy Unique Westernism Linenette Style Backpack – Fashion Casual Unisex School Travel Shoulder Rucksack Bag with Laptop Compartment / 42CM(H)*29CM(W)*12CM(T) (grey)

Features:
– Mainly made with high-grade durable polyester linen fabrics, classical and refining design.
– Mixmatched with qualify PU leather accessories, elegant and fashionable.
– Thicken breathable strap design,comfortable to carry.
– Breathable and soft design of the back gives the comfort factor of carrying.
– Roomy capacity design, most of your daily necessities can be loaded.
– Scientific and reasonable compartments, makes your goods lay in the bag systematically.
– Specially equiped with laptop compartment, carry your tablet / laptop easily.
– Casual Easy style using for: School, Excursion, Going out, window shopping etc..

Washing instructions:
– Washing with clean water with ordinary temperatures.
– DO NOT washing with hot water.
– Hang to dry.
– Washing separately to avoid staining.

Package includes:
– 1 * Backpack ONLY

Purchasing Notes:
– The actual colour of the backpack maybe different from the picture shown due to the different screen of display or reflecting light when shooting.
– 1-2cm error of measuring is a reasonable range due to different measurment methods.
– Please be aware of the dimensions of the backpack to avoid the backpack is too big or small for your purpose.
– It’s can’t avoidable that you will receive the backpack with some smells from original material as it’s brand new.
– The smell will be gone if place the backpack in freely circulating air for 2-5 days.
– Each backpack will be check carefully before shipped, but it’s still very hard to guarantee there’s no extra thread.
– Please do limit the loading weight within 4.0kg to avoid the damage caused by overloading.

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Calvinist blues



First, let me be honest.

I’m writing from the first floor–I hesitate to call it a basement–of a brand new house my wife and I built out there in the country, miles and miles of farmland just outside the spacious window to my right where, this morning, soon enough the sun will rise and glaze all that farmland in heavenly finery. 

I’m not St. Francis of Assissi when it comes to worldly things.  Shoot, I’ve got an Aeron chair beneath me, a throne.

But here’s the story.

For years we had this deck table, heavy plastic top, scrawny crooked legs. It sat on our deck, as deck tables should, suffering the abuse of Iowa seasons but generally holding its shape in a fashion I would have been proud of myself if I’d have done it. Anyway, emphasis on years.

When we moved from town to the farm house we rented, it stood out beneath a magnificent cottonwood, just a few steps from the river, where, occasionally, it would do what good picnic tables do–hold chocolate and marshmallows and graham crackers and an occasional hot dog. It got rained on, snowed on, blown down, etc., but still came back to serve us, rather selflessly, I’d say.

When we moved to the new house, it came along. Our back yard is a work-in-progress, but that deck table stayed out back until one winter night when a full-scale, northwest wind grabbed it in the crevice where I’d parked it and banged it madly against the house.  I pulled on a coat and boots, grabbed the noisemaker and dragged it into a basement back room, where it sat, unused, unloved.

So July 3, we were cleaning up the mess in the back yard when we realized something had to be done. That deck table has done yeoman’s service for us, but its time had come and gone. 

Now had we still been in town, I would have dragged it out to the street and made it clear that if someone wanted it, they could simply take it away. It would have been gone in half hour.  But here we are in the country. So voila! I thought–how about one of those Facebook swap shops? I took the picture above, created a page (“Free, just in time for the Fourth”), and two minutes later, no more, a name I didn’t know posted:  ”I want it” or something similarly declarative.

“Can I come and get it tomorrow?” she wrote. 

By this time, we wanted it gone. As in now. “We just may deliver,” I typed in. “Where are you?”

“LeMars,” she wrote. 

Twenty minutes south. Bring her the dumb thing, we thought. “Where do you live?” I wrote.

“Meet me at Bob’s Drive-In,” she said. 

And I get a hot dog, too.

So we did. She was thrilled. Young, pretty mom, single mom, whose daughter she said, would be thrilled because somehow their deck table didn’t make it through the Iowa seasons or something. I don’t remember exactly. What I remember is that she loved it. Seriously. She loved it. Then we ate hot dogs.

Only a true Calvinist would say this, but it’s true:  I felt guilty about feeling so blessed.

Seriously, that old table served us well, but we’ve wanted it gone for quite some time and I had no idea how we were going to do that (you can’t just put it in the garbage). Stem to stern, it was no more than an hour, and everything was pure win/win. We got rid of the table–hallelujah!–and tatooed single mom was thrilled.  Win/win.

The whole affair just made me realize, even after two moves, how much stuff we still got, really, and how much stuff we could so joyfully get rid of.  

Like I said, only a Calvinist can have that much fun–and a hot dog too, not just any hot dog either–and still feel guilty.

World Cup purity



I take no pride in telling you this. Think of it as confession of sin.  I have not watched a minute of the Team USA’s play in the World Cup. Seriously, I wanted to, but not enough, I guess. Real desire changes lives, but my desire didn’t even change my schedule. I told myself the U.S. was playing and I ought to watch, but I never did–I did other things. Which means, basically, that I didn’t want to watch them as much as I thought I did.

Honestly, I wish I had. I would have liked be part of a national phenomenon, something wondrously sweet in this sharply divided nation of ours (I think red and blue states all tuned in, didn’t they?). My son-n-law’s shot at Ann Coulter, posted here last week, was on the mark. Of course, I thought she was nuts long before her daffy duck cheap shot at soccer.

She’s not crazy. She makes a fortune at what she does, and got herself all over the news for the column. But she and Rush, O’Reilly and Hannity –and Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert–are all, first and foremost, entertainers.  If they weren’t, they’d run for office and spread their gospel far-er and wide-r. They’re in it for the cash or the applause, a little of both maybe–all of ‘em. 

I’m not a bit-time soccer fan, really, but years ago I happened to be in the Netherlands at the time of the European Cup, when Spain beat someone (not Holland, as I remember) right there.  It was wild in Amsterdam, but I suppose that goes without saying. There is nothing like it in Orange City.  

That year, when I came back to the states, I watched the World Cup almost religiously. Whenever the Dutch team played, I wandered over to the college, where a big screen (one of few back then) was set up in a community room full of people dressed as if it were pheasant opener just across the river in South Dakota.  Loved it.

This year, I just didn’t take the time.

No matter. I loved the vigor of the fans, loved it that Ann Coulter’s stick-in-the-mud American exclusivism got sneers from Colorado Springs to San Fran.  Look at the picture up top–there have to be Republicans in that bunch, have to be Democrats too.

I loved it because none of Team USA’s heroes are household names in this country, even though all of them are stars and some are even wealthy. Professional sports tire me (except the Packers, whose righteousness is proved by the fact that they are still owned by the community–shoot, even our banker has a team share framed on his wall). 

The NCAA is filthy rich, but it still flaunts the absurdity of there being a “student athlete.” Colleges and universities are slaves to their Athletic Departments (upper case, you see) and the coaches who get all the best salaries.  An uncle of mine once spent a year as interim head of Indiana University. He told me it wouldn’t have been a bad job if it hadn’t have been for Bobby Knight. Once upon a time, bowl games were named after fruit or flowers or cotton on New Year’s Day. Now it’s Doritoes or Fed Ex or Chick-fil-a. 

I know what Romney thinks: “corporations are people too, man.”  Remember that one? Well, bullshit. If corporations were “people, too, man,” all our BMWs would have their own in-house elevators, and income disparity in America wouldn’t be going through the roof. Give me a break.

I suppose now that the entire nation did a stadium wave at the World Cup, we’ll make gods of the players too. Tim Howard’s already on his way, I guess. Burger King or Home Depot will take over, and it won’t be Team USA anymore but team Team Pampers or something. That’s the way it goes in America, right? Where two or three are gathered, someone’s going to make a buck.

I don’t know. From the outside, from someone who saw the roaring crowds only on national news, I thought America’s chapter in the World Cup story was somehow pure, and there’s so little that’s pure these days in the great U. S. of A.

What’s more, we lost. Wish it weren’t true, but we did. On a good day, American exclusivism, a top notch German coach, and a few good breaks will barely get us past Ghana. Most Americans don’t have a clue where on earth Belgium is. Get this: on Saturday, the Netherlands, which fits between Sioux City, Iowa, and Wilmer, Minnesota, plays Costa Rica, which fits between Chamberlain, SD, and Des Moines, Iowa. 

Seriously? And we’re out? That’s just not American.

I like that. 

I’d have liked to win, quite frankly; but we didn’t.

Nope. And that’s fine too. 

Wasicu at Chankpe Opi: A White Man at Wounded Knee III

Here we are. Look around. If you stand on this promontory in the summer, the heat can be oppressive; but on a good day you might be surrounded by a couple dozen tourists. That’s all. Wounded Knee doesn’t exactly border the Black Hills, and it’s not on the way to Yellowstone. It’s not on the way to anything, really. Right now you’re in the heart of fly-over America, many millions of Americans never coming closer to this shallow valley than, say Chicago. Any time of year, the twisted vapor trails of jets on their way to LAX or LaGuardia float like ribbons in the genial sky.

In the late fall or muddy spring or cold mid-winter—like that December day in 1890—it’s likely you’ll stand very much alone at Wounded Knee. Cars and trucks navigate the reservation roads that cross almost directly at the point of battle, but for most of the year a visit here is unlike a visit to any other North American historic battlefield.

Gettysburg National Military Park offers an aging but impressive Cyclorama, a remarkable circular painting, 356 feet by 26 feet, that puts visitors at the heart of the battle. Little Big Horn’s visitor’s center sells helpful interpretive audio tapes to use as you tour several miles of battlefield from the air-conditioned comfort of your mini-van. But if you want to know what you can about Wounded Knee, the only storyteller there, all year round, is the wind.

Just imagine the encampment before you, and keep in mind the despair, the poverty, and the hopelessness of the dancers. “To live was now no more than to endure/The purposeless indignity of breath,” says John G. Neihardt in The Twilight of the Sioux. Millions of buffalo once roamed here, the staple of existence for thousands of nomadic Native people, the soul of their culture and faith. By 1890, they were gone.

In North Dakota’s horrible winter of 1996, while thousands of cattle died in the monstrous cold, it is reported that only one bison perished. Once the buffalo ruled here. In all the openness all around you, the Great Plains stretching out almost forever in every direction, try to imagine what it must have been like to stand on this promontory and look over herds so large you could see the mass ripple as they shifted slightly when detecting human scent, almost like watching wind on water. That’s what’s gone. To the Sioux, the hunt was a not only manhood’s proving ground, but a celebration for the family, often opened and closed with prayer. Few 19th century wasicu could understand that the disappearance of the buffalo seemed, to many Plains Indians, almost the death of god. I don’t believe I still can, try as I might.

But if I stand here on the promontory at Wounded Knee and remind all that is white within me of grinding poverty, the exhaustive dissolution of a way of life, and the seeming death of god, I can, perhaps, begin to understand the frantic hope inspired by the Ghost Dance.


Today, right behind you, you’ll see fenced-in enclosure where a granite monument, nine feet tall, lists the names of a few of those killed here. “Chief Big Foot,” it says, and then lists “Mr. Shading Bear, Long Bull, White American, Black Coyate, Ghost Horse, Living Bear, Afraid of Bear, Young Afraid of Bear, Yellow Robe, Wounded Hand, Red Eagle,” and just a few more. Estimates vary on the number of dead buried where you’re standing, but most think 150 or so frozen bodies were dumped into the mass grave beneath the cordon of cement. No ceremony—Native or white. Just a dump.

On the other side of the stone there’s an inscription, still visible seventy years after the marker was placed where you’re standing.

This monument is erected by surviving relatives and other Ogallala and Cheyenne River Sioux Indians in Memory of the Chief Big Foot Massacre Dec. 29, 1890.

Col. Forsyth in command of U. S. Troops. Big Foot was a great chief to the Sioux Indians. He often said “I will stand in peace till my last day comes.” He did many good and brave deeds for the white man and the red man. Many innocent women and children who knew no wrong died here.

As Harry W. Paige says in Land of the Spotted Eagle, this isn’t the grammar, the syntax, or mechanics of an Oxford don. What it is, he says, is “writing that weeps.”

_____________________
Tomorrow:  What really happened at Wounded Knee

Geometry assignment; March 18/19

These days are designated HSPE testing days, so not all the classes meet each day.  We continued our work with arcs in circles today, going over more complex problems involving angles both inside and outside of circles.  After a few more examples that we went over in class together, the students then got a start on their homework in class.

Assignment:  Other angles in circles worksheet  #1-20

Morning Thanks–Sabbath on Spirit Mound


It’s an aberration really, a odd little mole on flatland prairie, a strange little pile of glacial till, I guess, from which, bountifully, you can see for miles.

Spirit Mound get its name from the Yanktons, who insisted a whole tribe of devils lived on top that hill, little guys no bigger than a foot tall, who were regularly unkind to anyone who dared venture up where they were kings of the hill. The Yanktons told Lewis and Clark about these pint-sized menaces, so when the Corps of Discovery was here just about exactly 210 years ago, they left the river behind for an excursion and hiked a half-dozen miles north or so to check out the demons.

What they found was a great place from which to scope out the territory, which they did–and to their delight, they spotted buffalo, the American bison, probably in the hundreds or thousands, the first time they’d see them on their river trip west. But no little demons filling them with arrows. Nary a soul–not a one.

All of that happened not that far away from where we live, just across the river and tad south. Today Spirit Mound is a historical site and sweet place to hike on a sweet day like yesterday.  So we went. 

My father used to tell me that growing up in the preacher’s house made him dislike every terminally-boring Sunday because there was so much the kids–and the preacher and his wife had ten–couldn’t do. True story. 

Still, when I was a kid, if I’d play ball somewhere on Sunday afternoon, I’d have to sit for a half hour to stop sweating enough to dare walking into our house, lest it become sinfully clear that I’d been playing ball somewhere on Sunday. I’m sure Sundays were less straight-jacketed in our house than they were in my father’s, but he was hardly an apostate.  

Somewhere in Stages of Faith, James Fowler claims that some of the spit and vinegar believers may have lived by and with during their earlier adulthood eventually dissipates. We get a little more, you know, “hey, whatever. . .”

I’m embarrassed to admit that our Sabbath on Spirit Mound yesterday might well have been something I wouldn’t have undertaken years ago–after all, there was church at night. It’s hard for me to believe that I would have been agin’ such a hike up the mound, but I likely wouldn’t have done it, on a Sunday afternoon because. . .well, I’m not sure why, maybe just because. 

And, of course, after church at night, I had to work, to get ready for school, correct a few papers, read a chunk of the Scarlet Letter maybe, figure out how I was going to navigate my Monday classes. It’s more than mildly ironic, but I probably wouldn’t have spent a Sabbath as I did yesterday because I had too much work to do.

Yesterday, the September air was dry and clean but still warm in a way that says summer is already a couple days’ journey south. Harvest has yet to start so there was no dust to speak of, endless fields still enrobed in emerald. Seriously, there were no devils atop Spirit Mound, and you could see almost forever. No buffalo either, but with that much open space all around you could see how they might just be there, a couple of thousand maybe.

I’m a child of my parents’ way of life. It’s in me for as long as I live. If yesterday they were there seated on a couple of heavenly lawn chairs, watching us hike, I don’t think they would have disapproved. They would have smiled.

After all, they’re the ones who taught me sabbath.