How to peel the magosteen

tentu kadang2 kite nk mkn mangis payah kalo kupas tak betol..gmbr2 ni ajar cmne nk kupas dgn betol..mkn ngn selese~

Cling stone House

Cling stone House

“THIS house is always going to have rough edges,” said Henry Wood, resting his frayed sneakers on a splintered pillar. “It’s never going to look like the Breakers.”

It was another indecently beautiful day at Clingstone — a faded, shingled and, yes, very rough 103-year-old mansion set on a rock in Narragansett Bay — and Mr. Wood, its owner, was musing on what the place is not: specifically, that grander turn-of-the century folly in nearby Newport, a limestone-and-gilt palace built by a Vanderbilt in 1895.

But in fact it’s the rough edges and salt-encrusted surfaces that Mr. Wood, a 79-year-old Boston architect, treasures most about Clingstone. For nearly half a century, he has kept them (more or less) intact, and the house standing, through his own hard labor and that of others. He and a crew of family and friends who share his passion for the place’s “deep bohemian funk,” as Nicholas Benson, a stone carver from Newport, put it, have dedicated their time and skills (plumbing and wiring experience are always particularly welcome) to keeping the place from slipping into the water forever.

In 1961, when Mr. Wood bought the house with his ex-wife Joan, who is also an architect, for $3,600, it had been empty for two decades. All of its 65 windows were smashed, and its slate roof was wide open to the sky. Vandals had been creative: on the second floor, the interior shingles were embedded with marbles (they still are), which had been blasted there by some sort of firearm.

On three sides, four-by-eight-foot plywood signs proclaimed: “For Sale. See Any Broker.” “So we did see any broker,” Mr. Wood said. “And he told us the owners were asking $5,000 but they’d take much, much less.”

The house, he learned, had been built by a distant cousin, J. S. Lovering Wharton, from Philadelphia, who had a summer house in the Fort Wetherill area in south Jamestown. (Newport tended to attract New York society; Philadelphians summered in quieter Jamestown.) When the fort was enlarged at the end of the 1800s, the government seized his land, and Clingstone was his rebuke, Mr. Wood said. “He said, ‘I’m going to build where no one can bother me.’ ”

Working with an artist, William Trost Richards, Mr. Wharton designed a shingle-style house of picture windows, with 23 rooms on three stories radiating off a vast central hall; its plan is less a blueprint than a diagram of arrows indicating sightlines.

He built it like a mill, Mr. Wood said, with wide planking, sturdy oak beams, diagonal sheathing and an odd flourish: an interior cladding of shingles, put there, Mr. Wood conjectured, because Fort Wetherill’s cannons went off so regularly in training exercises that they cracked the plaster in the neighbors’ houses.

Those neighbors, it seems, were skeptical of Mr. Wharton’s project. A society item in The Philadelphia Press in August 1904 reads, “Everyone is of the opinion here that Mr. Wharton will not stay in the house more than one season, and they say one nor’easter will settle it.” But Mr. Wharton loved his new house, and spent every summer there until his death just before the hurricane of 1938, which the house survived with little damage.

After his widow died, in 1941, the house stood empty until Mr. Wood and his wife came upon it. The story, Mr. Wood said, is that Mr. Wharton’s three sons disliked one another so much, they couldn’t agree on who to sell it to. “I think they only sold it to me because I was a relative,” he added.

Every spring for a decade or so after the sale, Mr. Wood said, he cursed “this albatross,” his roofless, windowless, floorless, powerless, waterless house. Wrangling what had been a rich man’s plaything, attended by servants and even its own shipyard, into a working couple’s weekend getaway turned out to be much more than a working couple could handle. Eventually, though, as the Woods mustered the talents of their friends, Clingstone and its maintenance evolved into a communal lifestyle, and ultimately a kind of religion

Subject: Her Last Call Was From A Cell Phone

Subject: Her Last Call Was From A Cell Phone


Her last call was from a new cell phone...

Do you see the motorcycle?

Now do you see it?

The Honda crotch rocket rider was traveling at approximately
85 mph. The VW driver was talking on a cell phone when she
Pulled out from a side street, apparently not seeing the
Motorcycle. The riders reaction time was not sufficient
Enough to avoid this accident.
The car had two passengers
And the bike rider was found INSIDE the car with them.
The Volkswagen actually flipped over from the force of impact
And landed 20 feet from where the collision took place.

All three involved (two in the car and the bike rider) were
Killed instantly. This graphic demonstration was placed at
The Motorcycle Fair by the Police and Road Safety Department..
Pass this on to car drivers or soon to be
New drivers, or new motorcycle owners
AND ESPECIALLY EVERYONE YOU KNOW WHO HAS A CELL PHONE!!!!!
A picture is worth a thousand words.

Save a life…

Stop talking on Cell phones and Texting while trying to drive.
The life you save may be your own..... Or mine...

Keep passing this on so everyone will see what can happen by using a CELL PHONE while driving !!

Be thankful………………to ALLAH

Be thankful………………to ALLAH

A man reached 70 years of age and he faced a disease; he could not urinate. The doctors informed him that he was in need of an operation to cure this disease. He agreed to have the operation done as the problem was giving him much pain for days. When the operation was completed, his doctor gave him the bill which covered all the costs. The old man looked at the bill and started to cry. Upon seeing this the doctor told him that if the cost was too high then they could make some other arrangements. The old man said “I am not crying because of the money but I am crying because Allah let me urinate for 70 years and He never sent me a bill.”

"…and if you try to count the blessings of Allah, never will you be able to count them…"

{Surah Ibrahim}