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At 9:53 a.m. on September 11, 2001, 27-year-old Honor Elizabeth Wainio made a final phone call from United Airlines Flig...
09/28/2025

At 9:53 a.m. on September 11, 2001, 27-year-old Honor Elizabeth Wainio made a final phone call from United Airlines Flight 93. She spoke to her stepmother, Esther, not about her own fear, but about the family she would leave behind:
“It hurts me that it’s going to be so much harder for you all than it is for me.”

Honor had been traveling to a company-wide meeting for Discovery Channel Stores, where she worked as a district manager. Born in Baltimore, she was a Towson University graduate, a devoted Orioles fan, and a friend remembered for her bright smile and zest for life.

Her last words came as fellow passengers began their courageous effort to storm the cockpit:
“I have to go. They’re breaking into the cockpit. I love you.”

Flight 93 crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Thanks to the bravery of Honor and her fellow passengers, even greater destruction was averted.

Her legacy continues through the Elizabeth Wainio Memorial Communications Scholarship at Towson University, which supports future students in her name.

Honor’s story reminds us that even in the darkest moments, selflessness and love endure.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, Michael Hingson was laboring on the 78th floor of the North Tower. He couldn't see...
09/28/2025

On the morning of September 11, 2001, Michael Hingson was laboring on the 78th floor of the North Tower. He couldn't see the flames or the falling debris outside his window — he'd been blind since birth.
But he could feel the building shake. He could hear the chaos. And beside him, his guide dog, Roselle, had just awakened from her nap.
She wasn't panicked. She wasn't afraid. And that's how Michael knew: they had a chance to survive.
With Roselle leading the way, they began descending 1,463 steps — through smoke, jet fuel, injured survivors, and rising panic.
At one point, a colleague broke down: "We're not going to make it!"
Michael calmly replied, "If Roselle and I can do it, so can you."
Roselle kept walking. Down and down. Firefighters passed them, heading up — many never came back down.
They reached the lobby just minutes before the tower fell.
Outside, the sky turned black with dust. Michael couldn't see — but now, neither could anyone else. Still, Roselle guided him safely through collapsing streets, stopping at the edge of a stairwell that would lead to clean air underground.
She never left his side.
That day, Michael never let go of her harness.
And she never let him fall.
Roselle passed away peacefully in 2011, her work done. But for one man — and everyone who hears their story — her legacy lives on.
Because bravery doesn't always bark.
Sometimes, it just walks beside you… one step at a time.

Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy on the set of “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?” (1967). Sadly this would be Spencer’s ...
09/28/2025

Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy on the set of “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?” (1967). Sadly this would be Spencer’s last film as he passed away 17 days after filming concluded. In the scene near the end where he gives his memorable soliloquy, Katharine Hepburn can be seen crying in the background. This was not acting - she knew her long time lover was gravely ill and she was moved by his remarks about how true love endures through the years. This was the last scene the dying Tracy filmed for the movie, and it was the last time he would ever appear on film. It took a week to shoot the scene and, at the end, he was given a standing ovation by the crew. Spencer Tracy received a posthumous Best Actor Academy Award nomination for his performance. “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?” is included among the American Film Institute's list of the Top 100 Greatest American Movies, and was inducted into the National Film Registry in 2017 for being "culturally historically or aesthetically significant"
Credit Goes To The Respective Owner✍️

In the spring of 1964, 22-year-old Gail Wise was a third-grade teacher in Berkeley, Illinois, but little did she know, s...
09/28/2025

In the spring of 1964, 22-year-old Gail Wise was a third-grade teacher in Berkeley, Illinois, but little did she know, she was about to make history.
On April 15, 1964, Gail and her father walked into Johnson Ford on Cicero Avenue in Chicago, searching for the perfect convertible.
The family had always driven Fords—her father owned a ’57 Fairlane and a ’63 Thunderbird, so Gail knew exactly what she wanted. There was just one problem: there were no convertibles on the showroom floor.
Seeing her disappointment, the salesman took a chance and showed her something hidden in the back, under a tarp. What he revealed was none other than a "Skylight Blue" Ford Mustang convertible—the first of its kind.
The catch? It wasn’t supposed to be sold for two more days until after the official unveiling at the New York World’s Fair. No test drives allowed either. But Gail didn’t need one. The moment she saw it, she knew it was hers.
The price tag? $3,447.50. Her salary at the time? Just $5,000 a year. But with a loan from her father, Gail became the very first person in the United States to buy a Ford Mustang—two days before anyone else even saw one.
As she drove out of the showroom, heads turned, and people waved. It was as if she had become a celebrity overnight. The next day, she drove her Mustang to school, where the seventh and eighth graders swarmed the car, amazed at what they were seeing.
For the next 15 years, that Mustang was Gail’s pride and joy. She married Tom Wise in 1966, and they had four kids together.
The car became part of their family’s daily life, from McDonald’s runs with the kids to joyrides around town. Back in those days, seatbelts were only in the front seats, and the passenger seat didn’t even adjust.
Despite its quirks, the Mustang was an icon on the road, but after years of Chicago winters, the car began to show its age. Rust took over, and the engine started having problems.
By the late '70s, the Mustang’s glory days seemed over. Tom pushed it into the garage, planning to fix it the next week, but that week turned into 27 years. Gail, ready to move on, suggested scrapping the car, but Tom refused, calling it his retirement project.
In 2005, after retiring at 60, he finally began the long process of restoring the car. He stripped it down to almost nothing, leaving just the four wheels and the steering wheel before handing it off to specialists for bodywork and engine repair.
It took about a year and $35,000, but Tom brought the Mustang back to life, adding a custom horn that sounds like a whinnying horse for good measure.
When the restoration was complete, Tom started researching the car’s history. That’s when they realized Gail’s Mustang was the very first one ever sold in the U.S. It wasn’t long before Ford took notice.
The couple was invited to Mustang events, including the 10 millionth Mustang celebration in Dearborn, and even got the chance to drive the car at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
Though they don’t drive it much now, the Mustang remains a family treasure. Gail and Tom’s four kids haven’t expressed much interest in keeping it, so it will likely be sold when the time comes.
But for now, the first Mustang ever sold in the U.S. sits proudly in their garage, a testament to one couple’s journey through life and the car that’s been with them every step of the way.
Credit goes to the Respective Owner-✍️

In the 1850s, a young Black woman named Mary Ellen Pleasant worked as a domestic servant, sweeping floors and pouring te...
09/28/2025

In the 1850s, a young Black woman named Mary Ellen Pleasant worked as a domestic servant, sweeping floors and pouring tea in the grand mansions of San Francisco. To her employers, she was invisible. But she was always listening.

As wealthy men whispered about stocks, banks, and property deals, Pleasant quietly absorbed every detail. Then, she began to invest for herself.

She bought laundries, boarding houses, restaurants, dairies—even bank shares. When laws or prejudice tried to block her, she worked through her white business partner, Thomas Bell, who held many investments in his name.

By the end of the Gold Rush, Mary Ellen Pleasant had turned eavesdropped secrets into a fortune worth over $30 million in today's money.

But she wasn't just building wealth—she was building change.

Pleasant secretly funded the Underground Railroad, supported John Brown’s raid on Harpers Ferry, and fought—and won—a lawsuit to desegregate San Francisco’s streetcars.

Her power made people uneasy. Newspapers smeared her, calling her a "voodoo queen" or a "dangerous radical." But Pleasant never wavered.

"I’d rather be a co**se than a coward," she declared—and she lived by those words.

Mary Ellen Pleasant turned silence into strategy, using her fortune to fight for freedom. Though erased from textbooks, her legacy is etched forever in history.✍️

This needs to be shared every day by every rider until everyone has seen it and practices it!!While crossing the highway...
09/27/2025

This needs to be shared every day by every rider until everyone has seen it and practices it!!
While crossing the highway and having a car blow right past me it made me think maybe people just don't know what the proper etiquette is for passing a horse.
Here is my PSA.....you are passing an animal! While I like to believe I am in full control of this animal. At the end of the day he/she is 1000lbs and fully capable of spooking or jumping at anytime. You should treat passing a horse just as you would passing a deer. Treat it like you don't know what direction they are going, because you don't. If a deer can total out a car imagine what a horse would do. You could likely kill me, my horse, and yourself. If I see you coming, I’ll do my best to get off the road. So as kindly as I can possibly say it, slow down!!! If you have a teen driver, please inform them.

Papa came to our door today, dropping off a snack because Kenzley didn't get up to feed on time. I looked at him and cou...
09/27/2025

Papa came to our door today, dropping off a snack because Kenzley didn't get up to feed on time. I looked at him and could see in his eyes that he wasn’t okay. I asked, "Are you okay?" He nodded and said, "Yeah, I'm fine," but I knew he didn't mean it. I prompted again, "What's wrong?" He then droppd his eyes and said, "I think I just got too hot yesterday, but griping about it won't help. Things have to get done around here, one way or another."
In that moment, I realized our lack of appreciation for our farmers. They work tirelessly, whether it's scorching hot or freezing cold. They don't gripe or complain because they know it doesn't make a diffrence – things have to get done. Their hard work ensures we have crops, biofuels, and food on our tables.
So thank you. Thank you to the papas, the dadas, the uncles and the men and women who farm for us. Today, I urge you not just to thank a farmer, but to pray for them. They need us. They need our support, our encouragement, our gratitude, and our prayers. Let's appreciate the dedication and sacrifics they make every single day. 🌾🙏❤️
Credit - Hardesty Cattle co. ( Respect 🫡)

$250,000 for a single acre. That is what developers are offering for my farm. At first glance, it sounds like a dream. B...
09/27/2025

$250,000 for a single acre. That is what developers are offering for my farm. At first glance, it sounds like a dream. But for me, it’s a reminder of the pressure closing in on farms like mine. Our land sits in a place they call a “land shortage” area, where open fields are quickly disappearing to make way for houses and shopping centers.
My farm is 313 years old. For the past 92 years, my family has cared for it, just as three families did before us. We’ve worked these fields through good harvests and bad storms, trusting the soil to give back what we put into it. Developers visit often, talking about how many houses they could build here. But they don’t see the history, the sweat, the long nights, or the generations of love that are rooted in this ground.
Farming is not easy. It demands everything from you—your strength, your patience, your hope. Yet it’s a life I would never trade. There is a quiet joy in planting seeds, caring for them, and watching them grow into food that feeds not only my family but my neighbors too. Even in the hardest years, when nature works against us, farmers rise again with a new season ahead.
As the New Year begins, I want to ask you to add one more resolution to your list—support your local farms.
Here’s how you can make a difference:
• Cook at home more and let farm-fresh produce guide your meals.
• Buy a farm share through a CSA and invest in your local growers.
• Choose milk from nearby dairies.
• Visit farmers markets close to your home or work.
• Spend a day at a farm and meet the people who grow your food.
Once farmland is developed, it’s gone forever. The only way farms can survive is if their communities stand with them. Every choice you make at the market is a vote for the future you want—one that keeps green fields, fresh food, and hardworking farmers alive.
Let’s make that future possible. Choose local. Eat local. Support the hands that feed you.

In 1886, Robert Louis Stevenson awoke from a nightmare, screaming. His wife, F***y, quickly came to soothe him—but Steve...
09/27/2025

In 1886, Robert Louis Stevenson awoke from a nightmare, screaming. His wife, F***y, quickly came to soothe him—but Stevenson protested, “Why did you wake me? I was dreaming a magnificent horror story.”
That dream sparked the idea for The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Ill and under the influence of prescribed co***ne, Stevenson poured out the first draft in a feverish burst. But when F***y read it, she encouraged him to dig deeper—to make it more than just a shocking tale.

So Stevenson did the unthinkable: he burned the manuscript. Then, in less than a week, he rewrote the entire book—this time as a haunting allegory about the divided nature of man.

At the heart of it all was F***y: ten years older, divorced, American, witty, fearless, and fiercely devoted. She wasn’t the wife his family expected, but she was his critic, his muse, and the love who followed him across oceans.

Without her, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde might have been just another forgotten ghost story. Instead, it became a masterpiece.

On Friday, a teacher gave her 5th graders a simple activity. She asked them to finish the sentence: “I wish my teacher w...
09/27/2025

On Friday, a teacher gave her 5th graders a simple activity. She asked them to finish the sentence: “I wish my teacher would know…”
What the children wrote broke her heart.
One child wrote, “I wish my teacher would know my dad is in jail, and I haven’t seen him in years.”
Another wrote, “I wish my teacher would know I don’t always eat dinner because my mom works and I don’t know how to use the stove.”
Another shared, “I wish my teacher would know my sister sleeps in the same bed as me, and sometimes she wets the bed. That’s why I smell funny.”
One child wrote, “I wish my teacher would know I don’t always have sneakers for gym class because my brothers and I share one pair.”
And another, “I wish my teacher would know I like coming to school because it’s quiet here, unlike my house with all the yelling.”
💔 These words are a reminder that so many carry silent battles we don’t see. Behind every smile, every classroom seat, every neighbor or coworker, there may be a story we can’t imagine.
We spend so much of life talking, judging, assuming we already know. Maybe what we really need is to slow down, ask questions, and truly listen.
Give more than you get. Choose compassion over judgment. Serve with kindness. Let’s leave this world just a little better than we found it. 💕
Credit: Elle Deal ✍️

The year was 1935. The Great Depression had shuttered factories and emptied cupboards across America. In the remote hill...
09/27/2025

The year was 1935. The Great Depression had shuttered factories and emptied cupboards across America. In the remote hills of Appalachia, many families had no schools, no libraries, and little to read beyond worn newspapers.

Then came a different kind of hero. Supported by the New Deal’s Works Progress Administration, the Pack Horse Librarians mounted their horses — young mothers, miners’ daughters, widows — determined to deliver words where roads barely existed.

Through snow and scorching heat, they rode hundreds of miles each month, guiding horses and mules over rocky paths and across swollen creeks. Their cargo wasn’t food or medicine, but something just as vital: books and magazines filled with ideas and stories.

Children hurried to porches for dog-eared fairy tales. Miners’ wives cherished recipe pamphlets with handwritten notes. Farmers studied weather charts and crop advice that could mean the difference between hunger and harvest.

By the time World War II shifted federal funding in 1943, these “book women” had delivered hundreds of thousands of books to tens of thousands of readers.

They were more than librarians. They were lifelines — proof that in the toughest times, knowledge and imagination can keep hope alive.

In this photo, my mom had just turned 18 years old. She was about to finish high school at a classical lyceum, where onl...
09/27/2025

In this photo, my mom had just turned 18 years old. She was about to finish high school at a classical lyceum, where only eight students made it to the end—two girls and six boys. The others were all children of doctors, professors, and lawyers, but she was the only one whose parents were an electrician and a homemaker. My grandparents had only an elementary school education, and she had to wake up at five every morning to catch the bus with the working men to get to school. By her senior year, her paternal grandfather told her it was time to find a job; they were looking for a secretary, a well-paid and prestigious position for a good girl.
My mom was excellent in school and was sad to stop studying, but they couldn't afford it; there wasn't enough money. Then one evening, her father, my beloved grandfather Lidio, took her aside and said: "This money was set aside for your dowry. Take it and enroll in university. You can always buy sheets later." It was 1960, and my grandfather didn't even have a middle school diploma. He was an orphan from a young age, yet he was always light years ahead. After all, he had two daughters, and to those who said, "Poor thing, it’s a pity you didn't have a boy," he always replied that his daughters were the best thing life could offer him.
My mom graduated in five years, studying in the mornings and tutoring in the afternoons to support herself. She became a teacher, and since retiring, she writes books and edits theses, all thanks to a revolutionary working-class father who, in 1960, chose to invest in education rather than household linens. My grandfather was a superhero.

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