Philosophical Justifications for Physical Education

Philosophical Justifications for Physical Education Issues in Physical Education Examine the implications of the various philosophical justifications for Physical Education for the teaching of the subject. The philosophies of the philosophers Within a traditional context, Physical Education (PE) has been perceived as a non-academic subject in comparison to more well established subjects such as mathematics and the sciences. Different philosophers and commentators conjure various justifications by which PE can be placed within the National Curriculum (NC) and how the subject itself should be approached and delivered. This essay attempts to highlight and examine these philosophies, their implications and how they affect the perceptions and delivery of PE in this country. Education is essentially associated with attainment of valuable knowledge. This knowledge, according to Hirst (1974, 1992, 1994) and Peter (1966), is that of theoretical and intellectual attainment. It is knowledge in this context which has an impact on our everyday lives. This is what is often termed as ‘orthodox’ education which arguably excludes PE. Reid (1998) supports this view stating that education must comprise (of) an acquisition of valuable knowledge. (Taking this into account) From Reid’s perspective, it follows that (it can be argued that) PE (does in fact) can be considered to develop valuable knowledge on its particular subject matter. (Moreover) In addition to this, Reid (1998) reinforces his hypothesis by highlighting the link between the theoretical concept and the resulting practical knowledge. This is as a result of a ‘new orthodoxy’ construct within PE, (developed from attempts) which developed from a perceived need to justify PE’s intellectual properties. These include the increase in academic PE through examinations and the establishment of PE degrees and Sports Science degrees. Reid (1998) (believes) suggests that PE fulfils the criteria that education demands, simply by practical knowledge through experience to develop ‘knowing how’. (So) When this is reinforced with theoretical knowledge relating to PE, educators of the subjects are arguably (overstepping) exceeding the currently accepted educational requirements as practical knowledge is deemed a satisfactory justification for inclusion within the NC. You need to put a reference to support this statement. One example of this type of educational justification can be seen in Sport Science degrees where physiology is complementary to pedagogy. This point made in Hoberman, J. (1992). Add the quote if you wish Reid (1998) in fact, states that practical knowledge should not be either linked with or (lessened) reduced to ‘simple’ ability, where a student is able to strike a ball for example. â€Å"It is not the status of PE which is problematic then, but rather the academic view of education† (Reid, 1997, page 21), which is perhaps a little uncertain. It is this indecision which hinders the perception of PE within the subject itself and their resulting arguments of justification of NC status. Reid (1997) further argues that education is not simply an academic endeavour but also the endorsement of personal and social assistance. This hedonistic approach somewhat further blurs the boundaries as to what is and what is not considered to be educational, as it suggests enjoyment is a precondition for education. Enjoyment is totally subjective and what may be perceived as enjoyable by one individual may not necessarily be enjoyable (for) by another. This continued difference in opinion is echoed by Parry (1998). It is suggested that Reid (1998) fails to validate practical knowledge and to justify just how the skills learnt are worthwhile in nature. Where Reid (1997) states that the source of educational value of PE is in fact the pleasure extracted from the subject, it has been suggested that he has fallen (prone) prey to the perhaps arguably misleading notion of hedonism (Parry, 1998). As suggested earlier, pleasure, by definition, is (found) derived only from something a person enjoys. Should an individual fail to enjoy PE, (than) then this contradicts Reid’s (1997) concept. Carr (1997) however states that as much as Reid’s (1997) work challenges some of the standard perceptions of education, it does contain some inaccuracies and misconceptions. It would be sensible to state just what you think these misconceptions are. Although Carr (1997) accepts that PE has certain levels of knowledge acquisition, this does not necessarily mean a concurrence with all of Reid’s (1998) opinions. This is rather messy, and the point is not clearly made. What are the specific points that Carr disagrees with? state. You might find it useful to put parts of the next paragraph in here. The implications of this are that Reid (1998) believes that PE can alter your perception and comprehension of the world. However, people can be perceived as less educationally proficient should their experiences in the sciences and maths for example, be less than others. This is not the case with regard to PE as individuals are seen as ‘non-sporty’ rather than educat ionally deficient. These differing view points again further obscures the boundaries of PE’s educational worth. This point is made in Andy Clark (1996), I suggest that you put in the reference! Carr’s (1997) opinions differ in that his paper raises the prospect of a distinction between education and teaching of ‘life skills’ (or schooling). The implications of this are that Carr (1997) believes that education provides valuable knowledge and understanding, which is the predominant culture within schools, but schools also aim to provide vocational knowledge. It is suggested that sport falls into this appreciation as it teaches skills and abilities that can be applied directly or adapted for life after school and beyond. These abilities can include communication and team work. Parry (1998) has expressed the opinion that education is not purely the quest for ‘valued’ knowledge but is coupled with enhancement of personal virtue due to â€Å"philosophical anthropology and the promotion of Olympian ideas† (Parry, 1998, page 65). (In other words) The implications being that, as a result of philosophical perspectives upon the human race, the promotion of the Olympian ideal that occurs through PE (which) has a lasting effect upon the individual in that it alters their values, goals for excellence, and their relationships. This is supported by McNamee (2005, page 16) who states a less restricted overview of education which is â€Å"the initiation into a range of cultural practices that have the capacity to open up the possibilities of living a full and worthwhile life†. (Yet) Again the implication of this viewpoint is that it supports the notion that PE can help provide and establi sh ‘life skills’, thus supporting its educational value. McNamee (2005, page 15) feels that Peter and Carr (1997) remain too ideological due to their â€Å"traditional liberal distinctions† even though McNamee (2005) states his belief that education is a vessel for dispensing cultural customs. McNamee (2005) continues to highlight some oversights in the work of both Reid and Parry, suggesting that the (forma) former does not describe important epistemological aspects within PE as a subject. Although Reid does cite examples of practical knowledge application, there is a distinct absence of examples that are relevant to PE itself, thus providing evidence to support his view point but not with particular clarity in regard to PE. In fairness, I don’t think that Reid’s paper was specifically about PE as such, it was about education in general although certainly it featured PE do you want to rephrase this point? Additionally, McNamee (2005) believes that Reid’s hedonistic (standing) view point that simply pleasure alone is justification for PE’s place on the NC is not entirely plausible. A point made in: Pekka Elo Juha Savolainen (2000), . Do you want to cite the reference? In comparison, McNamee (2005) draws attention to the cultural (practices) roles sport can play. These include, as Parry (1998) suggests, the formation of identities and the development to values which (is) are suggested to be closely linked to education. People â€Å"have the capacity to develop, evaluate and live out their own life plans based on a combination of projects, relationships and commitments† (McNamee, 2005, page 16). Sport and PE, according to McNamee (2005), (has) have the ability to meet these potentials through a unique assortment of internal, and in turn external values, that are somewhat unique to sport and PE. One example could be teamwork experience from team games. Teamwork blankets many subdivisions including communication. The skills learned and finely developed within PE lessons can help in the attainment of employment, not necessarily only in a sporting context. So it would appear that PE contains the valued principles that Hirst and Peter suggest are key to education. The implications are therefore, according to McNamee (2005, page 17), that the educators of â€Å"cultural rituals† should ensure that â€Å"the values PE has and gives, are kept in good health†. The implication here being that , this argues that PE should remain within the curriculum as it teaches and enriches ‘life skills’. (So) It appears therefore that there is much debate with regard to the implications of the conflicting elements of various philosophies regarding a unified perception of just what PE is and the resulting justification of its place within the NC. Reid argues that practical knowledge alone is in fact as valued as intellectual knowledge. Moreover, Reid also states that the gratification taken from PE further enforces this validation. Carr believes the contrary because philosophers have failed to differentiate between schooling and education. In contrast, Parry takes the view that a more Olympian standing point should be taken, in that PE can be used to promote achievement and excellence. Furthermore, McNamee states that PE contains many cultural values and can be used as a vessel to deliver these. In doing so, PE has an effect on our everyday lives, (therefore) thereby becoming educationally noteworthy as it contains ‘valued’ principles. These somewhat contradictory philosophies and the resulting confusion in the implications derived from them, highlight the fact that (through) by selecting one philosophy as a standard conception of PE’s justification within the NC and not another, will inevitably lead to a dispute as to why it was selected in the first place. Clearly this is a matter of personal evaluation. What must be taken into account are the philosophies and ideologies of the PE teachers themselves. They are the administrators and deliverers of the subject and their opinions and ideologies can greatly influence the notion and (conception) implementation of PE. You could cite Tà ¤nnsjà ¶, T. and Tamburrini, C. (Eds.) (2000) As a reference on this point The philosophies of the Physical Education teachers. The ‘philosophies’ of PE teachers are generally considered to come about as a result of the culmination of experiences within sport, education, and everyday life (within and outside school). Included within these is ‘sport for all’, education for leisure and the continued development of the academic principles within PE (Green, 2000, 2001, 2003). Although these greatly influence the philosophies of PE teachers, health related exercise and enjoyment of the subject appear to be the central focal point of their lessons. According to Green (2000), enjoyment and pleasure formed the basis for PE teacher’s lessons. One could say that a happy classroom is a learning classroom. It is through this that PE offers enjoyment, which acts as a catalyst for increased control over students and in turn heightens learning (Green, 2000). (Their) His justification of this is that PE can often be a ‘release’ of stress and pressure from other academic aspects of school, yet still maintaining its own promotion of the academic virtues in itself (Green, 2000). However, as discussed previously, enjoyment is not considered a prerequisite of education. With teachers adopting a more hedonistic approach to their lessons, the educational value of their lessons arguably become questionable. Do you want to justify this comment? Suggest using reference Savolainen J Elo P 2000 In fact, many PE teachers perceive their subject as secondary to other subjects as they consider PE inferior in an academic sense (Green, 2000). In Green’s (2000) study, many PE teachers associated enjoyment with sport. Understandably, sport is seen as the chief characteristic for the delivery of PE. The implications being that this often falls under a competitive sports bracket, largely in the form of team games. The main emphasis for PE teachers was development of skill acquisition and the resulting competence in performance (Green, 2000). However, this focus on competition within sport (is) can be contradictory to PE teacher’s slant towards hedonism. Many students dislike competitiveness and some even dislike sport in a ‘traditional’ sense (e.g. rugby, cricket, hockey etc.). This is particularly the case with girls (Green, 2001). The implication therefore appears that students can associate a distaste for something which PE teachers perceive as the very essence of their subject, something which they feel (is) should be enjoyable. Another justification for inclusion on the NC from a PE teacher’s perspective is the promotion of health related fitness. One could question whether one hour of PE a week has an effect upon a student’s fitness, but rather highlights the fact that PE lessons themselves do not endorse healthy living but create an association with physical activity which can be carried into life after school. This in turn develops a healthy lifestyle (Green, 2001, 2003). PE teachers see sport as the main conduit for endorsement of a healthy lifestyle (Green, 2000). However, it is important to note that it is an assumption that PE actually has an impact on students and therefore affects their behaviour later in life, although this is perhaps a rather logical assumption. Kirk (2002) suggests that there is little evidence to suggest that PE lessons in secondary schools actually successfully promote lifelong participation. Therefore, it is important to establish what PE teachers are doing, and can do, to reinforce their hedonistic approach to establish current and future healthy living (discussed later). The principal difference between teacher’s philosophies and philosophers philosophies is that teachers are frequently (somewhat) adamant their hedonistic approach is justification enough, where as, by contrast, philosophers are more inclined to persevere a more ‘orthodox’ educational justification. The implications of this statement being that PE teachers tend to feel a greater need to justify their position within the NC, and arguably this is justly so as they perhaps fail to acknowledge the perspective of some philosophers. It could therefore be argued that the philosophies of PE teachers are in fact more ideological in nature, as their attitudes towards justification within the NC, when compared to research by philosophers, are paradoxical. This may be due to the fact that PE teachers are more engaged than removed with their ideas (Green, 2001). Green has suggested that the implications are that these ideologies are suggested to have been formed by what they (the teachers) are accustomed to (i.e. learned practices). This may have stemmed from individual’s (e.g. their own PE teachers) and experiences that have influenced their belief. Green (2000 Pg 79) states that â€Å"It is somewhat unsurprising to find that PE teachers’ philosophies as well as their practices represent something of a compromise (Green, 2000, page 79) between these influences as they perhaps, in terms of opinions and view points, pull them in distinctly assorted directions.† However, Green (2000) does argue that some relationship is present, connecting both philosophers’ and PE teachers’ opinions, although this is perhaps more through coincidence than mindful analysis by PE teachers. The practical implication of this philosophy in this link can be seen in a more leisure-based PE programme. Sport England (2003) note that that the most frequently taught sport within schools is athletics. This is followed by gym, tennis, rounders, hockey and netball. It can be seen that these sports are consistent with the competitive team sports which PE teachers are accustomed to and with those sports in which many students are disinclined to participate (in). There is a stark contrast between this statement and a survey detailing of what sports students enjoy the most. You need to quote the source of this survey. These include basketball, badminton, swimming, cycling, roller skating and bowling (more ‘lifestyle activities’). As it stands, PE lessons are dominated by more ‘traditional’ sports. These appear to be the sports which students find less enjoyable. It is therefore contradictory of their hedonistic approach for teachers to persist with these spor ts. Promotion of lifelong participation is one of their (the teachers) justifications for position within the NC, and as it appears ‘carry over’ of these sports into adulthood is negligible, it would be illogical and contradictory to fail in the inclusion of more ‘lifestyle activities’, even if this goes against their ideologies. These activities are often carried out after school as extracurricular PE, as normal school time and budgets restrict the ability to run them. Fairclough, Stratton and Baldwin (2002) state that under 50% of schools offer lifestyle activities as extra-curricular PE. This is supported by Penny and Harris (1997, cited in Green, Smith and Roberts, 2005, page 28) who state that extra curricular PE is â€Å"more of the same†. This is being of reference again to ‘traditional games’ PE. It is clear that some teachers are taking (into) account of the (findings) beliefs of the philosophers that we have cited above. They understand the importance of ‘carry over’ into life after school as (this is) being best achieved through more ‘lifestyle’ activities. However, more is needed as only half of schools run these activities within their lessons or as extra curricular options. Ideally you need a reference to back up this statement So, it therefore appears that the implication of the thrust of these arguments is that the majority of PE teachers position enjoyment at the forefront of their lessons. This compliments Reid’s argument that PE is, and should continue to be, more hedonistic. A more leisure orientated education has developed, as suggested by McNamee, which runs parallel with, and encompasses, valued cultural practices philosophy (Green, 2003). (However), This is not always the case however, as some teachers are restricted to their ‘comfort zone’ in terms of what sports and activities their lessons include. This is seen in the findings of Sport England (2003) where only 50% of schools offer a more leisure based, ‘lifestyle’ option. By remaining within their ‘comfort zone’, teachers are contradicting their justification of NC status by pleasure, as many students do not enjoy more ‘traditional’ PE. (Moreover, their (the teachers)). Teachers may co nsider that another justification of life long participation is also challenged as those who fail to enjoy PE lessons are more inclined to sever ties with physical activity. In contrast, the view of Carr that PE should perhaps be dissected and analysed separately from the other aspects of the NC has implications that coincide with the view that teachers have formed of their subject. They (consider) regard it in a different way to other more overtly academic subjects, as it is more of a release of pressures from those other subjects. There are various philosophies and ideologies which have formed for, and have formed as a result of, the justification for NC status. This is a bold statement. Can you justify it? Some contradict one another, and some support each other. This is messy and nebulous. If you have a clear point you need to make it overtly. (However,) what is clear however, is that there is much debate on the subject, and a topic which demands so much deliberation must, in itself, justify its importance solely through the vastness and time spent on arguing its case. No. I don’t agree. It must justify itself on the strength of its arguments or the evidence base supporting it. The philosophical justification has nothing to do with the length of time spent arguing about it! This applies whether the argument is for or against NC inclusion. References Carr, J. (1997) Physical Education and Value Diversity: A Response to Andrew Reid. European Physical Education Review, 3(2), page 195-205. Fairclough, S., Stratton, G., and Baldwin, G. (2002) The Contribution of Secondary School Physical Education to Lifetime Physical Activity. European Physical Review, 8(1), page 69-84. Green, K. (2000) Exploring Everyday Philosophies of PE Teachers from a Sociological Perspective. Sport, Education and Society, 5(2). Green, K. (2001) Physical Education Teachers in their Figurations: A Sociological Analysis of Everyday ‘Philosophies’, Sport, Education and Society, 6(2). Green, K. (2003) Physical Education Teachers on Physical Education: A Sociological Study of Philosophies and Ideologies. Chester: Chester Academic Press. Green, K., Smith, A., and Roberts. (2005) Young People and Lifelong Participation in Sport and Physical Activity: A Sociological Perspective on Contemporary Physical Education Programmes in England and Wales. Leisure Studies, 24(1), page 27-43. Hirst, P. (1974) Knowledge and the Curriculum. London, Routledge, Kegan and Paul Hirst, P. (1992) Education, Knowledge and Practices. Papers of the Philosophy of Education Society of Great Britain, April 26-28. Hirst, P. (1994) Keynote Address, National Conference for Physical Education, Sport and Dance, Loughborough University, 1994. McNamee, M. (2005) The Nature and Value of Physical Education. in Green, K. and Hardiman, K. (Eds.) Physical Education: Essential Issues, page 1-20. London: Sage. Parry, J. (1998) The Justification of Physical Education. in Green, K. and Hardman, K. (Eds.) Physical Education: A Reader, page 36-68. Meyer and Meyer: Verlag. Penny, D. and Harris, J. (1997) Extra-curricular Physical Education: More of the Same for the More Able. Sport, Education and Society, 2(!), page 41-54. Peter, R.S. (1966) Ethics and Education, London, Allen and Unwin. Reid, A. (1997) Value Pluralism and Physical Education. European Physical Education Review. 3(3). Page 6-20 Reid, A. (1998) Knowledge, Practice and Theory in Physical Education. in Green, K. and Hardman, K. (Eds.) Physical Education: A Reader, page 17-35. Meyer and Meyer: Verlag. Sport England (2003) Young People and Sport in England: Trends in Participation 1994-2002. Sport England: London. Generally a good piece of work. I have made changes in grammar and syntax directly but have left some changes for your discretion. You must get out of the habit of starting paragraphs and sentences with adverbs!!! In commenting on this piece, I have tried to follow your own thought train and arguments which are largely sound, and have not tried to substantially alter the thrust of your submission. It is important to put in overt references to â€Å"the implications† of the various philosophies, as many of your comments are relevant but rather tangential and do not therefore directly relate to the question. You have spent a fair bit of time arguing that the NC is essentially pivotal in the justification of the various philosophical schema outlined and I’m not sure that the authors would actually agree with you. It is surely the viability or justification of the NC that is secondary to the philosophical outlines. You might want to reconsider some of your stronger statements on this point. The references that I have suggested that you include are:- Andy Clark (1996), Connectionism, Moral Cognition, and Collaborative Problem Solving, in May Friedman Clark (eds), Mind and Morals. Essays in Cognitive Science and Ethics, The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, pp.109-128. Pekka Elo Juha Savolainen (2000), Just Learning in Acta Philosophica Fennica vol. 65: New Ethics New Society or the Dawn of Justice, Hakapaino Oy, pp. 149-187. Savolainen J Elo P 2000 Philosophy Teaching As Cultural Heritage: From Bildung Und Urteilskraft To Communities Of Inquiry Bulletin of the Russian Philosophical Society (2000) Hoberman, J. (1992) Mortal Engines: The Science of Performance and the Dehumanization of Sport, New York: The Free Press Tà ¤nnsjà ¶, T. and Tamburrini, C. (Eds.) (2000) Values in Sport: Elitism, Nationalism, Gender Equality and the Scientific Manufacture of Winners, London: Routledge. I think you should do well with this as it is certainly well above the standard of many that I have seen. If you wanted to expand the arguments further you could move into the area of virtue theory as a philosophy and the implications for teaching which are huge Here is an extract from Lumpkin, A.; Stoll, S.K.; Beller, J.M. (1999) Sport Ethics: Applications for Fair Play, (second edition) Boston: McGraw Hill. In the recent past, there has been a revival of virtue theory in mainstream and applied ethics. This has usually taken the form of a resuscitation of Aristotle’s work. Here ethics is based upon good character and the good life will be lived by those who are in possession of a range of virtues such as courage, co-operativeness, sympathy, honesty, justice, reliability, and so on and the absence of vices such as cowardice, egoism, dishonesty, and so on. Sport’s traditional function as role modeller for youth is premised upon virtue theory. Russell Gough’s (1997) admirable book is a user-friendly application of virtue ethics in sports. This language has an immediate application in the contexts of sports in theory but in practice, spitefulness, violence, greed often characterise elite sports. Moreover, we often question the integrity of certain coaches or officials just as chastise players who deceive the officials Ref: Gough, R. (1997) Character is everything: promoting ethical excellence in sports, Orlando: Harcourt Brace.

Bag of Bones CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Ki lay fast asleep just as I had left her, on her side with the filthy little stuffed dog clutched under her jaw. It had put a smudge on her neck but I hadn't the heart to take it away from her. Beyond her and to the left, through the open bathroom door, I could hear the steady plink-plonk-plink of water falling from the faucet and into the tub. Cool air blew around me in a silky twist, caressing my cheeks, sending a not unpleasurable shiver up my back. In the living room Bunter's bell gave a dim little shake. Water's still warm, sugar, Sara whispered. Be her friend, be her daddy. Go on, now. Do what I want. Do what we both want. And I did want to, which had to be why Jo at first tried to keep me away from the TR and from Sara Laughs. Why she'd made a secret of her possible pregnancy, as well. It was as if I had discovered a vampire inside me, a creature with no interest in what it thought of as talk-show conscience and op-ed page morality. A part that wanted only to take Ki into the bathroom and dunk her into that tub of warm water and hold her under, watching the red-edged white ribbons shimmer the way Carla Dean's white dress and red stockings had shimmered while the woods burned all around her and her father. A part of me would be more than glad to pay the last installment on that old bill. ‘Dear God,' I muttered, and wiped my face with a shaking hand. ‘She knows so many tricks. And she's so fucking strong.' The bathroom door tried to swing shut against me before I could go through, but I pushed it open against hardly any resistance. The medicine-cabinet door banged back, and the glass shattered against the wall. The stuff inside flew out at me, but it wasn't a very dangerous attack; this time most of the missiles consisted of toothpaste tubes, toothbrushes, plastic bottles, and a few old Vick's inhalers. Faint, very faint, I could hear her shouting in frustration as I yanked the plug at the bottom of the tub and let the water start gurgling out. There had been enough drowning on the TR for one century, by God. And yet, for a moment I felt an incredibly strong urge to put the plug back in while the water was still deep enough to do the job. Instead I tore it off its chain and threw it down the hall. The medicine-cabinet door clapped shut again and the rest of the glass fell out. ‘How many have you had?' I asked her. ‘How many besides Carla Dean and Kerry Auster and our Kia? Two? Three? Five? How many do you need before you can rest?' All of them! the answer shot back. It wasn't just Sara's voice, either; it was my own, as well. She'd gotten into me, had snuck in by way of the basement like a burglar . . . and already I was thinking that even if the tub was empty and the water-pump temporarily dead, there was always the lake. All of them! the voice cried again. All of them, sugar! Of course only all of them would do. Until then there would be no rest for Sara Laughs. ‘I'll help you to rest,' I said. ‘That I promise.' The last of the water swirled away . . . but there was always the lake, always the lake if I changed my mind. I left the bathroom and looked in on Ki again. She hadn't moved, the sensation that Sara was in here with me had gone, Bunter's bell was quiet . . . and yet I felt uneasy, unwilling to leave her alone. I had to, though, if I was to finish my work, and I would do well not to linger. County and State cops would be along eventually, storm or no storm, downed trees or no downed trees. Yes, but . . . I stepped into the hall and looked uneasily around. Thunder boomed, but it was losing some of its urgency. So was the wind. What wasn't fading was the sense of something watching me, something that was not-Sara. I stood where I was a moment or two longer, trying to tell myself it was just the sizzle of my overcooked nerves, then walked down the hall to the entry. I opened the door to the stoop . . . then looked around again sharply, as if expecting to see someone or something lurking behind the far end of the bookcase. A Shape, perhaps. Something that still wanted its dust-catcher. But I was the only Shape left, at least in this part of the world, and the only movement I saw was ripple-shadows thrown by the rain rolling down the windows. It was still coming down hard enough to redrench me as I crossed my stoop to the driveway, but I paid no attention. I had just been with a little girl when she drowned, had damned near drowned myself not so long ago, and the rain wasn't going to stop me from doing what I had to do. I picked up the fallen branch which had dented the roof of my car, tossed it aside, and opened the Chevy's rear door. The things I'd bought at Slips ‘n Greens were still sitting on the back seat, still tucked into the cloth carry-handle bag Lila Proulx had given me. The trowel and the pruning knife were visible, but the third item was in a plastic sack. Want this one in a special bag? Lila had asked me. Always sa]b, never sorry. And later, as I was leaving, she had spoken of Kenny's dog Blueberry chasing seagulls and had given out with a big, hearty laugh. Her eyes hadn't laughed, though. Maybe that's how you tell the Martians from the Earthlings the Martians can never laugh with their eyes. I saw Rommie and George's present lying on the front seat: the Stenomask I'd at first mistaken for Devore's oxygen mask. The boys in the basement spoke up then murmured, at least and I leaned over the seat to grab the mask by its elastic strap without the slightest idea of why I was doing so. I dropped it into the carry-bag, slammed the car door, then started down the railroad-tie steps to the lake. On the way I paused to duck under the deck, where we had always kept a few tools. There was no pick, but I grabbed a spade that looked up to a piece of gravedigging. Then, for what I thought would be the last time, I followed the course of my dream down to The Street. I didn't need Jo to show me the spot; the Green Lady had been pointing to it all along. Even had she not been, and even if Sara Tidwell did not still stink to the heavens, I think I would have known. I think I would have been led there by my own haunted heart. There was a man standing between me and the place where the gray forehead of rock guarded the path, and as I paused on the last railroad tie, he hailed me in a rasping voice that I knew all too well. ‘Say there, whoremaster, where's your whore?' He stood on The Street in the pouring rain, but his cutters' outfit green flannel pants, checked wool shirt and his faded blue Union Army cap were dry, because the rain was falling through him rather than on him. He looked solid but he was no more real than Sara herself. I reminded myself of this as I stepped down onto the path to face him, but my heart continued to speed up, thudding in my chest like a padded hammer. He was dressed in Jared Devore's clothes, but this wasn't Jared Devore. This was Jared's great-grandson Max, who had begun his career with an act of sled-theft and ended it in suicide . . . but not before arranging for the murder of his daughter-in-law, who'd had the temerity to refuse him what he had so dearly wanted. I started toward him and he moved to the center of the path to block me. I could feel the cold baking off him. I am saying exactly what I mean, expressing what I remember as clearly as I can: I could feel the cold baking off him. And yes, it was Max Devore all right, but got up like a logger at a costume party and looking the way he must have around the time his son Lance was born. Old but hale. The sort of man younger men might well look up to. And now, as if the thought had called them, I could see the rest shimmer into faint being behind him, standing in a line across the path. These were the ones who had been with Jared at the Fryeburg Fair, and now I knew who some of them were. Fred Dean, of course, only nineteen years old in '01, the drowning of his daughter still over thirty years away. And the one who had reminded me of myself was Harry Auster, the firstborn of my great-grandfather's sister. He would have been sixteen, barely old enough to raise a fuzz but old enough to work in the woods with Jared. Old enough to shit in the same pit as Jared. To mistake Jared's poison for wisdom. One of the others twisted his head and squinted at the same time I'd seen that tic before. Where? Then it came to me: in the Lake-view General. This young man was the late Royce Merrill's father. The others I didn't know. Nor did I care to. ‘You ain't a-passing by us,' Devore said. He held up both hands. ‘Don't even think about trying. Am I right, boys?' They murmured growling agreement the sort you could hear coming from any present-day gang of headbangers or taggers, I imagine but their voices were distant; actually more sad than menacing. There was some substance to the man in Jared Devore's clothes, perhaps because in life he had been a man of enormous vitality, perhaps because he was so recently dead, but the others were little more than projected images. I started forward, moving into that baking cold, moving into the smell of him the same invalid odors which had surrounded him when I'd met him here before. ‘Where do you think you're going?' he cried. ‘For a constitutional,' I said. ‘And no law against it. The Street's the place where good pups and vile dogs can walk side-by-side. You said so yourself.' ‘You don't understand,' Max-Jared said. ‘You never will. You're not of that world. That was our world.' I stopped, looking at him curiously. Time was short, I wanted to be done with this . . . but I had to know, and I thought Devore was ready to tell me. ‘Make me understand,' I said. ‘Convince me that any world was your world.' I looked at him, then at the flickering, translucent figures behind him, gauze flesh heaped on shining bones. ‘Tell me what you did.' ‘It was all different then,' Devore said. ‘When you come down here, Noonan, you might walk all three miles north to Halo Bay and see only a dozen people on The Street. After Labor Day you might not see any one at all. This side of the lake you have to walk through the bushes that are growing up wild and around the fallen trees there'll be even more of em after this storm and even a deadfall or two because nowadays the townfolk don't club together to keep it neat the way they used to. But in our time ! The woods were bigger then, Noonan, distances were farther to go, and neighboring meant something. Life itself, often enough. Back then this really was a street. Can you see?' I could. If I looked through the phantom shapes of Fred Dean and Harry Auster and the others, I could. They weren't just ghosts; they were shimmerglass windows on another age. I saw a summer afternoon in the year of . . . 1898? Perhaps 1902? 1907? Doesn't matter. This is a period when all time seems the same, as if time had stopped. This is a time the old-timers remember as a kind of golden age. It is the Land of Ago, the Kingdom of When-I-Was-a-Boy. The sun washes everything with the fine gold light of endless late July; the lake is as blue as a dream, netted with a billion sparks of reflected light. And The Street! It is as smoothly grassed as a lawn and as broad as a boulevard. It is a boulevard, I see, a place where the community fully realizes itself. It is the main conduit of communication, the chief cable in a township criss-crossed with them. I'd felt the existence of these cables all along even when Jo was alive I felt them under the surface, and here is their point of origin. Folks promenade on The Street, all up and down the east side of Dark Score Lake they promenade in little groups, laughing and conversing under a cloud-stacked summer sky, and t his is where the cables all begin. I look and realize how wrong I have been to think of them as Martians, as cruel and calculating aliens. East of their sunny promenade looms the darkness of the woods, glades and hollows where any miserable thing may await, from a hot lopped off in a logging accident to a birth gone wrong and a young mother dead before the doctor can arrive from Castle Rock in his buggy. These are people with no electricity, no phones, no County Rescue Unit, no one to rely upon but each other and a God some of them have already begun to mistrust. They live in the woods and the shadows of the woods, but on fine summer afternoons they come to the edge of the lake. They come to The Street and look in each other's faces and laugh together and then they are truly on the TR in what I have come to think of as the zone. They are not Martians,' they are little lives dwelling on the edge of the dark, that's all. I see summer people from Warrington's, the men dressed in white flannels, two women in long tennis dresses still carrying their rackets. A fellow riding a tricycle with an enormous front wheel weaves shakily among them. The party of summer fo1k has stopped to talk with a group of young men from town; the fellows from away want to know if they can play in the townies' baseball game at Warrington's on Tuesday night. Ben Merrill, Royce's father-to-be, says Ayuh, but we won't go easy on ya just cause you're from N'Yawk. The young men laugh; so do the tennis girls. A little farther on, two boys are playing catch with the sort of raw homemade baseball that is known as a horsey. Beyond them is a convention of young mothers, talking earnestly of their babies, all safely prammed and gathered in their own group. Men in overalls discuss weather and crops, politics and crops, taxes and crops. A teacher from the Consolidated High sits on the gray stone forehead I know so well, patiently tutoring a sullen boy who wants to be somewhere else and doing anything else. I think the boy will grow up to be Buddy Jellison's father. Horn broken watch for finger, I think. All along The Street folks are fishing, and they are catching plenty; the lake fairly teems with bass and trout and pickerel. An artist another summer fellow, judging from his smock and nancy beret has set up his easel and is painting the mountains while two ladies watch respectfully. A giggle of girls passes, whispering about boys and clothes and school. There is beauty here, and peace. Devore' s right to say this is a world I never knew. It's ‘Beautiful,' I said, pulling myself back with an effort. ‘Yes, I see that. But what's your point?' ‘My point?' Devore looked almost comically surprised. ‘She thought she could walk there like everyone else, that's the fucking point! She thought she could walk there like a white gal! Her and her big teeth and her big tits and her snotty looks. She thought she was something special, but we taught her different. She tried to walk me down and when she couldn't do that she put her filthy hands on me and tumped me over. But that was all right; we taught her her manners. Didn't we, boys?' They growled agreement, but I thought some of them young Harry Auster, for one looked sick. ‘We taught her her place,' Devore said. ‘We taught her she wasn't nothing but a nigger. This is the word he uses over and over again when they are in the woods that summer, the summer of1901, the summer that Sara and the Red-bps become the musical act to see in this part of the world. She and her brother and their whole nigger family have been invited to Warrington's to play for the summer people,' they have been rid on champagne and ersters . . . or so says Jared Devore to his little school of devoted followers as they eat their own plain lunches of bread and meat and salted cucumbers out of lard-buckets given to them by their mothers (none of the young men are married, although Oren Peebles is engaged). Yet it isn't her growing renown that upsets Jared Devore. It isn't the fact that she has been to Warrington's; it don't cross his eyes none that she and that brother of hers have actually sat down and eaten with white folks, taken bread join the same bowl as them with their blacknigger fingers. The folks at Warrington's are flatlanders, after all, and Devore tells the silent, attentive young men that he's heard that in places like New York and Chicago white women sometimes even fuck blackniggers. Naw! Harry Auster says, looking around nervously, as if he expected a few white women to come tripping through the woods way out here on Bowie Ridge. No white woman'd fuck a nigger! Shoot a pickle! Devore only gives him a look, the kind that says When you're my age. Besides, he doesn't care what goes on in New York and Chicago; he saw all the flatland he wanted to during the Civil War . . . and, he will tell you, he never fought that war to free the damned slaves. They can keep slaves down there in the land of cotton until the end of the eternity, as far as Jared Lancelot Devore is concerned. No, he fought in the war to teach those cracker sons of bitches south of Mason and Dixon that you don't pull out of the game just because you don't like some of the rules. He went down to scratch the scab off the end of old Johnny Reb's nose. Tried to leave the United States of America, they had! The Lord! No, he doesn't care about slaves and he doesn't care about the land of cotton and he doesn't care about blackniggers who sing dirty songs and then get treated to champagne and ersters (Jared always says oysters in just that sarcastic way) in payment for their smut. He doesn't care about anything so long as they keep in their place and let him keep in his. But she won't do it. The uppity bitch will not do it. She has been warned to stay off The Street, but she will not listen. She goes anyway, walking along in her white dress just as if there was a white person inside it, sometimes with her son, who has a blacknigger African name and no daddy his daddy probably just spent the one night with his mommy in a haystack somewhere down Alabama and now she walks around with the get of that just as bold as a brass monkey. She walks The Street as if she has a right to be there, even though not a soul will talk to her ‘But that's not true, is it?' I asked Devore. ‘That's what really stuck in old great-granddaddy's craw, wasn't it? They did talk to her. She had a way about her that laugh, maybe. Men talked to her about crops and the women showed off their babies. In fact they gave her their babies to hold and when she laughed down at them, they laughed back up at her. The girls asked her advice about boys. The boys . . . they just looked. But how they looked, huh? They filled up their eyes, and I expect most of them thought about her when they went out to the privy and filled up their palms.' Devore glowered. He was aging in front of me, the lines drawing themselves deeper and deeper into his face; he was becoming the man who had knocked me into the lake because he couldn't bear to be crossed. And as he grew older he began to fade. ‘That was what Jared hated most of all, wasn't it? That they didn't turn aside, didn't turn away. She walked on The Street and no one treated her like a nigger. They treated her like a neighbor.' I was in the zone, deeper in than I'd ever been, down where the town's unconscious seemed to run like a buried river. I could drink from that river while I was in the zone, could fill my mouth and throat and belly with its cold minerally taste. All that summer Devore had talked to them. They were more than his crew, they were his boys: Fred and Harry and Ben and Oren and George Armbruster and Draper Finney, who would break his neck and drown the next summer trying to dive into Eades Quarry while he was drunk. Only it was the sort of accident that's kind of on purpose. Draper Finney drank a lot between July of 1901 and August of 1902, because it was the only way he could sleep. The only way he could get the hand out of his mind, that hand sticking straight out of the water, clenching and unclenching until you wanted to scream Won't it stop, won't it ever stop doing that. All summer long Jared Devore filled their ears with nigger bitch and uppity bitch. All summer long he told them about their responsibility as men, their duty to keep the community pure, and how they must see what others didn't and do what others wouldn't. It was a Sunday afternoon in August, a time when traffic along The Street dropped steeply. Later on, by five or so, things would begin to pick up again, and from six to sunset the broad path along the lake would be thronged. But three in the afternoon was Low tide. The Methodists were back in session over in Harlow for their afternoon Song Service; at Warrington's the assembled company of vacationing flatlanders was sitting down to a heavy mid-afternoon Sabbath meal of roast chicken or ham; all over the township families were addressing their own Sunday dinners. Those who had already finished were snoozing through the heat of the day in a hammock, wherever possible. Sara liked this quiet time. Loved it, really. She had spent a great deal of her life on carny midways and in smoky gin-joints, shouting out her songs in order to be heard above the voices of redfaced, unruly drunks, and while part of her loved the excitement and unpredictability of that life, part of her loved the sereni ty of this one, too. The peace of these walks. She wasn't getting any younger, after all; she had a kid who had now left purt near all his babyhood behind him. On that particular Sunday she must have thought The Street almost too quiet. She walked a mile south from the meadow without seeing a soul even Kito was gone by then, having stopped off to pick berries. It was as if the whole township were deserted. She knows there's an Eastern Star supper in Kashwakamak, of course, has even contributed a mushroom pie to it because she has made friends of some of the Eastern Star ladies. They'll all be down there getting ready. What she doesn't know is that today is also Dedication Day for the new Grace Baptist Church, the first real church ever to be built on the TR. A slug of locals have gone, heathen as well as Baptist. Faintly, from the other side of the lake, she can hear the Methodists singing. The sound is sweet and faint and beautiful,' distance and echo has tuned every sour voice. She isn't aware of the men most of them very young men, the kind who under ordinary circumstances dare only look at her from the corners of their eyes until the oldest one among them speaks. ‘Wellnow, a black whore in a white dress and a red belt! Damn if that ain't just a little too much color for lakeside. What's wrong with you, whore? Can't you take a hint?' She turns toward him, afraid but not showing it. She has lived thirty-six years on this earth, has known what a man has and where he wants to put it since she was eleven, and she understands that when men are together like this and full of redeye (she can smell it), they give up thinking for themselves and turn into a pack of dogs. If you show fear they will fall on you like dogs and likely tear you apart like dogs. Also, they have been laying for her. There can be no other explanation for them turning up like this. ‘What hint is that, sugar?' she asks, standing her ground. Where is everyone? Where can they all be? God damn! Across the lake, the Methodists have moved on to ‘Trust and Obey,' a droner if there ever was one. ‘That you ain't got no business walking where the white folks walk,' Harry Auster says. His adolescent voice breaks into a kind of mouse-squeak on the last word and she laughs. She knows how unwise that is, but she can't help it she's never been able to help her laughter, any more than she's ever been able to help the way men like this look at her breasts and bottom. Blame it on God. ‘Why, I walk where I do,' she says. ‘I was told this was common ground, ain't nobody got a right to keep me out. Ain't nobody has. You seen em doin it?' ‘You see us now,' George Armbruster says, trying to sound tough. Sara looks at him with a species of kindly contempt that makes George shrivel up inside. His cheeks glow hot red. ‘Son,' she says, ‘you only come out now because the decent folks is all somewhere else. Why do you want to let this old fella tell you what to do? Act decent and let a lady walk.' I see it all. As Devore fades and fades, at last becoming nothing but eyes under a blue cap in the rainy afternoon (through him I can see the shattered remains of my swimming float washing against the embankment), I see it all. I see her as she starts forward, walking straight at Devore. If she stands here jawing with them, something bad is going to happen. She feels it, and she never questions her tidings. And if she walks at any of the others, ole massa'll bore in on her from the side, pulling the rest after. Ole massa in the little ole blue cap is the wheeldog, the one she must face down. She can do it, too. He's strong, strong enough to make these boys one creature, his creature, at least for the time being, but he doesn't have her force, her determination, her energy. In a way she welcomes this confrontation. Reg has warned her to be careful, not to move too fast or try to make real friends until the rednecks (only Reggie calls them ‘the bull gators') show themselves how many and how crazy but she goes her own course, trusts her own deep instincts. And here they are, only seven of em, and really just the one bull gator. I'm stronger than you, ole massa, she thinks, walking toward him. She fixes her eyes on his and will not let them drop,' his are the ones that drop, his the mouth that quivers uncertainly at one corner, his the tongue that comes out as quick as a lizard's tongue to wet the lips, and all that's good . . . but even better is when he falls back a step. When he does that the rest of them cluster in two groups of three, and there it is, her way through. Faint and sweet are the Methodists, faithy music carrying across the lake's still surface. A droner of a hymn, yes, but sweet across the miles. When we walk with the Lord in the light of His word, what a glory He sheds on our way . . . I'm stronger than you, sugar, she sends, I'm meaner than you, you may be the bull gator but I'm the queen bee and if you don't want me stingin on you, you best clear me the rest of my path. ‘You bitch,' he says, but his voice is weak; he is already thinking this isn't the day, there's something about her he didn't quite see until he saw her right up close, some blacknigger hougan he didn't feel until now, better wait for another day, better Then he trips over a root or a rock (perhaps it's the very rock behind which she will finally come to rest) and falls down. His cap falls off, showing the big old bald spot on top of his head. His pants split all the way up the seam. And Sara makes a crucial mistake. Perhaps she underestimates Jared Devore's own very considerable personal force, or perhaps she just cannot help herself the sound of his britches ripping is like a loud fart. In any case she laughs that raucous, smoke-broken laugh which is her trademark. And her laugh becomes her doom. Devore doesn't think. He simply gives her the leather from where he lies, big feet in pegged loggers' boots shooting out like pistons. He hits her where she is thinnest and most vulnerable, in the ankles. She hollers in shocked pain as the left one breaks,' she goes down in a tumble, losing her furled parasol out of one hand. She draws in breath to scream again and Jared says from where he is lying, ‘Don't let her! Dassn't let her holler!' Ben Merrill falls on top of her full-length, all one hundred and ninety pounds of him. The breath she has drawn to scream with whooshes out in a gusty, almost silent sigh instead. Ben, who has never even danced with a woman, let alone lain on top of one like this, is instantly excited by the el of her struggling beneath him. He wriggles against her, laughing, and when she rakes her nails down his cheek he barely feels it. The way it seems to him, he's all cock and a yard long. When she tries to roll over and get out from under that way, he rolls with her, lets her be on top, and he is totally surprised when she drives her forehead down on his. He sees stars, but he is eighteen years old, as strong as he will ever be, and he loses neither consciousness nor his erection. Oren Peebles tears away the back of her dress, laughing. ‘Pig-pile!' he cries in a breathy little whisper, and drops on top of her. Now he is dry-humping her topside and Ben is dry-humping just as enthusiastically from underneath, dry-humping like a billygoat even with the blood pouring down the sides of his head from the split in the center of his brow, and she knows that if she can't scream she is lost. If she can scream and if Kito hears, he'll run and get help, run and get Reg But before she can try again, ole massa is squatting beside her and showing her a long-bladed knife. ‘Make a sound and I'll cut your nose off,' he says, and that's when she gives up. They have brought her down after all, partly because she laughed at the wrong time, mostly out of pure buggardly bad luck. Now they will not be stopped, and best that Kito should stay away please God keep him back where he was, it was a good patch of berries, one that should keep him occupied an hour or more. He loves berry-picking, and it won't take these men an hour. Harry Auster yanks her hair back, tears her dress off one shoulder, and begins to sucker on her neck. Ole massa the only one not at her. Old massa standing back, looking both ways along The Street, his eyes slitted and wary; old massa look like a mangy timber-wolf done eaten a whole generation of chickenhouse chickens while managing to avoid every trap and snare. ‘Hey Irish, quit on her a minute,' he tells Harry, then widens his wise gaze to the others. ‘Get her in the puckies, you damn fools. Get her in there deep.' They don't. They can't. They are too eager to have her. They arm-yank her behind the forehead of gray rock and call it good. She doesn't pray easily but she prays now. She prays for them to let her live. She prays for Kito to stay clear, to keep filling his bucket slow by eating every third handful. She prays that if he does take a notion to catch up with her, he will see what's happening and run the other way as fast as he can, run silent and get Reg. ‘Stick this in your mouth,' George Armbruster pants. ‘And don't you bite me, you bitch.' They take her top and bottom, back and front, two and three at a time. They take her where anybody coming along can't help but see them, and ole massa stands off a little, looking first at the panting young men grouped around her, kneeling with their trousers down and their thighs scratched from the bushes they are kneeling in, then he peers up and down the path with his wild and wary eyes. Incredibly, one of them it is Fred Dean says ‘Sorry, ma'am' after he's shot his load feels like halfway up to east bejeezus. It's as if he accidentally kicked her in the shin while crossing his legs. And it doesn't end. There's come down her throat, come running down the crack of her ass, the young one has bitten the blood right out of her left breast, and it doesn't end. They are young, and by the time the last one has finished, the first one, oh God, the first one is ready again. Across the river the Methodists are now singing ‘Blessed Assurance, Jesus Is Mine' and as ole massa approaches her she thinks, It's almost over, woman, he the last, hold on hold steady and it be over. He looks at the skinny redhead and the one who keeps squinching his eye up and tossing his head and tells them to watch the path, he's going to take his turn now that she's broke in. He unbuckles his belt, he unbuttons his flies, he pushes down his underwear dirty black at the knees and dirty yellow at the crotch-and as he drops a knee on either side of her she sees that ole massa' s little massa is just as floppy as a snake with its neck broke and before she can stop it, that raucous laugh bursts all unexpected from her again even lying here covered with the hot jelly spend of her rapists, she can't help but see the funny side. ‘Shut up!' Devore growls at her, and smashes the heel of one hard hand across her face, breaking her cheekbone and her nose. ‘Shut up that howling!' ‘Reckon it might get stiffer if it was one of your boys layin here with his rosy red ass stuck up in the air, sugar?' she asks, and then, For the last time, Sara laughs. Devore draws his hand back to hit her again, his naked loins lying against her naked loins, his penis a flaccid worm between them. But before he can bring the hand down a child's voice cries, ‘Ma! What they doin to you, Ma? Git off my mama, you bastards!' She sits up in spite of Devore's weight, her laughter dying, her wide eyes searching Kito out and finding him, a slim young boy of eight standing on The Street, dressed in overalls and a straw hat and brand-new canvas shoes, carrying a tin bucket in one hand. His lips are blue with juice. His eyes are wide with confusion and fright. ‘Run, Kito!' she screams. ‘Run away h ‘ Red fire explodes in her head,' she swoons back into the bushes, hearing ole massa from a great distance: ‘Get him. Dassn't let him ramble, now.' Then she's going down a long dark slope, she's lost in a Ghost House corridor that leads only deeper and deeper into its own convoluted bowels,' from that deep falling place she hears him, she hears, her darling one, he is screaming. I heard him screaming as I knelt by the gray rock with my carry-bag beside me and no idea how I'd gotten to where I was I certainly had no memory of walking here. I was crying in shock and horror and pity. Was she crazy? Well, no wonder. No fucking wonder. The rain was steady but no longer apocalyptic. I stared at my fishy-white hands on the gray rock for a few seconds, then looked around. Devore and the others were gone. The ripe and gassy stench of decay filled my nose it was like a physical assault. I fumbled in the carry-bag, found the Stenomask Rommie and George had given me as a joke, and slipped it over my mouth and nose with fingers that felt numb and distant. I breathed shallowly and tentatively. Better. Not a lot, but enough to keep from fleeing, which was undoubtedly what she wanted. ‘No!' she cried from somewhere behind me as I grabbed the spade and dug in. I tore a great mouth in the ground with the first swipe, and each subsequent one deepened and widened it. The earth was soft and yielding, woven through with mats of thin roots which parted easily under the blade. ‘No! Don't you dare!' I wouldn't look around, wouldn't give her a chance to push me away. She was stronger down here, perhaps because it had happened here. Was that possible? I didn't know and didn't care. All I cared about was getting this done. Where the roots were thicker, I hacked through them with the pruning knife. ‘Leave me be!' Now I did look around, risked one quick glance because of the unnatural crackling sounds which had accompanied her voice which now seemed to make her voice. The Green Lady was gone. The birch had somehow become Sara Tidwell: it was Sara's face growing out of the criss-crossing branches and shiny leaves. That rain-slicked face swayed, dissolved, came together, melted away, came together again. For a moment all the mystery I had sensed down here was revealed. Her damp shifting eyes were utterly human. They stared at me with hate and supplication. ‘I ain't done!' she cried in a cracked, breaking voice. ‘He was the worst, don't you understand? He was the worst and it's his blood in her and I won't rest until I have it out!' There was a gruesome ripping sound. She had inhabited the birch, made it into a physical body of some sort and intended to tear it free of the earth. She would come and get me with it if she could; kill me with it if she could. Strangle me in limber branches. Stuff me with leaves until I looked like a Christmas decoration. ‘No matter how much of a monster he was, Kyra had nothing to do with what he did,' I said. ‘And you won't have her.' ‘Yes I will!' the Green Lady screamed. The ripping, rending sounds were louder now. They were joined by a hissing, shaky crackle. I didn't look around again. I didn't dare look around. I dug faster instead. ‘Yes I will have her!' she cried, and now the voice was closer. She was coming for me but I refused to see; when it comes to walking trees and bushes, I'll stick to Macbeth, thanks. ‘I will have her! He took mine and I mean to take his!' ‘Go away,' a new voice said. The spade loosened in my hands, almost fell. I turned and saw Jo standing below me and to my right. She was looking at Sara, who had materialized into a lunatic's hallucination a monstrous greenish-black thing that slipped with every step it tried to walk along The Street. She had left the birch behind yet assumed its vitality somehow the actual tree huddled behind her, black and shrivelled and dead. The creature born of it looked like the Bride of Frankenstein as sculpted by Picasso. In it, Sara's face came and went, came and went. The Shape, I thought coldly. It was always real . . . and if it was always me, it was always her, too. Jo was dressed in the white shirt and yellow slacks she'd had on the day she died. I couldn't see the lake through her as I had been able to see it through Devore and Devore's young friends; she had materialized herself completely. I felt a curious draining sensation at the back of my skull and thought I knew how. ‘Git out, bitch!' the Sara-thing snarled. It raised its arms toward Jo as it had raised them to me in my worst nightmares. ‘Not at all.' Jo's voice remained calm. She turned toward me. ‘Hurry, Mike. You have to be quick. It's not really her anymore. She's let one of the Outsiders in, and they're very dangerous.' ‘Jo, I love you.' ‘I love you t ‘ Sara shrieked and then began to spin. Leaves and branches blurred together and lost coherence; it was like watching something liquefy in a blender. The entity which had only looked a little like a woman to begin with now dropped its masquerade entirely. Something elemental and grotesquely inhuman began to form out of the maelstrom. It leaped at my wife. When it struck her, the color and solidity left Jo as if slapped away by a huge hand. She became a phantom struggling with the thing which raved and shrieked and clawed at her. ‘Hurry, Mike!' she screamed. ‘Hurry!' I bent to the job. The spade struck something that wasn't dirt, wasn't stone, wasn't wood. I scraped along it, revealing a filthy mold-crusted swatch of canvas. Now I dug like a madman, wanting to clear as much of the buried object as I could, wanting to fatten my chances of success as much as I could. Behind me, the Shape screamed in fury and my wife screamed in pain. Sara had given up part of her discorporate self in order to gain her revenge, had let in something Jo called an Outsider. I had no idea what that might be and never wanted to know. Sara was its conduit, I knew that much. And if I could take care of her in time I reached into the dripping hole, slapping wet earth from the ancient canvas. Faint stencilled letters appeared when I did: J.M. MCCURDIE SAWMILL. Mccurdie's had burned in the fires of '33, I knew. I'd seen a picture of it in flames somewhere. As I seized the canvas, the tips of my fingers punching through and letting out a fresh billow of green and gassy stench, I could hear grunting. I could hear Devore. He's lying on top of her and grunting like a pig. Sara is semiconscious, muttering unintelligibly through bruised lips which are shiny with blood. Devore is looking back over his shoulder at Draper Finney and Fred Dean. They have raced after the boy and brought him back, but he won't stop yelling, he's yelling to beat the band, yelling to wake the dead, and if they can hear the Methodists singing ‘How I Love to Tell the Story' over here, then they may be able to hear the yowling nigger over there. Devore says ‘Put him in the water, shut him up.' The minute he says it, as though the words are magic words, his cock begins to stiffen. ‘What do you mean?' Ben Merrill asks. ‘You know goddam well,' Jared says. He pants the words out, jerking his hips as he speaks. His narrow ass gleams in the afternoon light. ‘He seen us! You want to cut his throat, get his blood all over you? Fine by me. Here. Take my knife, be my guest!' ‘N-No, Jared!' Ben cries in horror, actually seeming to cringe at the sight of the knife. He is finally ready. It takes him a little longer, that's all, he ain't a kid like these other ones. But now ! Never mind her smart mouth, never mind her insolent way of laughing, never mind the whole township. Let them all show up and watch if they like. He slips it to her, what she's wanted all along, what all her kind want. He slips it in and sinks it deep. He continues giving orders even as he rapes her. Up and down his ass goes, tick-tock, just like a cat's tail. ‘Somebody take care of him! Or do you want to spend forty years rotting in Shawshank because of a nigger boy's tattle?' Ben seizes one of Kito Tidwell's arms, Oren Peebles the other, but by the time they have dragged him as far as the embankment they have lost their heart. Raping an uppity nigger woman with the gall to laugh at Jared when he fell down and split his britches is one thing. Drowning a scared kid like a kitten in a mud-puddle . . . that's another one altogether. They loosen their grip, staring into each other's haunted eyes, and Kito pulls free. ‘Run, honey!' Sara cries. ‘Run away and get ‘Jared clamps his hands around her throat and begins choking. The boy trips over his own berry bucket and thumps gracelessly to the ground. Harry and Draper recapture him easily. ‘What you going to do? ‘ Draper asks in a kind of desperate whine, and Harry replies ‘What I have to.' That's what he replied, and now I was going to do what I had to in spite of the stench, in spite of Sara, in spite of my dead wife's shrieks. I hauled the roll of canvas out of the ground. The ropes which had tied it shut at either end held, but the roll itself split down the middle with a hideous burping sound. ‘Hurry!' Jo cried. ‘I can't hold it much longer!' It snarled; it bayed like a dog. There was a loud wooden crunch, like a door being slammed hard enough to splinter, and Jo wailed. I grabbed for the carry-bag with Slips ‘n Greens printed on the front and tore it open as Harry the others call him Irish because of his carrot-colored hair grabs the struggling kid in a clumsy kind of bearhug and jumps into the lake with him. The kid struggles harder than ever,' his straw hat comes off and floats on the water. ‘Get that!' Harry pants. Fred Dean kneels and fishes out the dripping hat. Fred's eyes are dazed, he's got the look of a fighter about one round from hitting the canvas. Behind them Sara Tidwell has begun to rattle deep in her chest and throat like the sight of the boy's clenching hand, these sounds will haunt Draper Finney until his final dive into Eades Quarry. Jared sinks his fingers deeper, pumping and choking at the same time, the sweat pouring off him. No amount of washing will take the smell of that sweat out of these clothes, and when he begins to think of it as ‘murder-sweat,' he burns the clothes to get shed of it. Harry Auster wants to be shed of it all to be shed of it and never see these men again, most of all Jared Devore, who he now thinks must be Lord Satan himself. Harry cannot go home and face his father unless this nightmare is over, buried. And his mother! How can he ever face his beloved mother, Bridget Auster with her round sweet Irish face and graying hair and comforting shelf of bosom, Bridget who has always had a kind word or a soothing handler him, Bridget Auster who has been Saved, shed in the Blood of the Lamb, Bridget Auster who is even now serving pies at the picnic they're having at the new church, Bridget Auster who is mamma; how can he ever look at her again or she him if he has to stand in court on a charge of raping and beating a woman, even a black woman? So he yanks the clinging boy away Kito scratches him once, just a nick on the side of the neck, and that night Harry will tell his mamma it was a bush-pricker that caught him unawares and he will let her put a kiss on it and then he plunges the child into the lake. Kito looks up at him, his face shimmering, and Harry sees a little fish flick by. A perch, he thinks. For an instant he wonders what the boy must see, looking up through the silver shield of the surface at the face of the fellow who's holding him down, the fellow who's drowning him, and then Harry pushes that away. Just a nigger, he reminds himself desperately. That's all he is, just a nigger. No kin of yours. Kito's arm comes out of the water his dripping dark-brown arm. Harry pulls back, not wanting to be clawed, but the hand doesn't reach for him, only sticks straight up. The fingers curl into a fist. Open. Curl into a fist. Open. Curl into a fist. The boy's thrashing begins to ease, the kicking feet begin to slow down, the eyes looking up into Harry's eyes are taking on a curiously dreamy look, and still that brown arm sticks straight up, still the hand opens and closes, opens and closes. Draper Finney stands on the shore crying, sure that now someone will come along, now someone will see the terrible thing they have done the terrible thing they are in fact still doing. Be sure your sin will find you out, it says in the Good Book. Be sure. He opens his mouth to tell Harry to quit, maybe it's still not too late to take it back, let him up, let him live, but no sound comes out. Behind him Sara is choking her last. In front of him her drowning son's hand opens and closes, opens and clos es, the reflection of it shimmering on the water, and Draper thinks Won't it stop doing that, won't it ever stop doing that? And as if it were a prayer that something is now answering, the boy's locked elbow begins to bend and his arm begins to sag; the fingers begin to close again into a fist and then stop. For a moment the hand wavers and then I slammed the heel of my hand into the center of my forehead to clear these phantoms away. Behind me there was a frenzied snap and crackle of wet bushes as Jo and whatever she was holding back continued to struggle. I put my hands inside the split in the canvas like a doctor spreading a wound. I yanked. There was a low ripping sound as the roll tore the rest of the way up and down. Inside was what remained of them two yellowed skulls, forehead to forehead as if in intimate conversation, a woman's faded red leather belt, a molder of clothes . . . and a heap of bones. Two ribcages, one large and one small. Two sets of legs, one long and one short. The early remains of Sara and Kito Tidwell, buried here by the lake for almost a hundred years. The larger of the two skulls turned. It glared at me with its empty eyesockets. Its teeth chattered as if it would bite me, and the bones below it began a tenebrous, jittery stirring. Some broke apart immediately; all were soft and pitted. The red belt stirred restlessly and the rusty buckle rose like the head of a snake. ‘Mike!' Jo screamed. ‘Quick, quick!' I pulled the sack out of the carry-bag and grabbed the plastic bottle which had been inside. Lye stille, the Magnabet letters had said; another little word-trick. Another message passed behind the unsuspecting guard's back. Sara Tidwell was a fearsome creature, but she had underestimated Jo . . . and she had underestimated the telepathy of long association, as well. I had gone to Slips ‘n Greens, I had bought a bottle of lye, and now I opened it and poured it, smoking, over the bones of Sara and her son. There was a hissing sound like the one you hear when you open a beer or a bottled soft drink. The belt-buckle melted. The bones turned white and crumpled like things made out of sugar I had a nightmare image of Mexican children eating candy corpses off long sticks on the Day of the Dead. The eyesockets of Sara's skull widened as the lye filled the dark hollow where her mind, her prodigious talent, and her laughing soul had once resided. It was an expression that looked at first like surprise and then like sorrow. The jaw fell off; the nubs of the teeth sizzled away. The top of the skull caved in. Spread fingerbones jittered, then melted. ‘Ohhhhhh . . . ‘ It whispered through the soaking trees like a rising wind . . . only the wind had died as the wet air caught its breath before the next onslaught. It was a sound of unspeakable grief and longing and surrender. I sensed no hate in it; her hate was gone, burned away in the corrosive I had bought in Helen Auster's shop. The sound of Sara's going was replaced by the plaintive, almost human cry of a bird, and it awakened me from the place where I had been, brought me finally and completely out of the zone. I got shakily to my feet, turned around, and looked at The Street. Jo was still there, a dim form through which I could now see the lake and the dark clouds of the next thundersquall coming over the mountains. Something flickered beyond her that bird venturing out of its safe covert for a peek at the re-arranged environment, perhaps but I barely registered that. It was Jo I wanted to see, Jo who had come God knew how far and suffered God knew how much to help me. She looked exhausted, hurt, in some fundamental way diminished. But the other thing the Outsider was gone. Jo, standing in a ring of birch leaves so dead they looked charred, turned to me and smiled. ‘Jo! We did it!' Her mouth moved. I heard the sound, but the words were too distant to make out. She was standing right there, but she might have been calling across a wide canyon. Still, I understood her. I read the words off her lips if you prefer the rational, right out of her mind if you prefer the romantical. I prefer the latter. Marriage is a zone, too, you know. Marriage is a zone. So that's all right, isn't it? I glanced down into the gaping roll of canvas and saw nothing but stubs and splinters sticking out of a noxious, uneasy paste. I got a whiff, and even through the Stenomask it made me cough and back away. Not corruption; lye. When I looked back around at Jo, she was barely there. ‘Jo! Wait!' Can't help. Can't stay. Words from another star system, barely glimpsed on a fading mouth. Now she was little more than eyes floating in the dark afternoon, eyes which seemed made of the lake behind them. Hurry . . . She was gone. I slipped and stumbled to the place where she'd been, my feet crunching over dead birch leaves, and grabbed at nothing. What a fool I must have looked, soaked to the skin, wearing a Stenomask askew over the lower half of my face, trying to embrace the wet gray air. I got the faintest whiff of Red perfume . . . and then only damp earth, lakewater, and the vile stink of lye running under everything. At least the smell of putrefaction was gone; that had been no more real than . . . Than what? Than what? Either it was all real or none of it was real. If none of it was real, I was out of my mind and ready for the Blue Wing at Juniper Hill. I looked over toward the gray rock and saw the bag of bones I had pulled out of the wet ground like a festering tooth. Lazy tendrils of smoke were still rising from its ripped length. That much was real. So was the Green Lady, who was now a soot-colored Black Lady as dead as the dead branch behind her, the one that seemed to point like an arm. Can't help . . . can't stay . . . hurry. Couldn't help with what? What more help did I need? It was done, wasn't it? Sara was gone: spirit follows bone, good night sweet ladies, God grant she lye stille. And still a kind of stinking terror, not so different from the smell of putrescence which had come out of the ground, seemed to sweat out of the air; Kyra's name began to beat in my head, Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki, like the call of some exotic tropical bird. I started up the railroad-tie steps to the house, and although I was exhausted, by the time I was halfway up I had begun to run. I climbed the stairs to the deck and went in that way. The house looked the same save for the broken tree poking in through the kitchen window, Sara Laughs had stood up to the storm very well but something was wrong. There was something I could almost smell . . . and perhaps I did smell it, bitter and low. Lunacy may have its own wild-vetch aroma. It's not the kind of thing I would ever care to research. In the front hall I stopped, looking down at a heap of paperback books, Elmore Leonards and Ed Mcbains, lying on the floor. As if they had been raked off the shelf by a passing hand. A flailing hand, maybe. I could also see my tracks there, both coming and going. They had already begun to dry. They should have been the only ones; I had been carrying Ki when we came in. They should have been, but they weren't. The others were smaller, but not so small that I mistook them for a child's. I ran down the hall to the north bedroom crying her name, and I might as well have been crying Mattie or Jo or Sara. Coming out of my mouth, Kyra's name sounded like the name of a corpse. The duvet had been thrown back onto the floor. Except for the black stuffed dog, lying where it had in my dream, the bed was empty. And Ki was gone.

A Good Man Is Hard to Find – Summary

A Good Man Is Hard to Find- my Initial reaction to this story was Intrigue. I was hooked from the first paragraph because I could foresee some sort of disaster or problem arising. I thought the story did not fail to entertain me. I really enjoyed reading the story and am interested in reading more stories from this author. Good Country People- I found Good Country People a little harder to follow and I kept losing interest in this story. I liked the previous story A Good Man is Hard to Find because it as intriguing.I think there may have been too much about religion In this story so It lost my Interest. (2) Is the story primarily escape or interpretive? Good Man is Hard to Find-this story is both escape and interpretive. I loved how the story took me to this era and I felt as if I were there to witness the family's run in with the misfit. On the other hand, it is interpretive because there was foreshadowing and symbolism in the story. Good Country People-this story Is more Interpreti ve because as a reader, I was spending ore time Interpreting what was going on as opposed to getting lost In the story and enjoying it. 3) What does the title mean? Are there any double meanings? A Good Man is Hard to Find- This title was tricky for me because before I read the story, I thought it was going to be about a woman who was down on her luck and unlucky with love. I thought I would be able to relate to the story but found the story to be a lot different than I thought. I still am unsure of what the title means and look forward to reading the responses of my classmates to see what their interpretation of the title means. 4) Summarize the plot in 4 or 5 sentences hitting on the following points: a.What happened in the beginning? A grandmother, her son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren go on a trip even though most of the family members are reluctant to go on the trip. B. What was the rolling action? A cat causes the family to get In an accident In their vehicle while on th eir trip. C. Climax? They run Into a misfit and his friend who are escapees. The misfit talks to the grandmother while her family members are being shot to death. D. Falling action? The grandmother tries to talk the sift out of killing her and calls him her son. . Conclusion? The misfit kills the grandmother at the end of the story. (5) When/Where Is the story set? What clues led you to that conclusion? The story Is set in the South during the early 1 sass. I think this is the setting of the story because of the way the story is written and the way the grandmother talks about the plantations. 6) What Is the nature of the conflict? The conflict occurs from the beginning when the family heads off for their trip. Antagonists at one point or another. (8) How would you classify these characters? Mound or flat) (developing or static) The grandchildren seem to be flat but the grandmother is static. (9) Are symbols used in the story? Symbols used in the story are the misfit, the detour the grandmother wants to take, the grandmothers hat, and the cat that causes the accident. (10) What is the theme? How do you know? I am not religious but I would assume the theme has to deal with religion and God. Now for the story specific questions: â€Å"A Good Man is Hard to Find† (1) What is the significance of the misfit? The misfit represents a good man gone bad.He was once a good man but something happened in his life to make him a hardened criminal. (2) What does the grandmother consider a â€Å"good man†? Does she think Bailey is a good man? The grandmother thinks a man is a good man if his values are the same as hers. I think she believes he is a good man because when she talks to him, he seems like his values are the same and then he shoots her and proves her wrong. (3) Why is the ending of this story significant? The ending is significant because it gives the reader insight into what the title of the short story means

French Expressions Using Bouche

French Expressions Using Bouche The French word une bouche literally means any kind of mouth - of a person, an oven, a volcano... - and is also used in many idiomatic expressions. Learn how to say food bills, gourmet, astonished, and more with this list of expressions with bouche. Expressions with Bouche le bouchebouchekiss of life, mouth-to-mouth resuscitationune bouche feugun ​une bouche daà ©rationair vent, inletune bouche de chaleurhot-air ventune bouche dà ©goutmanholeune bouche de mà ©trosubway entranceune bouche dincendiefire hydrantune bouche dune rivià ¨re, une bouche dun fleuvemouth of a riverune bouche inutileunproductive person; just another mouth to feedles bouches inutilesthe non-active, unproductive population; burdens on societyles dà ©penses de bouchefood billsune fine bouchegourmetles provisions de boucheprovisionsbouche bà ©eopen-mouthed, agape, astonishedBouche cousue  ! (informal)Its top secret! Mums the word!dans sa bouche...in his mouth, coming from him, when he says it...Dà ¨s quil ouvre la bouche...Every time he opens his mouth... est dans toutes les bouches.Everyones talking about ...; ... is a household word.Il en a plein la bouche.He can talk of nothing else.Il na que ... la bouche.... is all he ever talks about.Jen ai leau la boucheMy m outh is watering. La và ©rità © sort de la bouche des enfants (proverb)Out of the mouths of babesMotus et bouche cousue! (informal)Mums the word! Dont tell anyone!par sa boucheby ones words, by what one saysTa bouche  ! (familiar)Shut up! Shut your trap!Ta bouche bà ©bà ©Ã‚  ! (familiar)Shut up! Shut your trap!aller de bouche en boucheto be talked, rumored aboutapprendre quelque chose de la bouche de quelquunto hear something from someoneapprendre quelque chose de la bouche mà ªme de quelquunto hear something from someones own lipsavoir 3 bouches nourrirto have 3 mouths to feedavoir la bouche amà ¨reto have a bitter taste in ones mouthavoir la bouche en coeurto simperavoir la bouche en cul-de-pouleto purse ones lipsavoir la bouche fendue jusquaux oreillesto be grinning from ear to earavoir la bouche pà ¢teuseto have a thick-feeling or coated tongueavoir la bouche pleine de ...to be able to talk of nothing but ...avoir la bouche sà ¨cheto have a dry mouthavoir toujours linjure / la critique la boucheto always be ready with an insult / criticismsembrasser bouche que veux-tuto kiss eagerlysembrasser pleine boucheto kiss right on the lipssembrasser sur la boucheto kiss on the lipsà ªtre bouche bà ©eto be open-mouthed, lost in wonder, astonishedà ªtre dans la bouche de tout le mondeto be on everyones lips; to be talked about by everyonesexprimer par la bouche de quelquun dautreto use someone else as ones mouthpiecefaire du bouchebouche quelquunto give someone mouth-to-mouth resuscitationfaire la fine boucheto turn ones nose upfaire la petite boucheto turn ones nose upfermer la bouche quelquunto shut someone upgarder la bouche closeto keep ones mouth shutgarder quelque chose pour la bonne boucheto save the best for lastmettre leau la bouche de quelquunto make someones mouth watermettre un mot dans la bouche de quelquunto put a word into someones mouthne pas ouvrir la boucheto not say a wordouvrir la boucheto speakparler la bouche pleineto talk with ones mouth fullp arler par la bouche de quelquundautreto use someone else as ones mouthpiecepasser de bouche oreilleto be spread by word of mouthpasser de bouche en boucheto be talked, rumored aboutrester bouche bà ©eto remain open-mouthed, lost in wonder, astonishedtourner sept fois sa langue dans sa bouche avant de parlerto think long and hard before speakingse transmettre de bouche oreilleto be spread by word of mouthune bouchà ©emouthful

Promotion of Duracell batteries in Kazakhstan

Promotion of Duracell batteries in Kazakhstan Free Online Research Papers The explosion in the use of portable devices and electronic products such as laptops, toys, audio devices, etc. has resulted in a rapidly increasing demand for portable energy sources. However, the market of primary (non-rechargeable) batteries has shrunk over the past decade. This project is about a proposed campaign for encouraging people to use more of the declining product, reminding them of the forgotten need, on the example of the current market leader Duracell brand by Procter Gamble. Primary batteries are most commonly used in portable devices, usually when you do not have the chance to res can be CD, MP3-players, portable TV-sets, toys taken with children to picnics, lamps, and cameras. Our idea is to take out people to places where they need to keep their devices going but do not have an option to re-charge, that means encouraging them to travel to the nature: mountain trips, bike trips far from home, picnics with family, beach trips etc. It has gone out of the habit since people became too busy with their job, not having time to devote to their spirit, health and fun shared together with close people. The campaign will be directed to re-create this trend for country trips. This will be achieved by telling people how attractive are places around Almaty and they shouldn’t miss the opportunity to enjoy the sights on weekends. Competitive Analysis There are 3 major consumer battery brands presented on Kazakhstani market: current market leader Duracell, its closest follower Energizer, and niche player Varta, as well as many other less popular brands. Duracell is widely recognized, top of mind awareness brand. Most of our respondents named Duracell when it was asked to name any consumer battery brand that comes into their mind first. There is also recall connected to Duracell’s advertising, people easily recognize the symbol of Duracell – the famous pink bunny. It is also a market leader because it is available at points of sales, which is very important for low-involvement goods. Duracell batteries can be found in all sizes in most supermarkets, unlike its main competitor Energizer. Slogan of Duracell is â€Å"Trusted everywhere† suggesting that Duracell batteries make all devices work when needed and the range of Duracell application. The previous slogan was â€Å"No battery is stronger longer† pointing at longer life of the batteries. Generally all the bunny-related ads where directed to express the main message of longevity of work, this is the key benefit of Duracell. Energizer’s current slogan â€Å"Keep going† and former slogan Nothing outlasts the Energizer also emphasizes long working hours of the batteries. However, in its advertising campaigns Energizer has stressed high energy of the batteries making it the key benefit of the brand. â€Å"You’re smarter to fit Varta!† says the slogan of our last competitor. Varta uses ESP suggesting that it’s a battery by experts, something more â€Å"professional†. All the three brands share a common POP which is high quality and reliability. Duracell has to follow defensive strategy and increase its share of voice to maintain its leading position on the market. Target Market Analysis Generally, target market for alkaline batteries is both deep and wide. But it is even more. Almost every person is a potential customer for this type of batteries. In this case even segmentation is quite complicated. But it is necessary for creating marketing strategy, so we have to point out several biggest consumer groups. The first is households. Women between 25-50 age old, they keep their houses in order and use batteries for devices we use everyday such as clocks. The second and third groups we want to mention are teenagers and men. These customers differ in the age group, but are same in the purpose of consumption. They use alkaline batteries for high-tech devices. But now this market, that once has been extremely big and profitable, now rapidly decreases. It is concerned with technical progress. Now producers of high-tech devices use other types of batteries, usually rechargeable and often produced by these companies itself. Duracell uses differentiated market coverage. Different products of Duracell brand are targeted to different segments. regular and high-drain segments of the consumer battery market Duracell Copperhead covers broader market, including the general population who need longer-working batteries for majority of devices. Duracell Ultra is designed to fit more energy requiring devices, and therefore the target group is typically younger males. Communication objectives First of all we should define Target Audience. Duracell has different types of battery. The most needed types are AA and AAA series. Significant part of battery users is young generation that listen music by CD of MP3 players. This age starts from 14 years old till 25 even 30 years. Gender difference is doesn’t matter because everybody like music according his or her preference. Duracell is the top mind awareness brand on the World and Kazakhstan battery market. The competitors are: Energizer, Varta and Victory (Chinese battery). This industry is in the decline stage because of increasing use of rechargeable and integral batteries in devices like photo mobile phones, cameras, and players. Also, consumers are getting used to rechargeable batteries while they use laptops and phones, and bring this habit to their MP3 players and cameras. The main goal of Duracell is to raise knowledge, since awareness is already at hand. Battery is daily used, low involvement product. So this product requires product recognition at purchasing place. More products will be recognized better off the company. Because it is a low-involvement good stress should be put on the emotional rather than rational benefit from using the brand. Duracell should use following communication tools: Point-of-purchase promotion TV advertising Printed media in thematically related magazines (e.g. about technology) PR and sponsorship Internet Advertising On Kazakhstani market today Duracell is a stable leader with competitors falling behind dramatically. As it was mentioned before there is already well-established brand awareness, therefore all communication objectives should be supportive, only to maintain the image of the brand and keep it’s recall and recognition level high. 3.0 MARKETING COMMUNICATIONS PLAN 3.1 On a market where Duracell brand is well established it is important to retain its market position. At the same time, Duracell can encourage people to use more batteries by promoting our new campaign, through communication tools. The objective is to increase profit by 15% during in FY 2008. Marketing communications objectives So far Duracell has covered all the levels of the DAGMAR model: category need, awareness, knowledge, attitude, purchase intention, facilitation, purchase, satisfaction and loyalty. It has been a trusted leader for a long time. However, as we detected the market still can be penetrated by returning to the first level and developing category need more. The mission of the campaign is to get consumers to use more primary batteries by encouraging them to take part in activities such as traveling, hiking and camping. Our goal is to remind people of the forgotten use of the batteries – whenever you go outside (to the mountains, the beach, forest) you need non-rechargeable batteries vitally to keep all your devices going. 3.3 Positioning Duracell’s positioning is as clear and simple as the product category requires: long life of the batteries. 3.4 Creative and Message Strategy Key message: Duracell serves longer than any other battery and therefore can be trusted whatever direction you go. Slogan: Trusted everywhere Key visual: Emotional appeal should be used in Duracell ads, primarily to attract attention and be liked. 3.5 Marketing Communications Mix PR should be used primarily for the new strategy. 3.6 Media Strategy: Pulsing strategy 3.7 Media schedule (with calculations of effectiveness) (10points) Schedule should include all your tools of communication on all channels of com-on with distribution over the year, month, week and day period. 3.8 Budget (approach, actual calculations) Research Papers on Promotion of Duracell batteries in KazakhstanMarketing of Lifeboy Soap A Unilever ProductAnalysis of Ebay Expanding into AsiaBionic Assembly System: A New Concept of SelfHip-Hop is ArtOpen Architechture a white paperPETSTEL analysis of IndiaInfluences of Socio-Economic Status of Married MalesDefinition of Export QuotasAnalysis Of A Cosmetics AdvertisementThe Project Managment Office System

SEE ATTACHMENT4L Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 250 words

SEE ATTACHMENT4L - Essay Example Finally, conflicts with a friend is best resolved using analytical skills to determine the root of the problem, and to eventually compromise, on the basis of the terms agreed upon. What are the barriers to win - win solutions? Win-win solutions mean that the terms and conditions are agreeable and amenable on both parties. The barrier to this type of solution therefore is finding a middle ground which would enable both parties to compromise on an agreement. How do you agree to disagree with someone? Agreeing to disagree with someone entails cognitive skills that would have enabled one to assess the source of conflict on issues being discussed. When the argument being asserted does not conform to one’s believes, values, and preferences, then; it is best to disagree with the contentions of the other party. Where they effective in resolution? Some of the avoidance tactics, such as deferring the discussion of the issue to future dates is effective, only in terms of preventing exacerbating the conflicting situation. When anger or emotional intensity have subsided, then, both parties could try to resolve the issue using other conflict resolution strategies, such as problem-solving, or compromising, as

Preliminary Outline and Draft Assignment Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 500 words

Preliminary Outline and Draft - Assignment Example In 10 years to come, approximately 25% of American vehicles will be running on biodiesel. Public health institutions attribute increase in cancer and respiratory complications to pollution from fossil fuels. Undeniably, any alternative fuel that causes less or no pollution would be adopted as a solution to the health impacts of fossil fuels. Recent increase in biodiesel campaigns and consumption is attributed to potential benefits of the fuel. Unlike gasoline, biodiesel is non toxic. Gasoline releases unpleasant fumes upon combustion. On the contrary, biodiesel emit fumes with a pleasant smell, no greenhouse gases and absolute absence of carcinogenic hydrocarbon compounds. Occasionally, air pollutants like carbon dioxide are directly associated with gasoline and other fossil fuels. Carbon dioxide, together with other greenhouse gases causes global warming. Scientific research indicates that global warming will lead to increased desertification, climate change, increased acidity of fresh water and rise in sea levels. Among the identified mitigating factors of global warming include use of less polluting and renewable energy sources like biodiesel. Since biodiesel burns cleanly, it releases negligible amounts of greenhouse gases compared to gasoline. Therefore, biodiesel features as a viable solution to the global warming monster together with other complications related to air pollution. A scientific research exercise will be appropriate in substantiating claims relating to the benefits of biodiesel in addressing issues of air pollution. The research hypothesis asserts that increased use of biodiesel reduces emission of carbon dioxide and air pollution. This hypothesis contains both the dependent and independent variables. A null hypothesis, which contradicts the earlier statement, will be introduced to test the validity and reliability of the alternative hypothesis. Undeniably, biodiesel reduces pollution. However, other sources of pollutants