The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("I'm jus' sayin'," sighs Sally, "I do'wanna go t'ru anot'eh'ra t'ese wintehs we'h it gets so col', Leonoreh's eeh keeps actin' up. Ev'ry winteh she gets t'ese infections inneh 'cause it gets so col' innat apawrtm'n, an' I worry she's havin' trouble heahrin' outa t'at eeh. Las' night I was tellin'eh come get 'eh suppeh, an' she was layin' onna flooeh t'eh writin' inna tablet an' neveh paid me no mind. I hadda go stan' right on top'v'eh an' tell 'eh to come eat. Jus' tell ya husban' t'kin'a give us a lit'l moeh heat, t'at's awl." "He's doin'a best 'e can, Sal," contends Alice. "Y'otta see 'im inneh ev'ry night, innat berleh room, wit'is shoit awf, shov'lin' innat coal, awl sweaty an' shinin' an' covehed wit' soot..." "Well, yeh," concedes Sally, "but..." "An'nem muscles in'is back 'teh, awl rip'lin' an' standin' out, an'...." "An' what?" snickers Sally. "Op'na windeh, would'ja Sal?" exhales Alice, tugging at the collar of her work shirt. "How come t'ey keep t'ese trains so hawt, anyway?" "Heh," hehs Sally...)

American armored columns captured the German fortress of Livergnano after a bloody five-day battle and opened the way today for a direct assault on Bologna, key city to the Po Valley, less than 10 miles to the north. A communique also disclosed 8th Army troops pushing inland from the Adriatic swept thru the Nazi stronghold of Gairbettola, 18 miles southwest of Rimini, and two miles above the highway from Rimini to Bologna, principal Po Valley artery. The battle for Livergnano was one of the bloodiest of the Italian campaign, with a United Press dispatch from the conquered town calling it "a village of caves and corpses," its highway "stained with the blood of German and American dead, mangled by each other's artillery."

A major obstacle to the early resumption of construction on the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel has been cleared, with the announcement by Mayor LaGuardia that the War Production Board has granted permission for the manufacture of 500 tons of bolts, nuts, and washers needed on the job. While the Mayor suggested in his weekly broadcast yesterday, relayed from Chicago over WNYC, that construction may be resumed on the projected within three or four months, Commissioner William H. Friedman of the New York City Tunnel Authority hinted at a possible longer wait, stating that work will be resumed "as soon as war conditions permit."

("Hmph!" hmphs Ma. "If paaarents would keep closarr watch on tharr children, sooch things would NOT happen!" "Rudy Vallee," notes Uncle Frank, sipping his two-cents-plain. "Thaaat was diff'rent," snaps Ma. "Sally merely let'arr enthusiasm get oota hand." "That's not aaahl gaaht oot'varr hand," snickers Uncle Frank. "An' then tharr's that brick thru th' screen at Loew's Oriental." "A mattar'a principle," sniffs Ma. "Y'moit naaht agree with th' way she doon it, boot she was staandin' oop far soomthin' she b'lieves in." "Mickey throo'in a stink bomb on th' stage that toime," chuckles Uncle Frank, "at th' Star Theayter." "He was criticizin' th' perfarrrmance," retorts Ma. "An' thin," laughs Uncle Frank, "thaat Lois DeFee criticoized his criticism! Roit in th' oye!" "Well," snips Ma, "saaaarved 'im roit farr goin' in that place t'b'gin with. An' incidentally, how is it ye know who it was that saaacked 'im? Oi don't recall 'im evarr admittin'." "Ah," ahs Uncle Frank. "Well, it's loike this..." "She shooda socked you too," snorts Ma. "Oi ducked," mutters Uncle Frank. "What?" "Noothin'.")

The New York City vote will reach an all time high with the November 7th election, based on record voter registration by both civilians and servicemen and women, it was announced today by the Board of Elections. That board further announced that it will meet tomorrow morning at 11 to decide whether the registration of 3,216,613 voters will require that voting hours be extended, moving the poll closing hour from 7 to 9 pm, or even to 10 pm.

("All they can think about is food. One of them tried to tell me he was a Hamburger.")

(DRAFT MUSIAL IN '44!)

(Well now, THIS should certainly be an interesting session...)

("By Jove, Holmes! How DO you DO it?")

(For a middle-aged commuter, George has remarkably limber joints.)

("I dunno, you think so? I thought the monocle was too much.")

("Absently, as was her custom on a long road trip, she took a nip from the bottle..")

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG is nothing if not pragmatic.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"I tell ya, we'll get all of Page Four. Well, 'cept for that dopey political column."

Imagine that.

Ohhhh, Punjab......

"Wait, that's the FAMOUS Shaky? Not that other Shaky?"

**snif**

"MR. PARROTT!" thunders a voice from the inner sanctum at 215 Montague Street. "Yes, sir," replies that panting minion. "What do we know of a left-handed relief pitcher," demands Mr. Rickey, " named Bloney!"

"Small Fry?" At least that's better than "Pantywaist."

"He should be shoveling coal like the rest of the kids!"

Don't think too hard, you might muss up your hair.

Well, there's not a lot of space in a candy store back room.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Y'otta see 'im inneh ev'ry night, innat berleh room, wit'is shoit awf, shov'lin' innat coal, awl sweaty an' shinin' an' covehed wit' soot..." "Well, yeh," concedes Sally, "but..." "An'nem muscles in'is back 'teh, awl rip'lin' an' standin' out, an'...." "An' what?" snickers Sally. "Op'na windeh, would'ja Sal?" exhales Alice, tugging at the collar of her work shirt. "How come t'ey keep t'ese trains so hawt, anyway?" "Heh," hehs Sally...)

We've talked about this, Lizzie. I thought we had an understanding.

**********************************************************************

A major obstacle to the early resumption of construction on the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel has been cleared, with the announcement by Mayor LaGuardia that the War Production Board has granted permission for the manufacture of 500 tons of bolts, nuts, and washers needed on the job. While the Mayor suggested in his weekly broadcast yesterday, relayed from Chicago over WNYC, that construction may be resumed on the projected within three or four months, Commissioner William H. Friedman of the New York City Tunnel Authority hinted at a possible longer wait, stating that work will be resumed "as soon as war conditions permit."

This is pretty surprising considering the war is still going on, on both fronts.

***********************************************************************

"Rudy Vallee," notes Uncle Frank, sipping his two-cents-plain. "Thaaat was diff'rent," snaps Ma. "Sally merely let'arr enthusiasm get oota hand." "That's not aaahl gaaht oot'varr hand,"

Since this comes up a lot, did we ever learn if these were an, umm, extra pair brought from home for this purpose or did Sally just get, how shall we say this, caught up in the moment? If the latter, the logistics had to be, well, "interesting."

*************************************************************************

Imagine that.

I had no idea our planes could shoot cyanide tablets when strafing, and right into his mouth – that's some good shooting.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Only Sally knows the answer to that question, and I don't dare to ask her.

 

[Fading Fast]

Only Sally knows the answer to that question, and I don't dare to ask her.

Depending on Rudy Vallee's, umm, predilection at the time, he might have an idea, too. Just sayin'.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I don' even GET t'is whole Sinatra t'ing," fumes Sally. "I mean, he's skinny, he ain' p'ticulehly good-lookin', he don' know howta dress, an'ee sings like -- well, 'e sings like 'e's about t' pass out!" "Ehhh," ehs Alice. "I like 'is singin'. He sings like 'ee means it." "Ahhhhh, whassat sp'osta mean," frowns Sally. "I mean, 'neh ain' no whatchacawl ya'r --uhh -- virility innat singin'." "Huh," huhs Alice. She pauses momentarily to absorb the thought. "Hey Sal," she resumes. "What, 'zackly, izzat 'virility' mean?" Sally squints and purses her lips while framing a reply. "Imagine," she sighs, "Krause shovelin' coal." "Ohhhhhhh," exhales Alice. "Sinatra," concludes Sally, "ain' gawt none'a t'at.")

A survey of labor organizations has found a sharp divide between the two great union federations in their degree of support for President Roosevelt, with seventy-three percent of CIO members endorsing the President's bid for a fourth term, compared to sixty-one percent of those belonging to AF of L unions. Roosevelt held 75 percent of the factory workers who had supported him when he ran for his third term in 1940, and Dewey has held 85 percent of those factory workers who voted for Willkie in the last election. By contrast, 54 percent of all white-collar workers support Dewey according to recent surveys, and 61 percent of all professional and business workers support the Repubican candidate.

("Woona these days, Oi'm goona take out me papars," declares Uncle Frank. "Ooooh, Oi done me share'a waaard heelin', but Oi'm thinkin' th' toime is coomin' when Oi might waant t'voot." "Ahhh," dismisses Ma, swabbing the countertop with a wadded dishrag, " ye soond like me daughtarr." "Thar's security in bein' a citizen, Nora," declares Uncle Frank. "S'pose -- ooh -- s'pose tharr was soombody said they -- ah -- had soomthin' aaahn ye that could get'chee deparrted. Imagine ye'd have to leave aaaahl this, goo back t'Oireland." "That ain't loikely," scoffs Ma. "B'soides, Oi shook th' doosta that place aahf me feet faarty years agoo, an' Oi ain' aboot'a go back farr noothin'." "Well, thin," declares Uncle Frank. "Let's booth do it. Let's booth take out paparrs." Ma pauses and gazes carefully at Frank, who is returning her gaze every bit as carefully. "Yarr serious?" Ma queries. "Oi am," affirms Frank. "Hm," hms Ma...)

(Dixie is used to these sorts of requests, but I bet Chuck Dressen feels ten feet tall today.)

The Eagle Editorialist scoffs at the "tempest in a teapot" surrounding the question of whether movie star Ann Sheridan did or did not do a good job of entertaining the troops stationed in India. "Entertainers have rendered unselfish service often at the risk of death or personal injury," the EE observes, adding that "those who volunteered deserve an A for effort."

(I wonder what Mr. Lichty listens to, sitting at his drawing board all day...)

(733,000 people paid to watch the Giants??? WHY???)

(Tramps? HOW JUDGEMENTAL.)

(Try lithium, George, it works!)

(Oh, well, OK then.)

(Heh, country people. So naive. Hey Zeke, get the shotgun.)

(Yeah, that way we'll barely have to change the title.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News..

Lucy might change her mind, but she'll never change him. And meanwhile, no matter what myths one might choose to believe about the 1940s, they are dangerous times to be a young, single woman.

I hope you bolted that spring to a wall stud and not just into the plaster.

Well this is an angle about the Sarge that I hadn't considered.

Go see an Ann Sheridan picture, that'll cheer you up.

Junior -- going to school now? THAT'S AN IMPROVEMENT.

"Put out of their misery. Hmmmmmmm."

Oh, Burma, you and your wisecracks...

"Well, that's easy for you to say, but what about Stalin?"

Back to the Pacific, kid!

"Holy H. Smoke!"

 

[Fading Fast]

"What, 'zackly, izzat 'virility' mean?" Sally squints and purses her lips while framing a reply. "Imagine," she sighs, "Krause shovelin' coal."

Sneaking it in through Sally is just as bad. No one, not one person on planet earth wants hear about Alice and Krause's (I can't even say the word) --- life.

***************************************************************

Well this is an angle about the Sarge that I hadn't considered.

I'd bet less than half the readers in 1944 are considering that angle even now as it wasn't the water they swam in and that hint might not have been strong enough for them to get it.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Yeah, sueh Dewey's gonna take Pawk Slope," sneers Sally. "Y'eveh notice how many'a t'em people t'eh got moustaches? T'eh gonna take caehr'a t'eh own." "I wish Siddy'd grow a moustache," laments Alice. "He'd look jus' like Gilbe't Rolan'." "Yeh," nods Sally, absently. "T'em people in Pawrk Slope, t'ey dunno what it's awlabout. Wit'teh moustaches an'neh fancy houses an'...." Her voice trails off as she catches up with the wandering thread of the conversation. "Gil'bet Rolan'?" she puzzles. "T'acteh? I mean, fawr be it fr'm me t'say any't'ing agains' ya husban', but..." and here she swipes her hand across the top of her head, "y'gotta admit t'eh's soiten obvious discrepancies t'eh..." Alice frowns, and shakes her head fiercely. "No no no," she insists. "I don' mean no acteh. I mean Gilbe't Rolan'. You know, woiks t' meat coun'eh down'eh t' Dilbe't Brot'ehs awn 64t'." "I neveh go inneh," sniffs Sally, "so I wouldn' know. I hoid t' meat guy t'eh has a fat t'umb, if y'know what I mean, an'nee's awrways weighin' it." "Well, I dunno 'bout t'at," shrugs Alice, "but 'e's gawt some moustache." "Hmph," hmphs Sally. "An' jus' because he's gotta moustache," Alice adds indignantly, "don' mean 'ee's gonna vote f' Dewey!")

A committee of 27 doctors including the presidents and former presidents of the Kings County Medical Society was organized today to promote the Presidential candidacy of Governor Thomas E. Dewey. The doctors indicated that they have taken that stand in opposition to President Roosevelt on the question of "socialized medicine," following the introduction of a bill by Sen. Robert F. Wagner (D-NY) that would make provision for Federal medical and hospitalizatiob benefits, a bill which committee member Dr. Alexander Louria denounced as "replete in its indefiniteness, consistent only in the nebulousness of its provisions."

Mayor LaGuardia's role in the administration of relief in Italy may be all decided, but neither the Mayor nor President Roosevelt is talking about what that role may be. The Mayor was in Washington yesterday and when he returned home by plane last night, he said that he had luncheon with the President and was in conference with him for some time. Pressed on the topic of that conference, the Mayor stated that he and the President discussed "geography, history, music, and a little politics."

New basic gasoline ration books will be issued October 31st thru November 2nd, and will take effect November 9th. Applications for the new books will be accepted at all neighborhood public schools beginning next Monday. The applicant must present the back cover from their present A ration book, and must note the odometer reading of the vehicle listed on the application. OPA officials stress that if the odometer reading is omitted, no new ration book will be issued. The new book begins with stamps numbered A13, and all unused A12 stamps will be voided as of November 9th. The A13 stamps will be valid for four gallons of gasoline each over the six week period beginning with that date. They will be replaced by the A14 stamps on December 22nd.

("Disgraceful," tut-tuts Ma. "Poot'n a minor t'warrk in that koind of a business." "Oi never let Danny an' Jimmy soo mooch as touch a single bahht'l till they was oov age," declares Uncle Frank, flipping a Tums into his mouth and chasing it with the last of his two-cents-plain. "Of carrse," he squints, "it was diff'rent with Mickey." "Michael was," nods Ma, "oold far his age." "Ooonly sixteen-yarr-oold," snickers Uncle Frank, "in 8-B.." "What?" "Noothin'...*burp.*")

(Orson Welles, Jackie Gleason, and Bert Lahr -- ON THE SAME BILL??? Don't miss this BIG show!)

(There are times when Mr. Lichty's wit can be wonderfully subtle, but not today.)

A 16-year-old Erasmus Hall High School student killed himself yesterday with a .22 rifle shot in his family's home at 280 Linden Boulevard. The youth left behind a note stating that he "couldn't get along in life," and added that he "wanted to see God." The boy's family were reported to be French-Canadians, and the youth had formerly attended a French-language school before moving to Brooklyn and enrolling at Erasmus, where he was placed in a grade lower than he had last attended in the Canadian school.

("Brooklyn Tigers" is just a lame name for a football team, but "Boston Yankees", however one rationalizes it, is just plain WRONG.)

(The look of dull contempt on Dennie's face reveals his thoughts: "I wonder what would happen if I disappeared from this strip for, oh, eight or nine years.")

(It's only paranoia if they AREN'T out to get you.)

(POINT OF ORDER: Show me one rich guy in 1944 who doesn't have an extension phone by his bed.)

(You really haven't thought any of this thru, have you?)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE NEGLECTED CAT is always right.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

ANd in the Daily News...

"Pretty Mary Ellen Swanwick, shop steward." One step forward and two steps back.

There is no greater sign of courage than giving a speech in a Philadelphia ballpark.

Sure, Sarge. Anything you say.

Paging Mary Worth...

The knife is sharp and clean and heavy and sharp, the knife is so very very sharp...

"His life was short, but eventful..."

"Imagine, just the two of us, all by ourselves living in, oh, a potato field in Hempstead..."

NIce to see such enthusiasm, but really, you'd get there quicker by bus.

It's been a while since we saw the classic Plushie Sad Walrus.

Ha ha, that's rich I'll say.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

How many times do you think Jimmy got slapped in the face?

 

[Fading Fast]

How many times do you think Jimmy got slapped in the face?

I was surprised that a few of the women admitted they went out willingly, even knowing the man was married. Why the heck would you say that in a newspaper, alongside your name and picture?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Hrmph," hrmphs Mr. Parrott, working late on a Thursday evening as he sidles into the inner sanctum at 215 Montague Street. "What is it, boy?" demands Mr. Rickey, frowning at the blackboard behind his desk listing his woebegone forty-man roster. "Out with it now, I have a great deal to do this evening." "Um, there's a telephone call for you, sir," squirms Mr. Parrott. "Jane Ann sent it to me, because she didn't want to bother you, but, um, well..." "OUT WITH IT BOY!" thunders Mr. Rickey. "Seize the situation manfully, be worthy of the faith that I have placed within you!" "It's -- ah -- " stammers Mr. Parrott, "a Mrs. Petrauskas, sir. From Bensonhurst. She seems -- um -- very eager to speak with you." The cigar drops from Mr. Rickey's mouth and his face drains of color. "Does she have -- " he gasps, "a loud, somewhat abrasive and nasal voice in the manner of these Brooklyn folk? Did she mention that second baseman, that Coscarart? Because..." "No sir," replies Mr. Parrott. "She wants tickets." "AH!" exhales Mr. Rickey, his features creasing into a broad grin of relief. "Direct her at once to Mr. Collins, and advise him to offer her the highest level of service for her purchase. We cannot, my boy, afford to discourage even one of our cash customers for the coming season, my boy, not even -- one." "Not baseball tickets," continues Mr. Parrott, "tickets to see the President. You know, when he comes to the ballpark." "WHAT!" roars Mr. Rickey, the big freckled fist slamming down on the desk. "That man -- HERE? WHO APPROVED THIS!" "Uh," sweats Mr. Parrott, "you did, sir. Remember? It was in that stack of papers I had you sign yesterday." "JUDAS PRIEST!" thunders Mr. Rickey. "IS THERE NO END TO THE OUTRAGES I MUST ENDURE!" "We'll sell a lot of hot dogs," shrugs Mr. Rickey. "And Cokes and beer." "Ah," sighs Mr. Rickey, conceding the point. "Perhaps you may be right. Assure Mrs. Petrauskas that she shall be accomodated." "She also wants to know if --" hesitates Mr. Parrott. "Her friend," sighs Mr. Rickey. "The large red-haired woman. Very well. Seat them near Mrs. Chester, perhaps they will drown each other out." "Very good sir," nods Mr. Parrott. He reaches for the doorknob, and pauses. "Uh, sir..." he adds. "What is it now, boy?" Mr. Rickey snaps. "I must make preparations for..." "Sir," observes Mr. Parrott, pointing to a curl of smoke rising from the fallen cigar in his employer's lap, "you seem to be on fire." "JUDAS PRIEST!!!!!!!" roars Mr. Rickey, as we draw the curtain on our little scene...)

A tropical hurricane which left seven dead and hundreds injured in Cuba hit the west coast of Florida today south of Sarasota, while strong gales swept the southern end of the state. The weather bureau issued a bulletin saying the center of the hurricane was over the St. Petersburg/Tampa area, with both cities battered by a 100 mile per hour wind. "This destructive hurricane is still moving northward," added the bulletin. Miami was buffetted by 60 mile an hour winds, as the gale howled with increasing fury across the Florida peninsula. The storm has been one of the worst in Havana's history, with between two and three hundred hurt in addition to the seven confirmed dead, with hospital in the Cuban capital reporting that at least fifty of those injured patients are in grave condition.

The British Government has decided to recognize the administration of Gen. Charles deGaulle as the provisional government of France, the United Press learned today from reliable sources. Recognition will probably be announced soon simultaneously with official action by Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower releasing to French administration a large part of France as a "zone of interior." One highly-placed British source indicated that recognition might have come sooner had the United States been ready to take simultaneous action. It was generally understood that Britain and the United States have worked in concert in their consideration of the matter.

("Swing music, jitterboogin'," sniffs Ma. "Oi don't see whoy they caan't make soom decent pictcharrs. An' Oi ain't gett'n drassed oop t' go to th' Metropaaalitin. What's playin' at th' Patio. We'll waalk oovar tharr after soopar, an' see a good show." "Let's see," sighs Uncle Frank, slipping on his glasses to examine the tiny ad. "Yooth Roons Woild." Ma scowls, and slaps her cleaning rag on the counter. "Oi dooont KNOW," she fumes, "what this warrrld is coomin' to!" "SPPPPPPT!" injects Leonora from across the store.)

("Ahhhh," sighs Joe, dumping a can of brown slurry into the kettle. "I wondeh what t'eh eat'n back home." "Fraaaaahd chicken, son," sighs the Corporal. "Yew evuh have real suthun fraaaahd chicken? Ah bet they ain' got THAT in Brooklyn," "Shows whatchoo know," retorts Joe. "T'ezziz jernt downtown, Mammy's Pantry. Bes' chicken I eveh ate. Me'n Sal uset' go inneh when we'd go Chrismas' shawppin down'a Namm's t'eh, y'know, b'foeh t'wawr." "Mammy's Pantry," scoffs the Corporal. "That's th' one cawrnies' thing Ah eveh hearduh. That'd be lahk op'nin a rest'runt sells pastrami sanwiches down in Bummin'ham, cawlin' it -- I dunno, whud' yo' call yo' mama in up in Brooklyn theyuh?" "I neveh had no ma," mutters Joe. "Oh," frowns the Corporal. "Well, uh, Mammy's Pantry don' soun' so bad. Soun' like a real down home place. What else yo' got up theyuh?" "Well," sighs Joe, dunking an enormous spoon into the pot and sampling the flavor, "y'getta real good chicken pie at t' Autehmat." "Whussat?" queries the Corporal. "Y'go in," explains Joe, "an'nez awlese little windehs onna wawl. An' inside each windeh is some diff'n kinda food. Y'take a look aroun', see whatcha wawnt, an' ya drop ya nick'ls inna slot, an' toin' a knob, anna dooeh pawps open an' ya take outcha food." The Corporal takes the cigarette out of his mouth and blinks incredulously. "Yuh greenin' me," he exhales. "Yuh makin'at up." "Sweahtagawd," declares Joe, dumping salt in the kettle. "Gawwwwdayum," marvels the Corporal, returning the cigarette to its place as Joe gazes into the pot and stirs....)

(Coming Events...)

("Luckman? Sure, you can borrow him. Anything else you need as long as we're up?" I don't understand football at all.)

(Doesn't pay her electric bill? MUST be a ghost!)

("Cough syrup." Sure George, whatever you say.)

(Planting in October? Must be a perennial.)

(Where would Scarlet be if it wasn't for dumb crooks?)

("Heich?" What kind of a horse says "Heich???")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

As I live and breathe, I once had a landlord named John H. Titus, but was NOT this guy. At least I don't THINK it was this guy.

"These random interrogations on the street. These photographs. By whose authority do you do this? This is customary in your country?"

"And for your courage in the face of fire, Chief Brandon, the city hereby awards you this gift certificate for one fine leather valise. Redeemable after the war. Some restrictions may apply."

"Sa-dis-tic," reads Leonora. "Old sh-aa-de of a witch." "GIVE ME THAT PAPAAAR!" roars Ma.

Can you speak Tagalog, son?

War is hell.

"Oh dear, now you'll NEVER keep him down on the farm."

"With THAT head?" "What?""Nothing."

Aw, c'mon Burms, you've got one more win in you. Just like Fitz pitching Game Three.

Have you tried the Classified Telephone Directory?

 

[Fading Fast]

"We'll sell a lot of hot dogs," shrugs Mr. Rickey.

"She also wants to know if --" hesitates Mr. Parrott. "Her friend," sighs Mr. Rickey. "The large red-haired woman. Very well. Seat them near Mrs. Chester, perhaps they will drown each other out." "Very good sir," nods Mr. Parrott.

Well done, Lizzie, well done.

******************************************************************

I've just been assuming Sandy is fine and will be rescued - right? right? RIGHT?

******************************************************************

This might be the cutest Burma picture ever.

 

[LizzieMaine]

I've never seen Burms so -- ah -- buttoned up. With age comes a certain dignity.