RITZ PHOTO BOOK : RITZ PHOTO
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Ritz Photo Book
- A photographic album, or photo album, is a collection of photographs, generally in a book. Some albums have compartments which the photos may be slipped into; other albums have heavy paper with a sticky surface covered with clear plastic sheets, in which photos can be put.
- Used in reference to luxurious accommodation
- Swiss hotelier who created a chain of elegant hotels (1850-1918)
- ostentatious display of elegance; "they put on the ritz"
- (ritzy) luxuriously elegant
- Ostentatious luxury and glamour
Happy 200th Honest Abe
Lincoln on a Ritz
I know I said I would try and put up a paragraph a day and then I missed 2 days.
I hastily put up 2 photos today to catch up.
Every election we have office seekers claiming connection to Lincoln, Reagan, Kennedy, TR, FDR, Washington or Jefferson as if they were morsels to be served up on a cracker. Most of them have no idea upon that which they speak.
Today we face a similar adversary and problem as we faced way back in 1860 – and today there are folks that want to say one view is the equivalent morally as the other – to whit: might then makes right. That just aint true. One view is true and the other is wrong.
So here on the 200th centennial of Abraham’s day of birth I submit part of his speech of July 10, 1858 rebutting Douglas’ speech from the day before in which Douglas stated that he “didn’t care” if slavery were voted up or down (as if either result were OK and morally equivalent). Lincoln, who was later called a tyrant and dictator, took the morally high ground and recognized that our forefathers had it right – all men are created equal. He did not believe that there is a religion or group that are superior and all others are subject to dominion, subjugation or elimination if they do not submit or accept others rule:
We are now a mighty nation, we are thirty---or about thirty millions of people, and we own and inhabit about one-fifteenth part of the dry land of the whole earth. We run our memory back over the pages of history for about eighty-two years and we discover that we were then a very small people in point of numbers, vastly inferior to what we are now, with a vastly less extent of country, ---with vastly less of everything we deem desirable among men, ---we look upon the change as exceedingly advantageous to us and to our posterity, and we fix upon something that happened away back, as in some way or other being connected with this rise of prosperity. We find a race of men living in that day whom we claim as our fathers and grandfathers; they were iron men, they fought for the principle that they were contending for; and we understood that by what they then did it has followed that the degree of prosperity that we now enjoy has come to us. We hold this annual celebration to remind ourselves of all the good done in this process of time of how it was done and who did it, and how we are historically connected with it; and we go from these [Independence Day] meetings in better humor with ourselves---we feel more attached the one to the other, and more firmly bound to the country we inhabit. In every way we are better men in the age, and race, and country in which we live for these celebrations. But after we have done all this we have not yet reached the whole. There is something else connected with it. We have besides these men---descended by blood from our ancestors---among us perhaps half our people who are not descendants at all of these men, they are men who have come from Europe---German, Irish, French and Scandinavian---men that have come from Europe themselves, or whose ancestors have come hither and settled here, finding themselves our equals in all things. If they look back through this history to trace their connection with those days by blood, they find they have none, they cannot carry themselves back into that glorious epoch and make themselves feel that they are part of us, but when they look through that old Declaration of Independence they find that those old men say that "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal," and then they feel that that moral sentiment taught in that day evidences their relation to those men, that it is the father of all moral principle in them, and that they have a right to claim it as though they were blood of the blood, and flesh of the flesh of the men who wrote that Declaration [loud and long continued applause], and so they are. That is the electric cord in that Declaration that links the hearts of patriotic and liberty-loving men together, that will link those patriotic hearts as long as the love of freedom exists in the minds of men throughout the world. [Applause.]
Now, sirs, for the purpose of squaring things with this idea of "don't care if slavery is voted up or voted down" [Douglas's "popular sovereignty" position on the extension of slavery to the territories], for sustaining the Dred Scott decision [A voice---"Hit him again"], for holding that the Declaration of Independence did not mean anything at all, we have Judge Douglas giving his exposition of what the Declaration of Independence means, and we have him saying that the people of America are equal to the people of England. According to his construction, you Germans are not connected with it. Now I ask you in all soberness, if all these things, if indulged in, if ratified, if confirmed and endorsed, if taught to our children, and repeated to them, do not tend to rub out the sentiment
Megan Michelle & Jane Eyre
I’ve always gotten way too into the books I read; I’ve always had a problem separating fact from fiction. When I first read The Lord of the Rings as a freshman in high school, I wore nothing but oversized hooded sweatshirts and lived on only a few Ritz crackers a day, pretending they were my elvish lembas bread. When I first read Beowulf as a junior, I tried to buy some mead; but because I wasn’t of legal age as of yet—and my fake ID looked way too fake—I settled for a few bottles of sparkling grape juice and lived off of those for a week. I look back on it all, now, on me and my obsessive ways, and shake my head. However, there is one book that I’m not at all ashamed I got way too into, one book I’m proud I became obsessed with; and that’s Jane Eyre.
I was a sophomore in high school when I first stumbled upon Jane Eyre. From page one I was enthralled with that novel. I was so enthralled, in fact, that by chapter three I was eating only one meal a day of purposefully chilled gruel and begging my mother to send me to a spiritually, emotionally, and physically abusive private school (she said they were too expensive); by the time I got to the part where Jane and Mr. Rochester fall in love, I was making eyes at any man eighteen years my senior (mostly my teachers); and by the end I was asking these elder male authority figures if they wouldn’t mind purposefully burning/blinding themselves and marrying me (they said they couldn’t cause they’d get fired—no pun intended!). Yes, from page one I was a Jane-Eyre-wannabe-er, for she was everything I wanted to be: the greatest of the female archetypes, a woman who never lets her virtue compromise her own humanity.
Her story felt familiar to me—the lack of childhood, the lack of light—and although I could relate to much of it at the ripe young age of fifteen, when I got to the part where Jane leaves Mr. Rochester for the moors, for nothing and no one at all, I lost her. I couldn’t comprehend what kind of conviction could induce anyone to self-inflict such pain like that. I flipped each page with literal, physical agony—my stomach turned; my hands shook. It was too real: I’d fallen in love with Mr. Rochester, too—his melancholic nature, his dark soul. She couldn’t leave him; she just couldn’t because I couldn’t; I just couldn’t. He was the sustenance in our desert—oh, we’d finally, finally, finally become precious in someone’s sight. Not only was there bread and water, now—satisfaction—but milk and honey, too—an overflowing cup. We weren’t going to just have to survive anymore—no more obscurity, no more abuse. We were going to thrive.
Oh, finally to understand what it truly means to be alive!
Suffice it to say, I’m no longer a girl of fifteen, so when I re-read Jane Eyre this past Spring—and got to the part where Jane leaves that which she wholly loves—my stomach didn’t turn, and my hands didn’t shake. Instead, I smiled a very knowing smile because I knew exactly what kind of conviction can induce someone to sacrifice all that one wants, knows, and loves on the altar of truth—and not even take a glance back. Suffice it to say, I’m glad I got way too into that book I was reading because although it was fiction, it taught me what I now know to be absolute fact: that salvation lies not in the temporal, but the eternal; that a woman’s strength lies not in her ability to hold on, but to let it all go.
Photo by Kristen Rebecca
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