John William Tuohy lives in Washington DC

A brief Summer. A short story

                          “Can you imagine the world if we only saw souls and not bodies?”

The right merchant is One who has the just average of faculties we call common sense; a man of a strong affinity for facts who makes up his decision On what he has seen. He is thoroughly persuaded of the truths of arithmetic. There is always a reason in the man for his good or bad fortune in making money. Men talk as if there were some magic about this. He knows that all goes On the old road pound for pound cent for cent -- for every effect a perfect cause -- and that good luck is another name for tenacity of purpose.
300 quotes from Emerson
To view more Emerson quotes or read a life background on Emerson please visit the books blog spot. We update the blog bi-monthly  emersonsaidit.blogspot.com

A Brief Summer

A short story


John William Tuohy

  Nick the Greek was Italian but because he worked out of the Valley Diner on Summit Avenue that was owned by Greeks, he became Nick, the bookie who worked out of the Greek place, so he became, with time, Nick the Greek.
  He took numbers and covered the odds out of the Diner five days a week, usually in the very early morning hours when the place was filled with tradesmen, his primary clients.
  He operated from his favorite table in the rear of the Diner, where he was comfortable and isolated and could conduct his business in private, and the solitude gave him a sort of dignity.
  “Do you know how this works?” Nick asked, with his hands pointing at the plumber’s apprentice, who was just a kid.  
  “Sure,” he answered, causing Nick to put up his open palm in a stop motion.  
  “No, you don’t,” he said sharply. “So listen to me.”
  He paused to let the words sink in and when he was sure he had the kid’s attention he continued. “I don’t want any misunderstanding between us, son, you understand?”
  The kid looked to the right and nodded, causing Nick to knock on the Formica tabletop with his index finger. “Look at me when you answer me, and when you answer me, use words, got it? That’s how misunderstandings start.”
  The kid was getting nervous and shifted in his seat to face Nick the Greek.
  “I understand,” he said respectfully.
  “Okay,” Nick continued. “I give you a loan. You pay me back a set amount every week.”
  “How much?”  “See?” Nick said pointing at him. “You said you knew how this worked. So listen, and I’m here to help you, because an informed customer is a happy customer. How much? A hundred a week on the principle and interest.”
  “The vig,” the kid interrupted.
  “The what?” Nick asked sarcastically.
  “The vig,” the kid replied a little too smugly. “The vigorish on the note.”
  “I know what vig is. I watch the cop shows on TV too. In real life nobody not ever, not ever, says “vig” or vigorish or whatever. It’s interest on the principal of the loan. This isn’t a movie, kid. This is real life.”
  He allowed the kid time to nod before he continued.   
  “Anyway, the interest...” he stopped and said, “Notice I used the word ‘interest’.—the interest is fifteen percent  on the whole. If you’re late with a payment, the interest goes up, first to seventeen percent and then eighteen and nineteen and so on. If you’re late all the time, I’ll either call in the loan, which means you have to pay me all at once, or I can call the loan off which means you don’t have to pay me but you got no credit anywhere with anybody over anything. If that happens, if you stiff me, I won’t sell your note to one of the goombahs down in New Haven. I know what people say about me, and that’s just crap. I never sold a note in my life. But you stiff me, nobody you know now, and nobody you will know in the future, gets to lay a bet with me. When they ask me why, I’ll tell them, You’re friends with a man who stiffs people and you can’t be trusted.”
  No one had ever stiffed Nick the Greek. Most people paid. They paid late, they rarely paid in full, but eventually they paid.  
  “So you want the cash or not, kid?”
  The young man’s face had flushed. He was in over his head and wanted out. “Can I think about it?”
  “What kind of stupid question is that?” he asked but as soon as the words came out, he regretted using them. He knew he intimidated people and he didn’t like it  “Of course you can think about it,” he said gently. “Nobody got a gun to your head.”
  The young man assumed he had been dismissed and slid silently to his feet and walked away. Nick called after him, “Hey!”
The kid spun around quickly, his mouth formed into an O.
  Sounding slightly wounded, Nick asked, “You don’t say goodbye or anything? You just walk away?”
  “No, sir.”
  “You just did.”  “Um,” the boy stammered as he searched his tiny vocabulary for the correct salutation. Nick waved him off with a spoon.
   He wasn’t a mobster. People just assumed that about him. In his years of bookmaking, he had never met a real gangster. He took bets on sports and occasionally loaned out money, but he was no gangster.
  The police left him alone largely because he kept a low profile and because his business was instrumental to the city’s economy. If Nick the Greek didn’t make the loans someone else would, perhaps someone not as reasonable as Nick the Greek, perhaps someone with a higher profile who would cause problems for everyone, and nobody wanted a problem.
  The sixty-two years that made up his life had been good. He had never really known any sort of adversity. His immigrant parents had made a comfortable life for their only son. Although modestly educated, he had a number of intellectual pursuits from a consuming interest in Roman history to astronomy.
  He made as much money as any doctor or lawyer in the Valley. More, probably, since taxes weren’t a primary concern in his line of work. He lived modestly in a nondescript ranch house on the hilltop, the neighborhood he had grown up in. His biggest extravagance was cable TV and yearly vacations to Vegas and Miami.
  He knew clothes. His father had worked as a tailor for sixty years and he taught Nick the trade and every now and then they had talked about opening a men’s clothing store, Angelo Cunina and Son, Men’s Fine Clothing. But that never came to be. Running a handbook brought him more money in a day than his father made in a week. He still knew clothes. Once, on a trip to Vegas, he overheard a waitress refer to him as “that elegant gentleman,” and he basked in the compliment for weeks.   He looked around the dining room and noticed for the first time that it was empty and he felt lonely, hollow. He had felt that way often these days and he found himself questioning the resolution in his life.  He wondered if he was depressed. He had no friends, not really. Bookies don’t have friends. They have people who need them. Once, a few weeks back, in the middle of the day, he had gone over to the church. He sat there on the gleaming mahogany bench and waited but he didn’t know what he was waiting for. He didn’t know why he was there, except that he felt lonely and vulnerable. He hadn’t come to pray and he had nothing for God to consider, so after a while, he left, not feeling any more fulfilled than when he arrived.
  That night, when he went home he told Angerona, his adoring wife, what he had done at the church, and how he felt these days. He asked her, “Is this it? Is this all there is? Didn’t you think that at the end there would be more?” and she had no answer except to gently touch his arm.
  He sensed someone looking at him and there, at the edge of the dining room was the new waitress, tall and thin with dark hair. He didn’t know her name, or maybe he did but he had forgotten it. 
  He watched as she approached him with great trepidation, her delicate white lips closed tightly. He judged her to be no more than twenty-five years old but he knew he could no longer rely on his judgment where age was concerned because these days, virtually everyone he saw seemed young or at least younger than himself.
  She stopped several tables away and stood there, looking around the empty room.
  “Did you need to speak to me, dear?” he asked as kindly as he could.
  “Yes,” she said and then clearing her throat repeated herself. “Yes.”
  “You can come closer, honey,” he said with a friendly smile. “I don’t know what you heard, but I don’t bite.”
  She put her head down and staring at the gray carpet walked to his table.
  “Sit down, dear,” he said softly and waved her towards the empty chair across from him.
  She sat down.
  “You want some coffee?” he asked and looked around the room for the waitress.
  “No thank you,” she replied.
  “How about something to eat?” he asked. “My treat, go ahead.”
  “No,” she smiled, “but thank you.”
  “The pie here is very good.” 
  “I’m all right,” she replied.
  What can I do for you, dear?”
  “I would like to borrow some money and I understand that you lend people money, like a bank.”
  He sat back in his chair. Watching her from afar these past few weeks, he expected her to be more assertive. He would not lend her any money but he was curious.
  “And how much money do you need?” he asked as he stared into his coffee cup.
  “A couple of thousand,” she answered while looking at the table. They all looked at the table when they asked.
  “A couple of thousand?” he repeated.
  “Like three thousand.”
  “You have to pay all that money back.”
  “And then there’s the vig, right?”
  “Yes,” he smiled and nodded. “There’s the vigorish. We, people in my profession, prefer the word interest.”
  She smiled at his patience and kindness.
  “I can’t make you the loan,” he said directly and dryly.
  Cold-hearted bastard, she thought. She had been positive he would give her the money. After all, that was his job. That’s what he did for a living. Day in and day out, she had seen one hapless bricklayer, carpenter, or plumber drag their feet out of the Diner, happily counting the loan he had just made them.   
  “I’ll pay you back,” she said, trying not to sound indignant. “I don’t cheat people.”
  “I know you will,” he answered with a smile.
  “You can ask Mister Khronos. He’ll tell you I’m good for the money. I haven’t missed a single day here, not one.”
  He nodded his head in agreement. “I don’t have to ask him. You seem like a fine person.”
  Nick the Greek may have intimidated others but he didn’t move her in the least.
  “Then why won’t you make the loan?” she said, allowing her disappointment and anger to come through in her words.   
  “I won’t make you the loan and for two reasons,” he said and continued by counting off the reasons on his fingers. “Number one, I operate out of this joint. This place is like my office, and excuse my French, honey, but you don’t crap where you eat. Again, excuse my French. Number two, you work for Alexandros Khronos. I loan you money, one of his employees, in his place of business, he loses face, and I got a new problem I don’t need.”
  She stood up from her chair. She was angry and humiliated and it showed in her face. She clenched her fists and then her eyes welled up. 
  “Oh geez,” Nick sighed and looked around the room for an escape route.
  “What’s your name?” he asked. “My name is Nick, Nick Cunina.”
  “Dolores,” she answered. “Kearney.”
  “All right, Dolores Kearney, what do you need the money for?” he asked.
  “My daughter’s tuition at Eternal Lady of the Assumption.”
  “What does your husband do?” Nick asked. “Does he work?”
  “Don’t have a husband; it’s just me and her.”
  “Well,” he said shifting in his chair, “it’s none of my affair, but a single mother, small income, maybe you should consider public schools.”
  “Next year,” she answered. “I have to send her to a special school for children like her next year, but I still got to pay off this year.  She’s slow, like retarded, but not retarded, but almost.”
  He thought about saying, “I’m sorry” but there was nothing to be sorry for. A child, he thought, no matter what, is God’s gift in life.
 “But she’s a happy kid. She’s kind and gentle and she says the damnedest things.”
  “I went to the Eternal Assumption,” he said.
  “Did you?” she asked.
  “How much do you owe them?” he asked.
  “Fifteen hundred,” she answered.
  “You asked me for three grand.”
  “I gotta get some other things.”
  “Like what?”
  “I want to get my own place,” she said. “I need the first and last month’s rent up front.”
  “What’s your girl’s name?” he asked.
  “Phoebe,” she said with a smile.
  “I like the name Phoebe.”
  He leaned back in his chair and said, “I can’t give you the money.”
  She stood and silently nodded her head and returned to her station, resigned.
  It was raining and although it was still noon, it was overcast and dark when Nick left the Diner and drove his Saturn across the Division Street Bridge to the Eternal Assumption School.
  He rang the bell to the convent door and waited. He looked up at the silver metal cross above the doors and then over to the faded and chipped putty around the window casing. The building was starting to show its years, although he remembered when it was built, and he remembered the dilapidated Victorian that stood there before the convent was there.
  A nun opened the door and stared up at him. He looked down at her face. It was a good face, pale and ruddy and Irish, and it revealed her every emotion.
  “Sister,” he said with a slight nod, and slipped a fat white envelope into her small hands. “This is some tuition for the Kearney girl.  You know her?”
  “This should cover her school for a while, okay?”
  The nun opened the envelope. It was bursting with cash in tens, and twenties.
  ”How much is in here?” she asked, her eyes not leaving the money.
  “Three thousand,” he answered. “How much is the tuition?”
  “Two thousand a year.”
  “Well that should cover what they owe you and then some, huh?” he asked.
  “Easily,” the nun said.
  “Take the rest as a donation,” he said. “Do what you can to go easy on the kid.”
  Nick turned and started to stroll away and then turned and asked her, “How is Father Flynn these days, Sister?”
  “Still dead,” she answered.
  “Too bad,” Nick said. “He was sort of a mentor to me.”
  “Don’t you want a receipt?” she called after him, causing Nick to stop and turn and look at her.
“No, not in my business, unless you plan on stiffing me Sister. You gonna stiff me, Sister?” he asked with a grin.
  The Nun stuck out her lower lip and pretended to consider the notion and then said,  “Naw, I guess not.”
  “When that runs out Sister, come and see me. You know who I am?”
  “Yes,” she nodded knowingly. “You work over at the Valley Diner don’t you?”
  “Yeah. Just let me know what you need.” He waved and walked back to his car with a bounce in his step.
  Parking in his long, black neatly tarred driveway, he took a second to look over the large house. Most of it was dark. There was a light on in the kitchen and in the foyer. He thought again that maybe it was time to sell the place for something smaller. As if feeling the hard rain for the first time, he ran into the house.
  He was smiling when he entered the living room, which surprised his wife, who was there to greet him. He was a serious man who didn’t smile often, although she knew he was trying to soften his approach to life these days.
  “I want to tell you what I did today,” he said, which surprised her. He never discussed his day with her. Not because he didn’t want to, or because she wasn’t interested, but because the nature of his work didn’t lend itself to general conversation.
  They sat in the living room and he told her what happened. How Dolores had approached him so wearily, and what he said to her and what she said to him, and how he turned her down and how he drove to the convent and paid the nun.
 When he was finished with his tale he asked, “You’re not angry or anything are you?”
 “You mean jealous?” she asked.
 “Yeah,” he said.
 “No,” she said. “What you did was kind and decent.”
  He put his arm over her shoulder and said, “And I feel good, I feel pretty good.”
  The next morning Dolores poured Nick’s coffee and said, “That was a nice thing you did,” and then looking up at him she said, “I thought you said you wouldn’t give me the money.”
  “I didn’t give you the money,” he answered without looking at her. “I gave it to some nun.”
  “Well thank you anyway,” Dolores said. “I’ll start paying you back first paycheck I get.”
 “Don’t worry about it, forget about it,” he said.
 “Thank you,” she said, and started to leave but she turned and said, “Look, Nick, I appreciate it and all, but I’d rather pay you back all the same.”
  “Why?” he asked looking up at her. “Buy your girl…what’s her name?”
  “Buy Phoebe something nice.
  “Let’s just keep it business,” she whispered. “I got a man, and I don’t even want him in my life. So if that’s what you’re after…”
  “Hold up,” he said in a voice that was louder than he had ever used with her. “I got a wife of thirty years that I love. She’s a good woman. I don’t do that kind of thing, you understand?”
  A few days later, Dolores brought her daughter Phoebe to work because the school was closed for All Saints Day, a Holy Day of Obligation. She had no one to mind her and couldn’t leave her home by herself.
  Nick spied the girl staring at her from the far end of the Diner. She was round and chubby from too many starches and too much cheap food. She was close to cross-eyed and kept her mouth open. Her clothes were old, unkempt, and inexpensive. He fell in love with her immediately in that way that only Italians can do.
  “I know who you are,” Nick told her in a calm and lyrical voice. “You’re Phoebe.”
  “Yes I am,” Phoebe replied.
  “Don’t you want to know how I know your name?” Nick asked.
  “No,” Phoebe said.
  “Well my name is Nick. You can call me Nick.”
  “No I can’t,” Phoebe replied.
  “Why not?” he asked.
  “Because Nick,” Phoebe said in a way that was ever so slightly condescending, “I’m a child and children are not supposed to call adults by their first names, Nick.”
  When Nick saw Dolores again a few days later, her right eye was closed and there was a large black and blue mark across the right side of her face.
  “My God, what happened to you?” he asked leaning back quickly in his seat.
  “Boyfriend,” she said looking down at the worn gray carpet.
  “Holy mother of God,” Nick said, his face contorted in disbelief.
  “I need to get out of there,” she said more to herself then to him. “He’s going to hurt us both.”
  “What?” Nick asked. “You think he’ll hurt your little girl?”
  “He’s rough with her,” she said. “He yells at her, and calls her names.” She pointed to her swollen face. “That’s what started this. It’s the dope too, he gets doped up, he gets high, and then it starts.”
  “He does drugs in the house where there’s a kid inside?” Nick asked incredulously.
His stomach turned from the instant guilt he felt over not lending her the money she needed for the apartment.
  “Is he the father?” Nick asked.
  “No,” she answered and looked across the room at something only she could see. He waited for more of an answer that he sensed was coming, maybe not then, but someday. “I was raped by a person.”
  He looked out the window into the parking lot and then back at her and in words that surprised him said, “We got a whole basement in my house, kitchen, everything, that’s not being used. We don’t even go down there anymore.”
  “I” she stammered, “I don’t know…”
  “It’s got a fireplace,” he said.
  “What about your wife?” she asked.
  “Two bathrooms,” he added. “It’s a big place. We got a yard too. I never go out there.”
  “What about your wife?” she asked again.
  “She never goes out there either,” he replied.
  “No,” she said. “What I’m saying is, shouldn’t you talk to her about this first?”
  “Yeah,” he said. “When we get there, we’ll talk to her about it.”
  In the months that followed, a reign of happiness came over the home of Nick and Angerona Cunina.
   Angerona, they called her Angie, gave up her daytime television programs and spent her days shopping for food and clothes and preparing meals and minding Phoebe while Dolores worked. Nick bought Dolores a used but reliable car and with Phoebe’s assistance, he became something of an expert in the Saturday cartoon genre. There was a week-long vacation to the Rhode Island beaches. In September, when they enrolled Phoebe into the Special Education program in the public school system, there was a parent-teacher conference that they attended with all the weightiness of a Presidential Summit. 
  Dolores continued to see her boyfriend, his last name was Galanthis, and he continued to get drunk and high and to punch her. She would break it off and he would get sober and it would start over again.
  Nick didn’t interfere although Angerona pushed him to say something.
 “Best to stay out of it,” he told her.
 “He’s gonna kill her one of these days,” she said.
 “Over my dead body,” he replied. “Look Angie, Phoebe’s safe, that’s the important thing. Sooner or later, Dolores will wise up; they always do, watch and see.”
  One day the boyfriend came to the house, drove his car up on the impeccable lawn and kicked open the front door, screaming for Dolores. Angerona phoned the police who arrested him as he sped away. He was released the next morning, a wet, cold, and overcast November morning that forced Nick to pull his raincoat collar up around his neck while he waited for the young man to answer his front door.
   He shoved his right hand into the overcoat’s pocket and ran his thumb across the tops of the dozens of hundred dollar bills stuffed into the white envelope. He would give it to the kid if he promised to leave the area. It was the best way to handle it. Pay him off.
  He could hear someone walking away from the door and rang the bell again. He waited another five minutes and rang it again. When it opened, he reached into the raincoat to retrieve the cash envelope.
  The kid’s unshaven face poked near the door. His eyes were bloodshot. Nick could smell the beer. It wasn’t even noon yet and he was drunk or on his way to becoming drunk.
  “Hi, I’m Nick Cunina,” he said.
  “I know who you are.”     
  “You got a minute?” Nick asked overlooking the young man’s aggressive answer.    
  “Minute for what?” the kid answered in a mocking tone.
  “I got something for you,” Nick said and reached deeper into his pocket.
  The knife pierced Nick’s stomach and caused a sudden and violent loss of blood. He lost consciousness before he hit the ground. A neighbor had watched the stabbing from her window and called the ambulance that managed to save Nick the Greek’s life. The cops never caught the kid. He stepped over Nick’s dying body, climbed into his car
 climbed into his car, and drove away, never to be seen again.  

  It took Nick almost two years to recuperate from the stabbing. But he did recuperate and during those many months while he mended, he changed and he changed for the better. He stopped booking numbers, a job he had grown to hate, and that had a lot to do with that change. When he was well again, in the summer of that year, his sixty-fifth year, Nick the Greek opened a store downtown on Main Street, Angelo Coppola and Son, Men’s Fine Clothing., and drove away, never to be seen again.

What Love is…..
I have a very strong feeling that the opposite of love is not hate - it's apathy. It's not giving a damn. Leo Buscaglia


Supreme Court Will Not Take Away Health Care From Millions Of Americans
by Tara Culp-Ressler  

 By a 6-3 ruling, the Supreme Court decided on Thursday to avoid a major disruption to the insurance market by leaving in place the Affordable Care Act’s current tax subsidies. The decision preserves financial assistance for the Americans purchasing insurance plans through Obamacare’s federally-run marketplaces, effectively maintaining affordable access to health care for millions of people whose coverage was thrown into question by the King v. Burwell case.
“Congress passed the Affordable Care Act to improve health insurance markets, not to destroy them,” the majority opinion concluded.
The closely watched case represents the second time that the Affordable Care Act has withstood a major constitutional challenge. In 2012, the Roberts Court upheld the law’s individual mandate, which paved the way for Obamacare to be implemented on a state level. 
Under Obamacare, which marked its five-year anniversary this past spring, the national uninsurance rate has plummeted to record lows. If the justices had ruled in favor of the plaintiffs in King, however, much of that progress would have unraveled.
Based on one line in the law — which suggests that tax subsidies are available to people who are enrolled in a health plan purchased “through an Exchange established by the State” — the King v. Burwell plaintiffs sought to invalidate the financial assistance available to help Americans purchase insurance in 34 states across the country. If they had been successful, an estimated 13 million people would have suddenly been forced to pay for the entire cost of their health care premiums, sending the insurance market into chaos. Experts predicted that millions of consumers would have been unable to afford to the cost of their plans, contributing to a “death spiral” that would make insurance more expensive for everyone.
The Supreme Court’s ruling is welcome news to everyone from health care advocates to state lawmakers to presidential candidates, all of whom were scrambling to figure out what would happen next if Obamacare’s tax subsidies were struck down in most of the country. There has been little evidence that state and federal politicians had much of a back-up plan.

The British Museum Reading Room
by Louis MacNeice

Under the hive-like dome the stooping haunted readers
Go up and down the alleys, tap the cells of knowledge –
Honey and wax, the accumulation of years …
Some on commission, some for the love of learning,
Some because they have nothing better to do
Or because they hope these walls of books will deaden
The drumming of the demon in their ears.

Cranks, hacks, poverty-stricken scholars,
In prince-nez, period hats or romantic beards
And cherishing their hobby or their doom,
Some are too much alive and some are asleep
Hanging like bats in a world of inverted values,
Folded up in themselves in a world which is safe and silent:
This is the British Museum Reading Room.

Out on the steps in the sun the pigeons are courting,
Puffing their ruffs and sweeping their tails or taking
A sun-bath at their ease
And under the totem poles – the ancient terror –
Between the enormous fluted ionic columns
There seeps from heavily jowled or hawk-like foreign faces
The guttural sorrow of the refugees.


“Distrust all men in whom the impulse to punish is powerful.” Friedrich Nietzsche 

Public defender: Stop jailing the homeless
By Kate Santich Staff Writer

Should homeless people be arrested for “camping”?
Officials want to stop “revolving door” of jail for homeless people
In a public letter to Orlando Mayor Buddy Dyer, Orange County Mayor Teresa Jacobs and commissioners from the city and county, Wesley said the practice wastes jail space, medical resources and court funds. In addition, it "does nothing to improve [homeless people's] circumstances or to solve their underlying problems causing homelessness, those being mental illness, unemployment [and] drug and alcohol abuse," Wesley wrote.
The plea comes just as the Central Florida Commission on Homelessness is forming a criminal-justice committee to examine the problem. Already, commission CEO Andrae Bailey said, Orange-Osceola Chief Circuit Court Judge Fred Lauten has agreed to lead the committee, and Orange-Osceola State Attorney Jeff Ashton has agreed to participate.
The homeless commission was still in the process of reaching out to other local judicial-system officials — including those from Orlando police and the sheriff's offices in Orange, Osceola and Seminole, as well as the public defender's offices — when Wesley released his letter Monday.
"We've been talking to the homeless commission for years, proposing this, and we sit and wait and wait and wait, and nothing ever happens," Wesley said in an interview. "And so I rolled out my plan with my idea."
Bailey pointed out that the commission has made more progress in solving homelessness in the past 18 months than at any point previously.
"I think the fact that he is proposing this now shows the incredible momentum we have on addressing homelessness," Bailey said. "We're making great progress on housing the homeless, but now we need to address this revolving door."
Wesley specifically wants to revamp the arrest procedures for violating local ordinances — including urinating in public, having an open container, trespassing and sleeping in public — that almost exclusively affect homeless people. Instead of being taken to jail, officers would give violators a "notice to appear" in court.
The arrest would be dropped if the violator undergoes a mental-health or substance-abuse evaluation or applies for housing or vocational assistance. Veterans could also get the charges dropped by seeking help from the Department of Veterans Affairs.
The practice has been used for years in Pinellas County, where it was embraced by the Pinellas County Sheriff's Office. Wesley said the majority of the homeless people arrested under the system do follow through by seeking help, though he did not have specific numbers.
"These are no-value arrests," Wesley said of the current system. "They're not stopping a bigger crime. They're not making anyone safer. You're simply arresting someone for a status offense. And the numbers are pretty bad."
One in 10 people booked into Orange County Jail is homeless, Wesley said. Most of them are released if they plead guilty and pay court costs — which Wesley said they can't afford — or they sit for months behind bars awaiting trial. Meanwhile, taxpayers are footing their bills.
Bailey, who overhauled the homeless commission when he took the helm nearly two years ago, agreed that the system needs to be changed.
"We realize arresting people is not the solution, and it's true that [Wesley] has been talking about this for a while," Bailey said. "But until now we haven't had the community leaders we needed involved to make these changes. You've got to get the right leaders in the room together to make something like this happen."
Nationally, 26 percent of those behind bars report they were homeless in the year before their arrest, Bailey said, suggesting the number here may be higher than the one-in-10 figure. The committee now being formed will look at what other cities and counties have done to address the issue before choosing the best option.
Orlando Mayor Buddy Dyer said he also supports changes.
"Homelessness remains one of the most complex challenges facing our community, and we are open to any suggestions and will explore the options shared by Mr. Wesley," Dyer wrote in an email.

PHOTOS THAT DIDN'T GO AS PLANNED...........................

Afro Basaldella  Madera (1965)

Giovanni Boldini- The study of a young woman writing 1920

Hans Hartung

Laundress - Edgar Degas

Still life with cherry blossom branches and vessels, Hennie (Hendrikus Gerardus) De Korte. Dutch, born in 1941

From Richard III
(King Richard speaks)
 Visit our Shakespeare Blog at the address below

Give me another horse! Bind up my wounds!
Have mercy, Jesu! ––Soft, I did but dream.
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What, do I fear? Myself? There’s none else by:
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.
Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am:
Then fly! What, from myself? Great reason why:
Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself!
Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good
That I myself have done unto myself?
O, no. Alas, I rather hate myself
For hateful deeds committed by myself.
I am a villain. Yet I lie, I am not.
Fool, of thyself speak well. Fool, do not flatter.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the highest degree;
Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree;
All several sins, all used in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all “Guilty! guilty!”
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me;
And if I die no soul will pity me.
And wherefore should they, since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself?
Methought the souls of all that I had murdered
Came to my tent; and every one did threat

Tomorrow’s vengeance on the head of Richard.

Half the lies they tell about me aren't true.”


Compiled by

John William Tuohy

Gravely Speaking
Writings found on grave stones

Anna Wallace
The children of Israel wanted bread
And the Lord sent them manna,
Old clerk Wallace wanted a wife,
And the Devil sent him Anna.

Sir John Strange
Here lies an honest lawyer,
And that is Strange.

Sacred to the memory of
my husband John Barnes
who died January 3, 1803
His comely young widow, aged 23, has
many qualifications of a good wife, and
yearns to be comforted.

Here lies an Atheist
All dressed up
And no place to go.

Russell J. Larsen buried in Logan, Ut.
Two things I love most,
good horses and beautiful women,
And when I die I hope they tan this old hide of mine
and make it into a ladies riding saddle,
So I can rest in peace
between the two things I love

In Memory of Beza Wood
Departed this life
Nov. 2, 1837
Aged 45 yrs.
Here lies one Wood
Enclosed in wood
One Wood
Within another.
The outer wood
Is very good:
We cannot praise
The other.

When the great judgement day arrives
and Joshua Fenton Newton does not emerge from this hole,
you will know that someone made a mistake
and buried me in the wrong hole.

From La Pointe, Wis.
To the Memory of Abraham Beaulieu
Born 15 September 1822
Accidentally shot 4th April 1844
As a mark of affection from his brother.

From Burlington Vt.
She lived with her husband fifty years
And died in the confident hope of a better life.

Here lies my wife:
Here let her lie!
Now she's at rest
And so am I.

Here Lies Mary Smith
Silent At Last

On the grave of Ezekial Aikle in East Dalhousie Cemetery, Nova Scotia
Here lies
Ezekial Aikle
Age 102
The Good
Die Young.

In a London cemetery
Here lies Ann Mann,
Who lived an old maid
But died an old Mann.
Dec. 8, 1767

In a Ribbesford, England, cemetery
The children of Israel wanted bread
And the Lord sent them manna,
Old clerk Wallace wanted a wife,
And the Devil sent him Anna.

In a Ruidoso, New Mexico, cemetery
Here lies
Johnny Yeast
Pardon me
For not rising.

Uniontown, Pennsylvania cemetery
Here lies the body
of Jonathan Blake
Stepped on the gas
Instead of the brake.

In a Silver City, Nevada, cemetery
Here lays Butch,
We planted him raw.
He was quick on the trigger,
But slow on the draw.

A widow wrote this epitaph in a Vermont cemetery
Sacred to the memory of
my husband John Barnes
who died January 3, 1803
His comely young widow, aged 23, has
many qualifications of a good wife, and
yearns to be comforted.

Found in Stowe, Vermont
I was somebody.
Who, is no business
Of  yours.

Lester Moore was a Wells, Fargo Co. station agent for Naco, Arizona in the 1880's. He's buried in the Boot Hill Cemetery in Tombstone, Arizona
Here lies Lester Moore
Four slugs from a .44
No Les No More.

In a Georgia cemetery
"I told you I was sick!"

John Penny's epitaph in the Wimborne, England, cemetery
Reader if cash thou art
In want of any
Dig 4 feet deep
And thou wilt find a Penny.

On Margaret Daniels grave at Hollywood Cemetery Richmond, Virginia
She always said her feet were killing her
but nobody believed her.

In a cemetery in Hartscombe, England
On the 22nd of June
Jonathan Fiddle -
Went out of tune.

Anna Hopewell's grave in Enosburg Falls, Vermont
Here lies the body of our Anna
Done to death by a banana
It wasn't the fruit that laid her low
But the skin of the thing that made her go.

Owen Moore in Battersea, London, England
Owen Moore
Gone away
Owin' more
Than he could pay.

Found in Winslow, Maine
In Memory of Beza Wood
Departed this life
Nov. 2, 1837
Aged 45 yrs.

Here lies one Wood
Enclosed in wood
One Wood
Within another.
The outer wood
Is very good:
We cannot praise
The other.

On a grave from the 1880's in Nantucket, Massachusetts
Under the sod and under the trees
Lies the body of Jonathan Pease.
He is not here, there's only the pod:
Pease shelled out and went to God.

"She is survived by Detmar [Blow] and a considerable hat collection."
The final line in the Guardian's obit for Isabella Blow (fashion journalist, born November 19 1958; died May 7 2007)s

New York Times obit for Selma Koch, 95, famed brassiere maven: Selma Koch, a Manhattan store owner who earned a national reputation by helping women find the right bra size, mostly through a discerning glance and never with a tape measure, died Thursday at Mount Sinai Medical Center. She was 95 and a 34B. (Link)

Effie Jean Robinson
Come blooming youths, as you pass by ,
And on these lines do cast an eye.
As you are now, so once was I;
As I am now, so must you be;
Prepare for death and follow me.
Which is not funny at all. But underneath, someone had added:
To follow you
I am not content,
How do I know
Which way you went.

From Boot Hill Cemetery, Tombstone, Arizona
He was young
He was fair
But the Injuns
Raised his hair

Bill Blake
Was hanged by mistake.

Boot Hill Cemetery, Tombstone, Arizona
Here lays Butch.
We planted him raw.
He was quick on the trigger
But slow on the draw.

Silver City, Nevada
Here lies a man named Zeke.
Second fastest draw in Cripple Creek.

Toothless Nell  (Alice Chambers)
Killed 1876 in a Dance Hall brawl.
Her last words: "Circumstances led me to this end."

Boot Hill Museum, Dodge City, Kansas
Here lies the body of  Arkansas Jim.
We made the mistake, But the joke's on him.

Culver City
He called
Bill Smith
A Liar

On the grave of a woman who died in 1984.  Colorado Springs, Colorado. Her son, owner of Zeezo's Magic Castle in Colorado Springs, stated that his mother had been married to a Texan who is buried in Texas.

I would
rather be here
than in Texas.

Member Co. D 17th Iowa Inf. which mustered in 1165 men and mustered out 42. Participated in 19 battles and 3 sieges. Never Applied For A Pension.  Salida, Colorado
James B. McCoy left a message on his 1899 tombstone proclaiming his independence from the United States Government.

Larne, Ireland - On a hanged sheep stealer
Here lies the body of
Thomas Kemp.
Who lived by wool
and died by hemp.

Winterborn Steepleton Cemetery, Dorsetshire, England
Here lies the body
Of Margaret Bent
She kicked up her heels
And away she went.

Savannah, Georgia
Here lies old Rastus Sominy
Died a-eating hominy
In 1859 anno domini

Schenectady, New York
He got a fish-bone in his throat
and then he sang an angel note.

Found in a New Jersey cemetery
She was not smart, she was not fair,
But hearts with grief for her are swellin';
All empty stands her little chair:
She died of eatin' water-mellon.

Rebecca Freeland
She drank good ale,
good punch and wine
And lived to the age of 99.

Falkirk, England
Beneath this stone, a lump of clay,
Lies stingy Jimmy Wyatt.
Who died one morning just at ten
And saved a dinner by it.

Here lie the bones of Joseph Jones
Who ate while he was able.
But once overfed, he dropt down dead
And fell beneath the table.
When from the tomb, to meet his doom,
He arises amidst sinners.
Since he must dwell in heaven or hell,
Take him - whichever gives the best dinners.

Here lies Johnny Cole.
Who died upon my soul
After eating a plentiful dinner.
While chewing his crust
He was turned into dust
With his crimes undigested - poor sinner.

Enosburg Falls, Vermont
In memory of Anna Hopewell
Here lies the body of our Anna
Done to death by a banana
It wasn't the fruit that laid her low
But the skin of the thing that made her go.

Roxbury, Connecticut
Here lies cut down like unripe fruit,
The wife of Deacon Amos Shute:
She died of drinking too much coffee,
Anny Dominy -- eighteen-forty.

Eliza, Sorrowing
Rears This Marble Slab
To Her Dear John
Who Died of Eating Crab.

On a Farmer's Daughter, Letitia:
Grim Death
To Please His Palate
Has Taken My Lettice
To Put in His Sallat.

On a grave diggers omb
Hooray my brave boys
Lets rejoice at his fall.
For if he had lived
He would have buried us all.

Kingsbridge, England
Robert Phillip, gravedigger:
Here I lie at the Chancel door;
Here lie I because I am poor;
The farther in the more you pay;
Here I lie as warm as they.

West Grimstead, Sussex, England
On a coroner who hung himself:
He lived
And died
By suicide

Nantucket, Massachusetts
On Ezekiel Pease grave
Pease is not here,
Only his pod
He shelled out his Peas
And went to his God

On a Coal-miners grave
Gone Underground For Good

On an Architects grave
Here lies Robert Trollope
Who made yon stones roll up.
When death took his soul up
His body filled this hole up.

On an attorneys grave
John E.
"The defense rests"

Edinburgh, Scotland
On a dentists grave
Stranger tread
This ground with gravity.
Dentist Brown
Is filling his last cavity.

On a brewers grave
G. Winch, the brewer, lies buried here.
In life he was both hale and stout.
Death brought him to his bitter bier.
Now in heaven he hops about.

On a Painters grave
A Finished Artist

On an Auctioneers grave
Jedediah Goodwin
Born 1828

New Shoreham, Rhode Island
On a fishermans grave
Captain Thomas Coffin
Died 1842, age 50 years.
He's done a-catching cod
And gone to meet his God.

Here lies the body of
Detlof Swenson.
God finally caught his eye.
April 10, 1902

On an Authors grave
He Has Written Finis

Elkhart, Indiana
On a teacher grave stone
Professor S. B. McCracken
School is out
Has gone home.

Ruidoso, New Mexico
Here lies
Johnny Yeast.
Pardon me
For not rising.

To the Green Memory of
William Hawkings
Planted Here
With Love and Care
By His
Grieving Colleagues

Hoboken, New Jersey
On a traveling salesman:
My Trip is Ended:
Send My Samples Home

Mary Weary, Housewife
Dere Friends I am going
Where washing ain't done
Or cooking or sewing:
Don't mourn for me now
Or weep for me never:
For I go to do nothing
Forever and ever!

Belturbet, Ireland
Here lies the body
of John Round.
Lost at sea
and never found.

Here lies Barnard Lightfoot
Who was accidentally killed
in the 45th year of his age.
This monument was erected
by his grateful family.

Plymouth, Mass.
Here lies the body of
Thomas Vernon
The only surviving son of
Admiral Vernon

Sacred to the memory of
Major James Brush
Royal Artillery, who was killed
by the accidental discharge of
a pistol by his orderly,
14th April 1831.
Well done, good and faithful servant.

(* errors) Scranton, Pennsylvania
1787 - Jones - 1855
Here lie the bones of Sophie Jones;
For her death held no terrors.
She was born a maid and died a maid.
No hits, no runs, and no heirs.*

Beneath his silent stone is laid
A noisy, antiquated maid,
Who from her cradle talked to death,
And never before was out of breath.
Here lies, returned to clay
Miss Arabella Young,
Who on the eleventh day of May
Began to hold her tongue.

In a North Carolina cemetery
On a spinster postmistress:

Moultrie, Georgia
Here lies the father of 29.
He would have had more
But he didn't have time.

Oxford, England.
Here lies the body of Elred.
At least he will be when he is dead.
But now at this time he's still alive,
14th August '65.

Battersea, London, England
Owen Moore
Gone away
Owin' more
Than he could pay.

Connemora, Ireland
This Empty Urn is
Sacred to the Memory
of John Revere
Who Died Abroad
in Finistere:
If He Had Lived
He Would Have Been
Buried Here.

Burlington, Vermont
She lived with her husband for 50 years
And died in the confident hope of a better life.

Here lies the body of Mary Ford.
We hope her soul is with the Lord.
But if for hell she's changed this life,
Better live there than as J. Ford's wife.

Grieve not for me my husband dear.
I am not dead but sleeping here.
With patience wait - perforce to die
And in a short time you'll come to I.
And the husband added:
I am not grieved, my dearest life.
Sleep on, I've got another wife.
Therefore, I cannot come to thee
For I must go and live with she.

I plant these shrubs upon your grave dear wife
That something on this spot may boast of life.
Shrubs must wither and all earth must rot.
Shrubs may revive, but you thank heaven will not.

Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada
1796 -- WISE -- 1878
Here lies the body of Ephraim Wise.
Safely tucked between his two wives.
One was Tillie and the other Sue.
Both were faithful, loyal, and true.
By his request in ground that's hilly
His coffin is set tilted toward Tillie.

In a New Hampshire cemetery.
Tears cannot restore her --
therefore I weep.

Dunoon, Scotland
Here lie the remains of
Thomas Woodhen.
The most amiable of husbands
And excellent of men.
His real name was Woodcock
But it wouldn't come in rhyme.

Edinburgh, Scotland
Beneath this stone a lump of clay
Lies Uncle Peter Dan'els
Who early in the month of May
Took off his winter flannels.

Charleston, South Carolina
Reader, I've left this world, in which
I had a world to do;
Sweating and fretting to get rich:
Just such a fool as you.

Albany, New York
Harry Edsel Smith
Born 1903 - Died 1942
Looked up the elevator shaft
to see if the car
was on the way down.
It was.

In a New Jersey cemetery.
Julia Newton
Died of thin shoes,
April 17th, 1839,
age 19 years.

Burlington, Vermont
Here lies the body of Mary Ann Lowder
She burst while drinking a Seidlitz powder.
Called from this world to her heavenly rest,
She should have waited till it effervesced.

Boston, Massachusetts
First a Cough
Carried Me Off
Then a Coffin
They Carried Me Off In

Wiltshire, England
Blown upward
out of sight:
He sought the leak
by candlelight

Near Sparta Diggings, California
(Spelling is exactly as written on the tombstone)
In memory of
Richard Fothergill
Who met vierlent death near this spot
18 hundred and 40 too.
He was shot by
his own pistill.
It was not one of the
new kind;
But an old fashioned brass barrell
Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.

Mylor Churchyard, Cornwall, England
His foot is slipt
and he did fall.
"Help; Help" he cried
and that was all.

Here lies old Aunt Hannah Proctor
Who purged but didn't call the Doctor:
She couldn't stay, She had to go
Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

Annapolis, Maryland
Here Lies Jane Smith
Wife of Thomas Smith
Marble Cutter:
This Monument Erected
By Her Husband
As A Tribute
To Her Memory.
Monuments of this style
are 250 Dollars.

Sacred To The Remains of
Jonathan Thompson
A Pious Christian and
Affectionate Husband.
His disconsolate widow
Continues to carry on
His grocery business
At the old stand on
Main Street: Cheapest
and best prices in town.

Cleveland, Ohio
Once I wasn't
Then I was
Now I ain't again.

Chattanooga, Tennessee
Here lies Ned.
There is nothing more to be said--
Because we like to speak well of the dead.
I came into this world
Without my consent
And left in the same manner.

St. Giles Churchyard, London, England
Thomas Stagg's epitaph:
That is all

Epitaph of John Penny, Wimborne, England.
"Reader --if cash thou art in want of any,
Dig four feet deep and find a Penny."

Epitaph in cemetery at Girard, Pa.
"In loving memory of Ellen Shannon, aged 25,
Who was accidentally burned March 21, 1870,
By the explosion of a lamp filled with R.E. Danforth's
Non-explosive burning fluid."

Epitaph in a cemetery near Wetumpka, Ala.
"Solomon Peas.
Peas is not here,
Only the pod.
Peas shelled out,

Went home to God."

In 1962, six year old John Tuohy, his two brothers and two sisters entered Connecticut’s foster care system and were prompltyl spilit apart. Over the next ten years, John would live in more then ten foster homes, group homes and state schools, from his native Waterbury to Ansonia, New Haven, West Haven, Deep River and Hartford. In the end, a decade later, the state returned him to the same home and the same parents they had taken him from. As tragic as is funny complelling story will make you cry and laugh as you journey with this child to overcome the obsticales of the foster care system and find his dreams.

John William Tuohy is a writer who lives in Washington DC. He holds an MFA in writing from Lindenwood University. He is the author of numerous non-fiction on the history of organized crime including the ground break biography of bootlegger Roger Tuohy "When Capone's Mob Murdered Touhy" and "Guns and Glamour: A History of Organized Crime in Chicago."
His non-fiction crime short stories have appeared in The New Criminologist, American Mafia and other publications. John won the City of Chicago's Celtic Playfest for his work The Hannigan's of Beverly, and his short story fiction work, Karma Finds Franny Glass, appeared in AdmitTwo Magazine in October of 2008.
His play, Cyberdate.Com, was chosen for a public performance at the Actors Chapel in Manhattan in February of 2007 as part of the groups Reading Series for New York project. In June of 2008, the play won the Virginia Theater of The First Amendment Award for best new play.

 Contact John:

From Professor William Anthony Connolly on "No Time To Say Goodbye"

This incredible memoir, No Time to Say Goodbye, tells of entertaining angels, dancing with devils, and of the abandoned children many viewed simply as raining manna from some lesser god.
The young and unfortunate lives of the Tuohy bruins—sometimes Irish, sometimes Jewish, often Catholic, rambunctious, but all imbued with Lion’s hearts— is told here with brutal honesty leavened with humor and laudable introspective forgiveness.
The memoir will have you falling to your knees thanking that benevolent Irish cop in the sky, your lucky stars, or hugging the oxygen out of your own kids the fate foisted upon Johnny and his siblings does not and did not befall your own brood.
 John William Tuohy, a nationally-recognized authority on organized crime and Irish levity, is your trusted guide through the weeds the decades of neglect ensnared he and his brothers and sisters, all suffering for the impersonal and often mercenary taint of the foster care system.
Theirs, and Tuohy’s, story is not at all figures of speech as this review might suggest, but all too real and all too sad, and maddening. I wanted to scream. I wanted to get into a time machine, go back and adopt every last one of them. I was angry. I was captivated.
The requisite damning verities of foster care are all here, regretfully, but what sets this story above others is its beating heart, even a bruised and broken one, still willing to forgive and understand, and continue to aid its walking wounded. I cannot recommend this book enough


Architecture for the blog of it

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Sculpture this and Sculpture that

The art of War (Propaganda art through the ages)

Album Art (Photographic arts)

Pulp Fiction Trash (The art of Pulp Fiction covers)

Admit it, you want to Read this Book (The art of Pulp Fiction covers)

The Godfather Trilogy BlogSpot

On the Waterfront: The Making of a great American Film

Absolutely blogalicious

The Wee Book of Irish Recipes (Book support site)

Good chowda (New England foods)

Old New England Recipes (Book support site)

And I Love Clams (New England foods)

In Praise of the Rhode Island Wiener (New England foods)

Wicked Cool New England Recipes (New England foods)

Old New England Recipes (New England foods)

Foster Care new and Updates

Aging out of the system

Murder, Death and Abuse in the Foster Care system

Angel and Saints in the Foster Care System

The Foster Children’s Blogs

Foster Care Legislation

The Foster Children’s Bill of Right

Foster Kids own Story

The Adventures of Foster Kid.

Me vs. Diabetes (Diabetes education site)

The Quotable Helen Keller

Teddy Roosevelt's Letters to his children (Book support site)

The Quotable Machiavelli (Book support site)

Whatever you do, don't laugh

The Quotable Grouch Marx

A Big Blog of Irish Literature

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The Irish American Gangster

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When Washington Was Irish

The Wee Book of Irish Recipes (Book support site)

Following Fitzgerald


The Blogable Robert Frost

Charles Dickens

The Beat Poets of the Forever Generation

Holden Caulfield Blog Spot

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Old New England Recipes

Wicked Cool New England Recipes


The New England Mafia

And I Love Clams

In Praise of the Rhode Island Wiener

Watch Hill

York Beach

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Good chowda

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Elvis and Nixon at the White House (Book support site)

Beatles Fan Forever

Year One, 1955

Robert Kennedy in His Own Words

The 1980s were fun

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We Only Kill Each Other

Early Gangsters of New York City

Al Capone: Biography of a self-made Man

The Life and World of Al Capone

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Recipes we would Die For

The Prohibition in Pictures

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Chicago’s Mob Bosses

Chicago Gang Land: It Happened Here

Whacked: One Hundred years of Murder in Gangland

The Mob Across America

Mob Cops, Lawyers and Front Men

Shooting the Mob: Dutch Schultz

Bugsy& His Flamingo: The Testimony of Virginia Hill

After Valachi. Hearings before the US Senate on Organized Crime

Mob Buster: Report of Special Agent Virgil Peterson to the Kefauver Committee (Book support site)

The US Government’s Timeline of Organized Crime (Book support site)

The Kefauver Organized Crime Hearings (Book support site)

Joe Valachi's testimony on the Mafia (Book support site)

Mobsters in the News

Shooting the Mob: Dead Mobsters (Book support site)

The Stolen Years Full Text (Roger Touhy)

Mobsters in Black and White

Mafia Gangsters, Wiseguys and Goodfellas

Whacked: One Hundred Years of Murder and Mayhem in the Chicago Mob (Book support site)

Gangland Gaslight: The Killing of Rosy Rosenthal (Book support site)

The Best of the Mob Files Series (Book support site)

It’s All Greek Mythology to me

Psychologically Relevant

The Rarifieid Tribe

Perfect Behavior

The Upscale Traveler

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DC Behind the Monuments

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When Washington Was Irish

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