Best Offers for One Piece Cartoon Chopper Unisex Student Book Bag Anime Canvas Rucksack Knapsack Backpack for Teens 42*30*15cm (pink)

One Piece Cartoon Chopper Unisex Student Book Bag Anime Canvas Rucksack Knapsack Backpack for Teens 42*30*15cm (pink)

Brand : Lando

Sales Rank :

Color : Pink

Amazon.com Price : $35.17

Features One Piece Cartoon Chopper Unisex Student Book Bag Anime Canvas Rucksack Knapsack Backpack for Teens 42*30*15cm (pink)

Backpack pattern: Japanese anime
Open method: zipper
Material: canvas(outside)+polyester cotton(liner)
Size: 42*30*15cm
Multicolor to choose

Descriptions One Piece Cartoon Chopper Unisex Student Book Bag Anime Canvas Rucksack Knapsack Backpack for Teens 42*30*15cm (pink)

Positive level off, not wrinkle, not deformation.

Open method: zipper

Material: canvas(outside)+polyester cotton(liner)

Convenient to carry you necessities when you go outdoor to have a travel.

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Reviews for Olive Drab - Classic Army Style Backpack w/Black Star Emblem

Olive Drab - Classic Army Style Backpack w/Black Star Emblem

Brand : Rothco

Sales Rank : 28815

Color : Olive Drab

Amazon.com Price : $36.49

Features Olive Drab - Classic Army Style Backpack w/Black Star Emblem

WASHED OUT OLIVE DRAB CANVAS
W/BLACK STAR on FRONT FLAP
2 FRONT INSIDE POCKETS WITH DRAWSTRING CLOSURE
INNER ZIPPER POUCH
2 SIDE POCKETS WITH FLAPS

Descriptions Olive Drab - Classic Army Style Backpack w/Black Star Emblem

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Algebra 10-12 assignment; May 15

We went over the quadratic formula again during our entry task, giving the students another chance to see how it is applied.  We then spent the first part of the period working on how to solve various formulas for a given variable.  Some the formulas were quadratics, while others were linear equations.  After going through several problems together, the students then got to work on their own on their assignment.


Assignment:  Solving formulas for variables worksheet

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Sunday Morning Meds--"Play it again, Sam"

“. . .those the LORD blesses will inherit the land, 

but those he curses will be cut off.” Psalm 37

We’ve been over this before, of course, as in verse 11: "But the meek will inherit the land and enjoy great peace.” As I read through Psalm 37, verse by verse, it seems the world’s greatest poet is stuck on a chord. You don’t have to be an English teacher to realize some redundancy. Where was his editor anyway?

Far be it from me to criticize the Word of the Lord, of course. For that matter, far be it from me to critique the world’s greatest poet. Those who pulled together the canon, inspired as they were, gave scant thought to the possibility that their readers would be hoity-toity literary critics. They weren’t thinking of art.

But let’s ask the question anyway: why does King David repeat things so often?

Maybe it's because we're kids. Several years ago we spent the entire day without phone service because our grandchildren hiked up to our bedroom, played with the phone, then left the receiver off the hook. Hence, no one called. How do I know they were the culprits? Because playing with the upstairs phone is step eight or twelve or 23 in their weekly ritual when they come to Grandma’s house. Our two-year-old grandson pulls at the room dividers and slides his pudgy bulk under the couch pillows. He goes to the cupboard and pulls out a can, then proclaims to all of us that it’s corn, as if it were gold. Children love repetition and ritual; they love doing the same things over and over. As do we, I think.

Why? I suppose it's because the rituals they’ve created relive joy. It was fun to grab the corn the first time; let’s do it again—and again, and again, and again.

I wonder if David repeats himself in this psalm because the each repetition offers another jolt of joy--well, and confidence too. Say it again. And again. And again. “I have a dream” is a line with a built-in echo, not simply because it rose singly from a famous speech by a famous man, but because Dr. King repeated it, time after time after time.

Repititon is a reinforcer too, of course. Maybe David doesn’t ever, ever want us to forget our inheritance. He wants to drive the point home, so it becomes the chorus, the refrain. And we love it because we love repetition. Maybe that's why so many songs have refrains.

Maybe he says things again and again and again and again because he knows he’s only too well that his own personal doubt requires a battering ram of repetition. Maybe he repeats himself to hold himself together. Maybe he says it again and again because he fears the silence. We do that too, most of us anyway. One doesn’t have to be Buddhist to have mantras.

“Play it again, Sam,” an unforgettable line from Casablanca, one of the most famous movies of all time, is memorable not simply because of who said it or the movie itself. It’s famous because we know, from the heart, its impulse. We too have fears.

“Play it again, David,” we might just say. I want to hear it. I need to hear it. I can’t go on without hearing it again. So say it again. Play it again. Sing it one more time. One more time, David.

For all of those reasons, I like reading the line again: “those the Lord blesses will inherit the land,” a land without tornadoes and grasshoppers and hail, a land He’s given us forever. The land of eternity.

Let me hear that again. One more time. Play it again.

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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. 

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Remembering Frederick Manfred--1912-1994 (v)

So Harry and I followed another long gravel road to the site where Fred was, once again, building a house—and there he was, expecting us. He put down the axe he had in his hands—he’d been chopping wood—and walked through the sticky topsoil, the driveway not having been graveled, straight up to the car. By that time in his life, Harry Abma could barely walk. Beside him in the front seat sat his oxygen tank.

Fred didn’t wait for us to get out of the car, although I stepped out quickly, thinking it decorous to make formal introductions. Manfred didn’t stare warily or expect genuflection. He simply walked over to the passenger side, ignoring me, swung open the door, and thrust that huge hand inside. “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “Harry Abma. I’ve read your poems for years in the Doon Press. I’m so happy to meet you.”

Abma was speechless, but only for awhile. Soon enough, the two of them were talking and chatting, using their beloved Frisian tongue to swap jokes they wouldn’t have told in Sunday School. I didn’t know Frisian so I didn’t catch the punch lines, but the chortle is a universal language.

I don’t know that, here below, Harry Abma could have been the recipient of a greater blessing late in his life than Feik Feikema knowing his name, praising his poems, and shuckin’ and jivin’ in the Frisian tongue. I’m not sure he needed the oxygen once we started back up that gravel road.

But the amplitude of the old man’s emotions was extraordinary, and we were barely out of earshot when he broke into tears. “Here in all that time that he and I talked together, I never once brought up the state of his soul,” Harry told me, sobbing. It wasn’t the first time that I tried to drag him out of despair, and I did again, with lines he would have expected—“salvation, Mr. Abma, belongs to the Lord.”

Not long after came the publication of Green Earth (1977), Manfred’s chronicle of life among the Dutch Reformed in the early decades of the 20th century. I’ll let others declare on the novel’s success, but I’ll offer this: in no other book ever written can one get as abundant an account of northwest Iowa life among the Dutch during those years. Love it or hate it, Green Earth tells a Siouxland saga; and if anyone would like to walk that ground again, it’s the first book one ought to read.

Harry Abma was gone by the time Green Earth was published, so, soon after its publication, I wrote a long review of that novel, a review Harold Aardema stuck in the Doon Press. I addressed the whole essay to Mr. Abma, without using his name, tried to convince this man in glory that Fred was doing all right, that things were okay with his soul. A paragraph or two of that review was quoted in People magazine soon thereafter, when they did a feature on this giant, small-town novelist whose chronicles celebrated the lives of people who despised him. Most-read words of my life, I believe.

_______________________

Tomorrow:  Mr. Manfred visits Dordt College.

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Algebra 10-12 assignment; May 9

We spent time in class today continuing to work with quadratics and how to solve them.  We also working with what the graphs of quadratics look like and how to draw them once the two solutions for x are solved for.

Assignment:  Solving quadratics worksheet

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