While all of Ellen White’s writings
are available for research,
the unpublished letters, manuscripts
and other materials in the Ellen G. White files
do not constitute a public archive.
John Elks stood before the picket fence that sheltered his yard, and he shook his head miserably. He wants the dense troop of insects that emerged from a tiny hole in the fence post and spread across the wooden slats. Yesterday there have been no sign of the insects, and now they had covered it. He tried to touch one insect with his finger, and in an instant dozens scurried onto his hand and wrist: he shook his arm wildly. John’s wife came out of the house—he heard the porch door creak open and slap shut—and she walked over and stood beside him.
Diane E.S. Prentiss
We are nine American researchers in a rented minivan, racing from Kingston to the eastern coastal region of St. Thomas parish. This end of the island doesn’t sport timeshare resorts and high-priced bungalows. There are no freckled young men in Vuarnets, printed boxers, and zinc noses playing volleyball on the beach. No drinks with umbrellas, Hard Rock Cafes, or expensive dance clubs. There are no telephones, few cars, and only an occasional shop. Electricity is in a few households, but only for two or three hours each evening. No hustling. Tourist cocaine has no place out here on the flat plains worked by laborers.
I haven’t admitted this to anyone. I want to learn to kill something.
It sounds crazy, but I seem to be the only one who doesn’t know how. Hunters know. Doctors know. Soldiers, judges, murderers, God.
Maybe it’s true for any new father, but when I exit my apartment these days, I have to say it aloud: “I am locking the door.” Sleep-deprived, I trust language over muscle memory. I don’t tie my shoes without a mantra of prepositions: Over, over, through, down, around, under, out. This chant is a close cousin of the ones I murmur while working with cloth diapers, onesies, swaddle cloths, and the wrap in which I carry my son to the park, to the river, to the grocery store, to the library. He’s six weeks old, and sometimes, faced with this new constant presence, I feel like I am too. This morning, the first Friday in October, the boy stays with Mom to nurse. This morning, only my black lab hears my reminder about the closing door. Her ears stand at boot-camp attention, on the sweeter edge of nervous. Out with the dog and not my son, I adjust to the baby’s absence.
Daily, in the supermarket where I go,
I gravitate to this one lane — the one
furthest there —you know: the busiest one.
Have I fallen in love with my checkout lane?
Well, I am male, I feel drawn to this aisle;
its openness is shameless, sexistly exciting;
the real way it squeezes my shopping cart
and deigns me to crowd in. Oh my checkout lane