This poor girl is so poor her pants has holes all in them. What a shame, we need to take up a collection and buy her a new pair. We’re here to HELP!
I was asked who my Three HERO’s in life were… I had to think for a few minutes but Ms. Sendler is #1Irena Sendler was a Polish Roman Catholic nurse/social worker who served in the Polish Underground during World War II, and as head of children’s section of Zegota, an underground resistance organization in German-occupied Warsaw. Assisted by some two dozen other Zegota members, Sendler smuggled some 2,500 Jewish children out of the Warsaw Ghetto and then provided them with false identity documents and with housing outside the Ghetto, saving those children during the Holocaust.
But the Nazis became aware of Irena’s activities, and on October 20, 1943 she was arrested, imprisoned and tortured by the Gestapo, who broke her feet and legs. She ended up in the Pawiak Prison, but no one could break her spirit. Though she was the only one who knew the names and addresses of the families sheltering the Jewish children, she withstood the torture, that crippled her for life, refusing to betray either her associates or any of the Jewish children in hiding. Sentenced to death, Irena was saved at the last minute when Zegota members bribed one of the Gestapo agents to halt the execution. She escaped from prison but for the rest of the war she was pursued by the Nazis.
For many years Irena Sendler – white-haired, gentle and courageous – was living a modest existence in her Warsaw apartment. This unsung heroine passed away on Monday May 12th, 2008.
If this lady didn’t meet Sainthood I don’t know who would… God Bless You Ms. Sendler
What you need to make one:
* a large tin can (about a one-gallon size)
* 2 wire coat hangers
* Bottle Opener (church key)
* a small punch or a small Phillips screw driver
The advantage of the Hobo Stove is that small twigs or a few pieces of charcoal will create a considerable amount of heat for cooking. In addition, the fire is contained within the can and is much safer than an open fire.
Take the emptied gallon tin can and wash it out real good. Use a bottle opener to cut holes at approximately 1 1/2-inch intervals around the bottom of the can. This will allow the stove to draft properly. With tin snips or pocket knife cut a half circle hole at the bottom of the can, so that your stoves fuel can be added. If you use a knife wear gloves and don’t use your good knife because you’re going to really dull the blade. Punch some small holes around the top of the can using the punch or Phillips screw driver. Cut the hangers about 1-2 inches larger than the diameter of the can. Insert the wires all the way threw the tin can. (look at photo)
When finished let stove cool down, take out wires, and wrap in a towel for transporting.
If you want to cook with two pans or a pan and a coffee pot, two stoves could be used. If they were slightly different sizes, one could be inserted inside the other to conserve space.
2014 Wannabe a Hobo This is a copy of the CyberHobo Survival Guide – FREE
Layer 2 1/2 cups of corn chips; 1/2 cup cheese and chili in 1 1/2 quart casserole or Dutch oven. Top with remaining corn chips. Bake at (375) or over camp fire, about 25 minutes. Top with remaining cheese and bake 5 minutes longer. Garnish with sour cream if you have any!
1. Try to think of her as an acquaintance. Call her by her first name, she’s not your Mom.
2. Always express your feeling to her and point out the common problems. Don’t make judgmental comments as she does, but let your or wife know that it hurts. Do not criticize her – remember this /her mother – but don’t protect her either.
3. You must get the support of your wife. Talk with her and explain what the problems and issues are and ask for her help. (it will make you look as if you are seriously trying)
4. Distance yourself as much as possible. A good 10 mile separation is always a good idea.
5. Keep in mind she probably wont change but you are trying.
6. Avoid the triggers that set each of you off.
7. Try to stay calm but try not to be rude about it.
8. Define your boundaries to her. Let her know what is off limits and tell her you will not make exceptions.
9. If Mother-In-Law attempts to use guilt as a tool of manipulation (which is extremely common), Disarm her and leave her empty.
It’s your and your wife’s life, she is part of it but only part. In order for your wife and you to be happy she has to understand you are part of the family.
- If all else fails, run! If the above solution fails, just up and move to another city. Many people swear their marriages have been saved by this solution!
Uncle Carl wasn’t like other uncles, and the difference suited me, I guess because that is the only way I ever knew him. One of my more stranger relatives was my Uncle Carl, he had married my mother’s sister, Barbara.
I didn’t actually get to know Uncle Carl until he came back from the Vietnam War. Most people that knew him said the Carl that left is not the Carl that came back. I guess war does that to a lot of people.
He had a daughter but never really did anything with her. I’m not sure if he was allowed to, I was too young to remember much, except going to their house filled with burning incents and beads hanging from the door way and Led Zeppelin playing on the record player. He would always be stoned out of his head, which I didn’t realize until I got much older.
I remember his as a bear of a man; kind and easy going with a really great head of thick burley hair. He was always smiling and told really stupid jokes. Friendly but not right, even as a child I knew this.
My aunt and him divorced and he moved on. Once a year or so he would show up at our door with a big smile on his face. I remember it was my Dads birthday and he just happened to show up for a free dinner and all he had of value was a silver dime. He sang happy birthday and opened his wallet and pulled out that silver dime and gave it to Dad as a birthday gift. I realize now that was all he had.
On, another surprise visit from him, my father, Uncle Carl, and myself, walked through some woods. My father had a .22 caliber rifle and Uncle Carl all of a sudden FREAKED OUT! He grabbed the .22 and started shouting at a small single engine plane flying over head. I always assumed he missed but never really knew. After that it was, “KEEP THE GUNS AWAY FROM UNCLE CARL”! That incident did scare the shit out of me…lol
We’d go years without seeing him and one day he showed up in the front of our house driving an ice-cream truck. Even then I knew he was selling drugs out of the back of the truck. Another time we were at the Kentucky State Fair and saw him as carney. We hugged and said hello and to come for a visit, but he never did. After that Uncle Carl just faded into history…
On February 20, 2013 my sister sent me this article;
Carl V. Myers, 63, of Chelsea, formerly of Revere, beloved son of Alice (Porter) Perry of Revere and the late James Myers, brother of Jim and Tom Myers, also survived by many aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins.
Carl was a veteran of the Vietnam War with the United States Army and served on two tours of duty before finally being discharged in September of 1972. He was a 100 % disabled veteran which was service related. He later was a well driller, cab driver, and also worked in the maintenance department at the Miami Veterans Hospital.
His Funeral Service will be held on Thursday at 7:00 PM at the Conway, Cahill-Brodeur Funeral Home, 82 Lynn St., Peabody to which relatives and friends are kindly invited to attend. Visiting hours will be held prior to the service from 4:00 until 7:00 PM. Burial will be private.
Goodbye Uncle Carl… I do regret not looking you up as an adult.
Even though he never held the title of Hobo, I truly think he was one in his heart.
PS… to the old bitch who stalks me, eat shit and die!
The milk cans come in various sizes, the biggest being 10 1/2 gallons. That can is about 3 1/2 feet tall and about a foot in diameter. I personally would by a new one and then you’ll have something to pass along to generations to come. I don’t know if I’d trust a used one from someone I didn’t know.
They have enough room for Cyberhobo to put in ~25 lbs of potatoes (I like the little red ones), ~a bunch of carrots, ~maybe peppers, ~some people add some onions, ~and several roasts. Spice everything to your liking’ , added some water and put it over a propane burner with the lid slightly cracked to allow the steam to escape and slow cooked it for several hours. You can smell it all over the property when it’s cookin’. When everything is done, the roasts will be so tender they fall apart with your fork and the vegetables should be done – but not mushy.
People and Hobos have been cookin’ these dinners for years! Try a milk can dinner for your next family / friend gathering and see how it is. I bet a tradition starts.
The downside to the milk can / cream cans is they’re not cheap. This one cost $239.00 (I got FREE shipping) but I’m sure my grandkids will be cooking dinner for their grandkids out of it. Talkin’ about how ol’ grandpa bought the dang can bang in 2013.
Here is a link to the cans “The Ogallala Cream Can Supper Company“
Beefy King restaurant in Orlando (off Bumby) has been around for 40+ years. It sort of like Arby’s except a lot better. When I lived in Orlando 20 years ago I go there for lunch or dinner. I was watching a show about “old places to eat” and Beefy King came up and was on the show. I’d forgotten about it years ago. Well I have to take a class on Bumby Ave. and wondered if it were close to Beefy King? Well it was less than 1/2 mile away…I SCORED! Dam it was good … now I can’t wait to go back for some more.
By The Office Hobo
There are some secrets you wish you never had to tell.
When my friend Jürgen invited me to join him and a friend for a casual Friday dinner, I nearly declined. Having slept badly the night before, I was feeling haggard and more than ready for a good night’s sleep. I didn’t know this mystery friend of his, either. But guilt got the better of me. I decided to make an appearance.
When I walked in to the restaurant and saw my friend sitting with a dark-eyed Venezuelan beauty in a tight black dress, my exhaustion evaporated.
Her name was Yasmin.
I won’t say that I fell in love with Yasmin immediately. That would suggest that I had even the slightest control over my faculties. I was pretty much a bumbling, merry idiot. But I knew very quickly that I liked her. A lot.
Falling into like-a-lot with someone means you work very hard to conceal your less amazing qualities. Maybe you suck in your gut or postpone mention of your 8-year-old child.
Or maybe you avoid discussion of your living situation. Maybe you suggest everyone go to Jürgen’s place after the bars close to continue avoiding said discussion.
(That was me.)
When the clock struck 6 a.m. and my secret remained undisclosed, I was pleasantly relieved. But that relief was short-lived. As Yasmin and I lay on Jürgen’s couch, observing the light of the rising sun coating the rooftops, this dark-eyed wonder finally said those dreaded six words. The six words every guy wants to hear.
Every guy, that is, except me.
“Let’s go back to your place.”
My eyes widened.
You see, I live in my office. For more than 250 days, I have called the place where I work home, taking up residence in the small plot of carpet in my Los Angeles cubicle, next to eight other cubicles just like it. It is an act of defiance from the institution of rent. It is a show of independence from the implied social obligation of traditional housing. And, best of all, it means I have the shortest commute in history.
Naturally, this living arrangement requires explanation. Where do I shower? Do my co-workers know? How do I explain this to a love interest?
These are all valid questions. But first, the origin story: During a series of errands for an evening work event last winter, I stopped by the office at 9 p.m. and was struck by the tranquility of the place. Unlike my home neighborhood, the office was perfectly still. No thumping bass from the upstairs neighbors. No security guard manning the premises, either. Someone could be here all night, I thought, and not a soul would be the wiser.
This past summer, a series of personal financial setbacks brought that curiosity to the forefront. The questions occupied my mind with increasing regularity: Why, in our culture, is a permanent residence a nonnegotiable line item in our expenses? Is it possible to function without one? Could I preserve a social life without maintaining a traditional home?
This is my experiment. It is rent boycotting. It is selective homelessness. I prefer to call it “home-free” living.
On Aug. 1, 2012, I packed my bags, secured a gym membership for shower access, and moved into my office. Save for a short hiatus of apartment living during the winter, I have been living there since.
I’ve chosen to remain anonymous to protect my company. None of my co-workers knows I’m living here. The people I work with are wonderful people; I want neither to accept their sympathy nor take advantage of their kindness. This presents a series of obstacles, and yes, I expend great energy to accommodate their schedules.
Like back in March, when my co-worker stopped by unannounced to drop off a tray of files on a Sunday. Somehow, I managed to tidy my cubicle and bolt to the staff bathroom in a matter of seconds.
It was a close call. And hiding in a unisex washroom is, admittedly, a humbling experience. But the way I see it, inconveniences like these constitute my “rent.” What others pay in earnings from countless hours of labor, I forfeit in sporadic exercises of self-deprecation. Having experienced both, I can’t say my situation is any worse.
My situation just requires a little extra attention to detail. When I wake up in the morning, I always return my triple-sofa-cushion bedding to the same spot, zippers facing in. My belongings — the ones I haven’t given away — are stuffed in odd corners of the office, placed one at a time over the first few weeks with frog-in-a-frying-pan success. I keep the fridge clear, opting instead to over-frequent the local sandwich shop and burrito stand. Sometimes I’ll even run morning errands and show up “late for work.”
So far, my secret remains well kept.
Which brings me back to my dark-eyed dilemma.
Before Yasmin, I had no trouble telling — with varying degrees of success — women in my life about my situation. But this time I was tongue-tied. I was afraid she would laugh in my face. So instead of answering her, I remained silent.
Enter Miles Davis, liberator of silence, savior of the speechless. His song “So What” began to play on the radio, and Yasmin instantly perked up.
“Listen…” she said, closing her eyes, tilting her neck gently, as if Miles himself had offered to massage her back. “His patience… His innovation… That is what is beautiful about Miles. He challenges the rules. He does what he believes.”
He challenges the rules. He does what he believes.
It is rarely advisable to compare yourself to a musical icon. I am far from a genius in any field or art form, so the irony of such an association did not escape me. There was a lesson in her words, however, and it resonated with me in a way that reminded me why I was in this position in the first place. So I told her my secret.
She reacted without emotion.
“You live in your office?” she asked, scrutinizing my face for evidence of mischievousness. She found none.
“Well, in that case,” she said, “I have to see it.”
The resultant grin spanned the length of my face. She was a keeper. I just hoped my co-workers didn’t have any files to drop off that morning…
The Office Hobo is the nom de plume of a guy who lives and works in L.A. Check out his blog at theofficehobo.com