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This is in Illinois...Went to my local Aldi today and I see a van from the local food pantry out there. I see a couple m...
11/03/2025

This is in Illinois...
Went to my local Aldi today and I see a van from the local food pantry out there. I see a couple men bringing carts out and let loading the van(meat, fruit, veggies, eggs, etc). So I ask how it works... every Sunday Aldi donates to this food pantry(250 ish families). The man says that unlike other places the stuff donated is not expired or even close to use by date and Aldi does not announce what they do, they just do
Credit: Lisa Lynn

When the N***s invaded Poland, Janusz Korczak was already a well-known author, educator, and radio host. But more than a...
11/03/2025

When the N***s invaded Poland, Janusz Korczak was already a well-known author, educator, and radio host. But more than anything, he was a teacher who believed every child deserved love, dignity, and respect — no matter who they were.

He ran an orphanage in Warsaw, filled with Jewish children left alone by war. When the N***s forced the orphans into the Warsaw Ghetto, Korczak went with them — even though he could have escaped many times. He stayed, teaching them to read, to sing, to laugh, and to hope in a world that had forgotten compassion.

In August 1942, the N***s came for the children. They ordered everyone to line up for “resettlement” — a cruel euphemism for deportation to Treblinka, a death camp.

Korczak could have saved himself. Resistance friends offered him forged papers. German officers even told him he was free to go.

He refused.
He walked beside his 200 children, holding their hands, leading them with calm and dignity through the ghetto streets — the children carrying their favorite toys, singing softly as they marched toward the train.

No one knows his exact last words, but witnesses said his face was peaceful — as if he wanted the children to see courage, not fear, in their final moments.

True love doesn’t abandon. It stands, it stays, and it protects — even when it costs everything.
Leadership isn’t power. It’s responsibility, carried to the very end.

“A childhood without books — that would be no childhood.”Astrid Lindgren knew this not as a slogan, but as truth.Born in...
11/03/2025

“A childhood without books — that would be no childhood.”
Astrid Lindgren knew this not as a slogan, but as truth.

Born in rural Sweden, she grew up reading by candlelight and under trees, chasing stories that opened worlds far bigger than her own. Years later, she returned the favor—creating Pippi Longstocking, The Brothers Lionheart, and Ronia the Robber’s Daughter, stories that taught generations of children to be brave, kind, and unafraid to be different.

Her books weren’t just entertainment. They were rebellion dressed as play. They told kids that strength could look like laughter, that freedom could live in imagination, and that even the smallest person could rewrite their story.

But her warning still echoes today:
A childhood without books isn’t just empty—it’s a world without wonder, without empathy, without the power to dream.

Books aren’t paper. They’re keys to everything that makes us human.
And every child deserves a way in.

In 1898, Jefferson Randolph “Soapy” Smith was more than just an outlaw—he was the self-proclaimed king of Skagway, Alask...
11/02/2025

In 1898, Jefferson Randolph “Soapy” Smith was more than just an outlaw—he was the self-proclaimed king of Skagway, Alaska. Behind his smooth talk and sharp suits, Soapy ran a criminal empire built on rigged games, fake telegrams, and fearless deceit.

For years, he conned gold rush hopefuls as his gang ruled the streets. The law looked the other way—until the townspeople had enough.

On July 8, 1898, at Juneau Wharf, it all came to a head. Soapy showed up armed with his Wi******er rifle, facing four vigilantes ready to end his reign. Words turned to shouts, shouts to gunfire. Moments later, both Soapy and guard Frank Reid lay bleeding. Reid’s shot hit Soapy through the heart—ending the outlaw’s rule in an instant.

The photo taken just after the shootout shows Soapy’s body sprawled across the dock, his legend cooling in the Alaskan air.

That day, Skagway’s long shadow lifted—but the story of Soapy Smith, the gentleman swindler who dared to outsmart the frontier, still echoes through the last wild corners of the West.

She was told women couldn't run marathons—that their bodies would literally fall apart if they tried.So she entered the ...
11/02/2025

She was told women couldn't run marathons—that their bodies would literally fall apart if they tried.

So she entered the Boston Marathon anyway. In 1967. When it was illegal for women to compete.

Her name was Kathrine Switzer, and she didn't just run that race.

She changed sports forever.

Kathrine was a 20-year-old journalism student at Syracuse University. She'd been running since high school—long distances, serious training.

Her coach told her about the Boston Marathon. She wanted to run it.

"Women can't run marathons," he said. "It's against the rules."

"Why?"

"They say women's bodies can't handle it. That the uterus might fall out. That you'll grow hair on your chest. That it's physically impossible."

Kathrine didn't believe it.

"If I can train for it, I can run it."

So she registered. Used her initials—K.V. Switzer—so officials wouldn't realize she was a woman.

When her bib number arrived—261—she pinned it on.

April 19, 1967. Race day.

Kathrine showed up in a grey sweatsuit, her hair tied back. Race officials barely glanced at her.

The gun went off. She started running.

For the first few miles, everything was fine. Other runners noticed her and cheered. "Good for you!" they shouted.

Then, around mile four, a press truck spotted her.

Cameras started flashing. Reporters started asking questions.

And race director Jock Semple saw the photos.

A woman. Running his race.

He jumped off the press truck and sprinted after her, screaming: "Get the hell out of my race!"

He grabbed her, trying to physically rip the bib off her body.

Kathrine kept running.

Her boyfriend—a hammer thrower named Tom Miller who was running alongside her—body-checked Semple, knocking him away.

The cameras captured everything.

The image of Jock Semple lunging at Kathrine, trying to stop her, went worldwide.

And Kathrine? She kept running.

Cold. Angry. Determined.

She finished the marathon in 4 hours and 20 minutes.

Officially, they disqualified her. Said she'd cheated by entering illegally.

But the world had seen the photos. A woman running 26.2 miles. Not collapsing. Not falling apart.

Just running.

The Boston Athletic Association banned women from the marathon for the next five years.

But Kathrine didn't stop.

She kept running. Kept advocating. Kept pushing for women's inclusion in marathons everywhere.

In 1972, women were finally officially allowed to run Boston.

In 1984, the first women's Olympic marathon was held.

Kathrine had helped make it happen.

Decades later, in 2017, Kathrine returned to the Boston Marathon—50 years after that infamous race.

She was 70 years old.

She wore bib number 261 again.

And she finished, surrounded by thousands of women runners who existed because she refused to stop running that day in 1967.

Jock Semple? Before he died, he apologized to Kathrine. They became friends.

He'd been wrong. And he admitted it.

Kathrine Switzer didn't just run a marathon.

She proved that the only thing holding women back wasn't biology.

It was belief.

And sometimes all it takes to change the world is refusing to step off the course—even when someone's trying to tear your number off.

Even when they say you can't.

Even when the rules say you shouldn't.

You just keep running.

She was only seven when she was taken from West Africa and sold into slavery in Boston. The ship that carried her was ca...
10/31/2025

She was only seven when she was taken from West Africa and sold into slavery in Boston. The ship that carried her was called the Phillis. The family who bought her gave her their last name—Wheatley.

The world expected nothing from her. But Phillis Wheatley defied every limit placed upon her. By thirteen, she was writing poetry so elegant that few believed it could come from a young, enslaved girl—especially one who had only recently learned English.

In 1772, Boston’s elite summoned her before a tribunal of eighteen men—lawyers, judges, scholars—who demanded she prove she’d written her own poems. Calm and composed, she answered every question, recited her verses, and quoted Latin scripture with ease. When it ended, they couldn’t deny her brilliance.

The following year, she published Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral—becoming the first African American to publish a book of poetry in the United States.

Phillis Wheatley’s words outlived the world that enslaved her. They carried hope, intellect, and defiance across centuries—proof that genius knows no chains.

Grandma sayings:“I’ve known you since you were knee high to a grasshopper.”“That kid is as happy as a pig in mud.”“Bless...
10/31/2025

Grandma sayings:
“I’ve known you since you were knee high to a grasshopper.”
“That kid is as happy as a pig in mud.”
“Bless his poor heart, he’s dumber than a bag of hammers."
“I’m madder than a wet hen."
“Y’all go pick me a mess o’ beans.”

Gloria Winters (1931-2010) - American Actress; best remembered for her role as the well-mannered niece, Penny King, in t...
10/30/2025

Gloria Winters (1931-2010) - American Actress; best remembered for her role as the well-mannered niece, Penny King, in the 1950's TV series Sky King.
She was in about twenty films (mostly Westerns) including a Shirley Temple movie, and an Our Gang episode. She was also an author, and wrote ""Penny's Guide to Teen-Age Charm and Popularity"". She had other TV series roles, but was most famous as Penny, Sky King's niece, (and Clipper's sister) from 1952 to 1959.

When the Mississippi flood of 1927 swept through Arkansas, Clara Barton Ellis wasn’t a nurse, an engineer, or a politici...
10/30/2025

When the Mississippi flood of 1927 swept through Arkansas, Clara Barton Ellis wasn’t a nurse, an engineer, or a politician. She was a schoolteacher who watched her entire town vanish under eight feet of water. Family photos gone. Her classroom destroyed. Her neighbors stranded on rooftops, waving white rags for help.
For days, she helped row makeshift rafts to rescue children and carry the sick to higher ground. What she saw on those rafts haunted her: babies dying from infection, mothers giving birth without a doctor, elders freezing in the rain because no one had planned for emergencies.
After the waters receded, Clara made a choice that stunned everyone. She left teaching and enrolled in nursing school at age thirty-five. “Floods don’t kill people,” she said. “Our failure to prepare does.”
By 1941, she was leading a federal relief division under the newly created Public Health Service. When World War II began, Clara helped design a system that could treat soldiers in the field and civilians back home. Her blueprint became the model for the first nationwide network of emergency hospitals.
She wasn’t famous. Few women in government were. But her designs shaped how every hospital in America handles disaster today.
Every generator that hums on during a power outage, every triage system used during hurricanes or pandemics—that’s Clara Barton Ellis. She lost everything once. Then she made sure no one else would lose their chance to live.

She tied it in her hair every morning — a bright red ribbon that her mother said made her look like sunshine.Her name wa...
10/30/2025

She tied it in her hair every morning — a bright red ribbon that her mother said made her look like sunshine.
Her name was Róża Klein, born in 1931 in Hungary. She loved dancing in her family’s garden and helping her mother bake bread on Sundays.

When the N***s invaded in 1944, her family was forced into a ghetto and later packed onto a train to Auschwitz. Róża clutched her mother’s hand the whole way, still wearing that ribbon. Witnesses remembered it — the flash of red against the crowd of frightened faces.

No one knows exactly when she died. She was just 13. But months later, a Red Cross worker found a single ribbon in a pile of children’s belongings. It was tied in a neat bow, still bright against the dust.

That ribbon became her legacy — a symbol of every child who refused to fade quietly.

We remember you, Róża. Your red ribbon still dances in the wind.

He looked like any other kid — hands in his pockets, cap tilted, a shy grin.His name was Marek Adler, born in 1932 in Wa...
10/30/2025

He looked like any other kid — hands in his pockets, cap tilted, a shy grin.
His name was Marek Adler, born in 1932 in Warsaw, Poland. He loved climbing trees, reading adventure books, and wearing his favorite blue coat everywhere he went.

When the N***s sealed off the Warsaw Ghetto, Marek’s childhood ended overnight. Food grew scarce, disease spread, and every day felt smaller than the one before. Still, he wore that same blue coat — a flash of color in a world turning grey.

In 1943, during the ghetto uprising, Marek was seen helping an older neighbor carry water through the rubble. It was the last time anyone saw him. He was just 11 years old.

After the war, someone found that little blue coat in a pile of children’s clothing outside Treblinka. His name tag was still stitched inside: “M. Adler.”

That tag became his voice.
A whisper from the ashes, saying: I lived. I mattered.

We remember you, Marek. Your blue coat still shines through the smoke.

It started with a name painted in white: Hana Brady.Nothing else. No photo. No story. Just a battered brown suitcase sit...
10/30/2025

It started with a name painted in white: Hana Brady.
Nothing else. No photo. No story. Just a battered brown suitcase sitting in a museum in Tokyo.

Inside that small case lay a mystery — who was Hana?

She was born in Prague in 1931, a bright, curious girl who loved skating and playing with her brother, George. But when the N***s came, their happy world fell apart. Their parents were sent away. Then, in 1942, Hana and George were deported too.

At just 13, Hana was killed in Auschwitz. George survived. For years, her name faded into history — until a teacher in Japan found her suitcase and began to search for the truth.

That search led to Hana’s story being told around the world. Her laughter, her drawings, her love of life — all rediscovered because one small suitcase refused to stay silent.

Today, that suitcase sits in museums as a symbol of every child whose story was stolen.

We remember you, Hana. Your name still travels the world.

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