Here is a short, which is hilarious. Beneath it is his entire set, posted last night as he did it; it is wonderful! It depends how much time you have. I recommend the longer one, if you can only watch one. The short is contained within the longer one, but won’t spoil anything if you watch it first. Obviously, there is a lot more varied material in the full set. Enjoy!
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| August 18, 1914 In another step in the ethnic intimidation that led ultimately to the Armenian genocide in Turkey, looting was reported in Sivas, Diyarbekir, and other provinces. Under the guise of collecting war contributions (WWI had just begun), stores owned by Armenian and Greek merchants were vandalized. 1,080 shops and stalls owned by Armenians were burned at the Diyarbekir bazaar. Chronology of the Armenian Genocide |
| August 18, 1920 Women throughout the U.S. won the right to vote when the Tennessee legislature approved the 19th amendment to the U.S. Constitution (the last of 36 states then required to approve it). An amendment for universal suffrage was first introduced in Congress in 1878, and Wyoming had granted suffrage in state law by 1890.  This amendment to enfranchise all American women had been introduced annually for 41 years without passage; it had gotten two-thirds of both houses of Congress to approve it just the year before. “The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex.” In the Tennessee House, 24-year-old Representative Harry Burn surprised observers by casting the deciding vote for ratification. At the time of his vote, Burns had in his pocket a letter he had received from his mother urging him, “Don’t forget to be a good boy” and “vote for suffrage.”  Teaching With Documents: Woman Suffrage and the 19th Amendment (National Archives) (It is still there; I checked.) |
August 18, 1963 James Meredith James Meredith, the first African American to attend the University of Mississippi, became the first to graduate. His enrollment at “Ole Miss” a year earlier had been met with deadly riots, forcing him to attend class escorted by heavily armed guards.  James Meredith being escorted to his classes by U.S. marshals and the military. Who was James Meredith |
| August 18, 1964 South Africa was banned from taking part in the 18th Olympic Games in Tokyo due to the country’s refusal to reform its racially separatist apartheid system. Read more |
| August 18, 1977 Steve Biko, the leader of the Black Consciousness Movement resisting apartheid, was arrested at a roadblock outside King William’s Town. He died while in custody from abuse during the weeks of interrogation that followed.  Steve Biko “So as a prelude whites must be made to realise that they are only human, not superior. Same with Blacks. They must be made to realise that they are also human, not inferior.” “The most potent weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.” – Biko speech in Cape Town, 1971 More about Biko |
https://www.peacebuttons.info/E-News/peacehistoryaugust.htm#august18
Lots of little things people can do to build community, and stay safe. Here’s an idea, but it could easily be a house, or a she-shed, or a man-cave, etc., etc.
As the National Guard has been deployed to the streets of D.C., one private Black-owned networking club is offering a safe space to work and connect with others.
By Angela Johnson Published August 17, 2025
Last week, President Donald Trump declared a public safety emergency in Washington, D.C., a move that, according to the D.C. Home Rule Act of 1973, allows the federal government to take over the city’s police department for 30 days without congressional approval. Anxiety level is high as many are worried that taking over the Chocolate City — where Black people make up nearly 43 percent of the population, according to Data USA — is just the first part of Trump’s plan to implement a police state in America.
But one local membership club just made a move to make sure the city’s residents have a safe place to go during these uncertain times. The Gathering Spot is a Black-owned private membership club with locations in Washington, D.C., Atlanta and Los Angeles, created to provide a space for executives, artists and entrepreneurs to connect and build community.
Although you normally have to pay to play, the club just launched a safe house initiative, which will provide complimentary access to its D.C. location (with a few less perks than full membership would get them).
Residents can complete an online form to request access. Once they are approved, they can use the space to “work, rest and connect” with others. The Gathering Spot’s CEO, Ryan Wilson, announced the plan in an August 12 Instagram post.
“This is an opportunity for people who are not members of the club to take advantage of the club. It is more important that we are in community during moments like this than ever,” he said.
Although we don’t know how long the safe house initiative will last, many TGS members said on social media that they are happy that the place they call home is opening its doors to others when they need it most.
“This is the 💪🏽💪🏽and vision needed. Proud to be a part of the TGS community,” wrote someone on Instagram.
there are people who find it in order to share it with people who need it. There is a fine video in this post, and a link to another blog that is oh-so-nice; I saw great news about bottle-nose porpoises, and even a headline for a story in the US. Please care for your health, and let yourself see there are good things happening. Some of them, readers can support. 💖
Cover Snark!
(Seriously, go read this. You’ll get great laughs, and the oxygen will be so good for the brain! -A)
Snippet:
Amanda: Does she have to pee?
Claudia: Yes! Also, his left pant leg is missing?
Sarah: Why is the perspective weird? Their legs look so short and their heads are so large?
Okay taking another look, I think the angle of her hip looks too low.
So it looks like her legs are short and her midsection is bizarro long, and her head is sized correctly, just looks out of whack with the leg. (snip-I cannot overstate the gold: go read it! And no drinks over your keyboard… )
The weekend before this last one Odie started throwing up and he was not eating as well as he normally did. On Monday last week Ron took him to the vet. After 800 dollars the vet said she felt he had no blockage and most likely he had an ulcer. She gave us several medications and told us to get him some over the counter Pepcid. We managed to give him his medications in a syringe.
But on Thursday we took him back to the vet for a bolus of fluid because he still was not eating nor drinking. We increased his new make him hungry ear rub. All weekend we tried hard to entice him to eat or drink. On Monday I had a doctor’s appointment. When I got home I suggested that Ron call the vet. He told me he got Odie to drink something and said he heard cats can make huge turn a round after not eating or drinking for days. I felt what it really was a cry for more time. As Odie seemed stable and not in pain I let things be, after all Ron watches a lot of animal vet shows and I hoped he was correct.
For the first time since Odie got ill he did not leave his safe space which is Ron’s closet that day. Ron tried hard to get him to drink or eat. This morning (Tuesday 8-5-2025) I told Ron he needed to call the vet and he agreed, he had faced the fact of Odie’s situation and realized that Odie was passing and not able to get better.
The vet told us to bring him in around 4 pm or 1600 for those on a 24 hour clock. All day both Ron and I checked on him and Ron kept trying to get him to eat or drink. The veterinarian hospital is only like five or 7 minutes away from us. At about 3:50 pm Ron set the carrier on the counter and put a fresh blanket in it. I picked Odie up from the closet and realized he had no strength to even support himself anymore. Once I got him in the carrier he did not even try to turn around and we struggled to get his tail completely in the carrier. I ended up having to reach around him to pull the blanket further in so we could secure the door.
I needed Ron to carry the carrier to the vet’s office, but while I had been with every furry family member when they walked the rainbow bridge, Ron has not joined me during the procedure as his feelings are so strong and he has struggled with the death of each one. I feel it is the last act of love I can do for them. My last duty for them.
The vet asked if we both wanted to stay and I said yes. I was surprised Ron did also. The vet assistant took Odie to have an IV inserted. I asked Ron if he was sure he wanted to stay instead of going to the waiting room or the car. He wanted to stay. When they brought Odie back we petted him until the doctor came in to do the finial step. As first the sedative and then the last medication was injected Ron sat near him and talked to him. I stood next to him and gently rubbed his head and neck fur. I said a few things verbally and a lot more mentally. I could see Ron was doing the same. I was proud of how he handle a very painful experience. The one who was crying the most was the vet, she said that her cat was a ginger and she really liked Odie when he was visiting them.
I have included a few pictures of Odie below. Best wishes, Purrs, and Hugs for all who want them.
Odie as a Kitten
Odie older.
Odie in his favorite spot to get my love and attention. My desk.
This one’s about trouble for all coastal states, coming from Louisianans.
Louisiana Fights Against Becoming Another Not There No More Statistic by Jerileewei
Terrebonne Parish: Where the Rivers Meets the Sea Read on Substack
CCJC Audio Podcast Episode 00086, Season 2
“It’s not just the land we’re losing. It’s the stories. The way we talk. The smell of the air before a big storm.” — Emile Navarre
Back from his month long vacation in Chacahoula, Louisiana, Cajun Chronicle Podcast, Writer/Editor, Emile Navarre arrived for our first staff meeting armed with fresh material for a future episode, as soon as Marie Lirette, our Outreach Coordinator can reach out to potential experts on the topic of “Ain’t There No More” – a nation wide trending group talk everywhere these days, as our world changes in ways none of us could have imagined.
Here is his recount of his lifelong story telling to his family’s youngest children:
“Come closer, chérs,” he said, his voice a low rumble like the last Lafitte skiff shrimping boat of the day heading down the Bayou Lafourche over Galliano or Golden Meadow way. His cane bottom rocking chair seat creaked a steady rhythm against the worn Cedar floorboards as he said that.
The sun, a too warm blanket he could feel, but not see, was sinking somewhere behind the great oak in the yard he will always remember. He ran a hand over the cane of his chair, then rested it on the knee of a boy sitting on the steps below him. He lifted his walking stick and pointed off to the right side. “You see that big fence, hein?
“Or that levee your mamans and pépère have to climb to get home from work at the Bollinger Shipyard, just to get up to the house? We didn’t have such a thing when I was a boy. Back then, my feet knew every dip and bump in this land”.
“From our porch right down that oyster shell road to the bayou where the shrimp jumped so high, you’d swear you could catch them in your mouth, if you were quick.” A ripple of giggles ran through the children.
“Ah, oui,” he chuckled, “I lost a good tooth catching shrimp that way. But the land, it was different. We were like a river family. She’d bring us a big muddy hug every spring, and we’d be happy for it.”
“The floods, they were always a part of life. We’d move our things up high, sing songs, and wait for the water to go down. When it did, Mother Nature would leave behind a gift, a rich, dark mud that made our gardens burst with life. You could feel it in your toes, a soft, giving sponge of sandy soil that told you everything was going to be alright.”
He paused, and the laughter faded, replaced by the chirping of crickets.
“My pépère, he’d sit right here on the back porch with a fishing line tied to his toe, but in his mind, Gaia was always busy with the water. He’d talk about how the Lafourche river was a living thing, always moving, always changing. ‘She builds, and she takes away,‘ he’d say.”
“We knew that. A little bit here, a little bit there. It was a fair trade. But then came the men with the big ideas. They came from places where the land didn’t move so much. They told us we could stop the river’s big hugs. They said we could make a straight line and build high walls, so the water would stay in its place.”
Emile’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “The young people, they thought it was wonderful. No more floods! No more moving furniture to the attic! But my pépère, he just shook his head. ‘You can’t trap a wild woman, not for long,’ he said. ‘She will find her way, and she will be angry for it.'”
“And she was,” he said, his hand now clutching his walking stick. “For years, the river was quiet, but our land, she was not. I can’t see it anymore with my eyes, but I felt it with my feet. The soil grew tired, no longer receiving her yearly gift.”
“The ground began to sag, and the bad marsh saltwater, it came closer in to say hello, not from a storm, but like a thief in the night, creeping up through the channels les Américains dug for the oil. They were for the big machines, the big money, but they were also a wound. A wound in the land that never healed.”
He turned his head toward the silent children, his milky blind blue eyes fixed on something only he could see. “Now, this levee you have, it protects you from the river, oui? But it holds the land in a box. It cannot breathe. The land is sick, and the ocean is hungry, taking a football field from our home every hour, the experts say.”
“I hear it in the wind now, not just the storms, but also in the sad whispers of the marsh, of the birds that have no place to land anymore. The land is leaving us, and we are left behind. We traded our river’s muddy hugs for a straight line and some high walls, and now we pay for it. Now, it’s not just the water that takes. It’s the land that gives itself away.”
The porch was silent, a stillness that was heavier than the humid air. The children looked at each other, not understanding all the words, but feeling the weight of them. One of the little girls, her braids tied with pink ribbons, quietly moved her hand to rest on the Emile’s knee as she headed inside for bed.
Emile smiled, his face creasing with a thousand invisible memories. Talking to the breeze, he raised his fist and threatened, “But you know what else my pépère said? He said, ‘As long as we tell the stories, the land is not truly gone.’ So listen, chérs, listen closely to my bedtime stories. Because now, it is your turn to remember.”
He had felt the last of the children’s light footsteps fade into the dusk, and the porch was still again except for his rocking chair. His head turned to the quiet rustling of the adults lingering on the porch. “You hear my stories, oui?” he said, his voice now lower, rougher.
“You too remember what I said about the river’s gift of mud? We didn’t know it, but we were like a family that had a big, generous table. Rivers brought food, and our land ate it. Every year, she’d get fat and happy. We thought we were so smart, so clever, when we built those high walls.”
“We told Gaia to stop eating for a while, believing for a while that she didn’t need the mud. ‘Don’t worry,’ we said, ‘We’ll protect you from the floods.’ But what we really did was put the food in a box and send it out to sea. Now, the land is starving. You cannot see it in a day, or a year. But that’s happening rapidly.”
“But I feel it in every part of my mind and body. Every year, she gets thinner, weaker. And like a sick old person who can’t stand anymore, Mother Earth’s starting to melt away. The medicine to save her is that very food we cut her off from. But the walls of levees and the canals the Corps of Engineers built? They are so high.”
“How will we get the food back to Louisiana’s coast before she’s gone entirely? That is the story my heart tells me now. And that is the story for you all to worry about. Time’s running out. I’m 75 years young this month. In another 75 years I won’t be here to see that my beloved Louisiane will be added to that dreaded list, “Ain’t Here No More.“
Cajun Chronicles Note: Sediment Starvation: The settlers’ levees and later government agencies built, while protecting their land from floods, also had an unintended consequence that would become a major factor in today’s coastal crisis. By containing the rivers, they prevented the natural flooding that would have deposited sediment into the wetlands.
This sediment was the building block of the delta. Without it, the land began to sink (subsidence) and slowly disappear. The settlers since the 1800s and later colonists were unaware of this long-term process and the vital role of the Mississippi’s and other rivers’ sediment in sustaining the land.
Louisiana has the highest coastal land loss rate in the United States. Since the 1930s, the state has lost about 2,000 square miles of land. This is a significant amount, roughly the size of the state of Delaware.
Without major intervention, the state of Louisiana is projected to lose an additional 700 to 1,000 square miles of land by the year 2050. This is an area roughly the size of the greater Washington D.C.-Baltimore area.
By the year 2100, the projections are even more dire, with some worst-case scenarios suggesting that up to 3,000 square miles of land could be lost. Some scientists have even warned that the entire remaining 5,800 square miles of Louisiana’s coastal wetlands in the Mississippi River delta could eventually disappear.
A Word of Wisdom:
Our fictional and non-fictional tales are inspired by real Louisiana and New Orleans history, but some details may have been spiced up for a good story. While we’ve respected the truth, a bit of creative license could have been used. Please note that all characters may be based on real people, but their identities in some cases have been Avatar masked for privacy. Others are fictional characters with connections to Louisiana.
As you read, remember history and real life is a complex mix of joy, sorrow, triumph, and tragedy. While we may have (or not) added a bit of fiction, the core message remains, the human spirit’s power to endure, adapt, and overcome.
© Jerilee Wei 2025 All Rights Reserved.
Scottie's Playtime 