IÂ’m not bragging when I say that IÂ’m fam ousÂ—Margaret Bourke-White , the most famous woman photographer in the worldÂ—and the U.S. Army Air Force has handed me a plum assignment: photographing the Allied attack on th e Germans on the coast of North Africa. I wanted to fly in one of our B-17 bombers, but the top brass ordered me to travel by ship instead, arguing that a convoy was safer. TheyÂ’ve turned out to be dead wrong. Before the war our ship was used for pleasu re cruises. Now it is transporting thousands of troops and five hundred nurses. German submar ines glide, silent and unseen, beneath the surface. A torpedo tears into the side of our sh ip, tossing me out of my bunk. I grab my camera bag and one camera, leaving the rest behind, and race to the bridge. But there is no time to take photographs. We are ordered to abandon ship. I head for Lifeboat No. 12 and board with the others, mostly nurses. WeÂ’ve drilled for this over and over, but this is not a drill. My mouth is dry with fear. The lifeboat drops into the se a. It is already filled with water from the torpedo back splash. We use our helmets to bail. The rudder is broken. All around us people are in the water, struggling to survive. We rescue some, lose others. A voice crie s in the darkness, Â“Help me! IÂ’m all alone!Â” We try to steer towa rd that desperate voice, but w ithout a rudder we can do nothing. The cries grow fainter, and then ...silence.
I take my turn rowing, my arms aching and my hands blistered. Someone begins to sing, Â“You are my sunshine.Â” Even off-key, it makes the rowing easier. We watch as our ship is swallowed by the sea. All but one of my cameras go down with it. During the long, dark hours of the nightÂ—wet , cold, hungry, exhausted, wondering if I will live or dieÂ—I think of my home, of my parents, those early years when I had no idea where life would take me, only that I wanted it to be bold and exciting, anything but what it seemed to be then.
No card playing. No gum chewing. No silk stockings. Why? VotÂ’s der dum-goozled idea?
IÂ’m sheÂ’s isnÂ’t wouldnÂ’t
looked No nicknames. Heterodon platirhinos.
The yellow dog was tired and hungry and also very dirty. Was The dog trotted wearily down the dark alley, searching for somethingÂ—anythingÂ—to eat. Stickers matted his filthy yellow fur.
I had won!
The Frog Book, The Moth Book, The Reptile Book
Should women be granted the right to vote?
I am Sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips, let no dog bark.
A daughter of the gods, divinely ta ll, /And most divinely fair. Her glorious fancies come from far,/Beneath the silver evening star,/But yet her heart is ever near Margaret B. White. Nickname: Peggy. Ambition: Herpetologist
school class Our Red and Gray weÂ’ll neÂ’er forget, /WeÂ’ll alwa ys to our Class be true. /What eÂ’er we do thruout our lives /WeÂ’ll keep unstained the Red and Blue.
driven different. do
When he kisses me?
What to do, what to do? Bonsoir, mÂ’sieur et mamÂ’selle poulet, soupe dÂ’oignon vol au vent soupe
mousse au chocolat demitasse de cafÃ©
If you should decide to pay me a visit.
. Margaret White, photographer.
this is the wallflower who never got asked to dan ce in all the time we knew her?
The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heav'n of he ll, a hell of heav'n. The North wind doth blow and we shall have snow, And what will poor robin do then, poor thing? He'll sit in a barn and keep himself warm and hide his head under his wing, poor thing. aka
I want you all to myself.