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26 November 2025 The Secret the Founders Never Intended Us to Know THE COURTYARD CHRONICLE There are certain truths the realm never meant for us to hear, and none more astonishing than the real beginning of the Ceremony of Gratitude. A retired Keeper of the King’s Bench confessed it after too much brandy, whispering that the entire tradition began with Lord Thaddeus Bramblewick, a nobleman whose ambition far exceeded his wisdom. Bramblewick sailed to the new world with an enormous flock of turkeys, certain he could sell them to traveling performers. He imagined them dancing, balancing on barrels, tapping rhythms with their beaks. Instead, they shrieked, wandered, and refused every command. His scheme collapsed instantly. Desperate, he pushed the birds upon cooks as delicacies. They refused. The creatures were oversized, tough, and stubborn in every way. Plates returned untouched. His humiliation grew by the hour. Cornered, Bramblewick created a solution so bold it became legend. He declared the turkey a noble emblem of the new world and insisted it be honored with an annual Ceremony of Gratitude. Settlers, moved by his confidence, embraced the proclamation without hesitation. Size became grandeur. Difficulty became virtue. The noble tribes watched in disbelief, for they had long considered the turkey a last-resort bird for harsh winters, not celebration. Those who remember the scandal left behind a single whispered confession. If truth was served at the table, it would be the smallest dish. And so the Ceremony of Gratitude was born not from unity or reverence, but from one lord’s pride and a flock he could neither sell nor train. SOCIAL FOOTNOTES AND WHISPERED REMARKS Some say Bramblewick died smiling at the realm honoring his mistake. Others swear cooks still curse his name each autumn. Another claims tradition is simply a clever disguise for an old blunder. Tell me, dear reader. When you join the Ceremony of Gratitude, do you honor history, or merely help

Who remembers Terry?

A Christmas Carol Share In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, long ago. Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign. In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ. Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day, Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay; Enough for Him, whom angels fall before, The ox and ass and camel which adore. Angels and archangels may have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air; But His mother only, in her maiden bliss, Worshipped the beloved with a kiss. What can I give Him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb; If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part; Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart. ~Christina Rossetti

"The machine crushed his fingertips on his last day at the factory. His boss said his guitar career was over. Instead, he melted a plastic bottle, built fake fingertips—and accidentally invented heavy metal. "December 1965. Birmingham, England. Tony Iommi was seventeen years old, working his last shift at a sheet metal factory. It was supposed to be his final day. He'd been offered a professional music gig—a real paying job as a guitarist. He was finally escaping the factory, escaping the grinding industrial monotony of working-class Birmingham. One more shift. Eight more hours. Then freedom. At 4:30 PM—thirty minutes before the end of his shift—Tony was operating a metal press. A massive machine that stamped and cut sheet metal. He was tired. Distracted. Thinking about his new life as a musician. The machine came down. Tony's right hand was underneath it. The press severed the tips of his middle and ring fingers on his right hand—his fretting hand. Blood everywhere. Bone exposed. The fingertips were gone. Crushed beyond repair. When Tony woke up after surgery, heavily bandaged, the first thing he thought about wasn't the pain. It was his guitar. And the second thought: My life is over. For a guitarist, losing fingertips on your fretting hand is catastrophic. Those are the fingers that press down on strings, that create chords, that make music possible. Without fingertips, you have no sensitivity. No control. No ability to feel where the strings are. Tony's factory foreman visited him in the hospital. "Look on the bright side," the foreman said. "At least you weren't going to make a living with your hands anyway. "Tony stared at him. "I'm a guitarist. "The foreman went pale. "Oh. Well... I suppose you'll have to find something else to do. "Tony went home to his parents' house, his hand wrapped in bandages, his dreams destroyed. He was seventeen

Henrik Ibsen / . "A woman cannot be herself in the society of the present day, which is an exclusively masculine society, with laws framed by men and with a judicial system that judges feminine conduct from a masculine point of view." . "Henrik Johan Ibsen was a Norwegian-Danish playwright and theatre director. As one of the founders of modernism in theatre, Ibsen is often referred to as "the father of realism" and one of the most influential playwrights of his time. His major works include Brand, Peer Gynt, An Enemy of the People, Emperor and Galilean, A Doll's House, Hedda Gabler, Ghosts, The Wild Duck, When We Dead Awaken, Rosmersholm, and The Master Builder. Ibsen is the most frequently performed dramatist in the world after Shakespeare, and A Doll's House was the world's most performed play in 2006. Ibsen's early poetic and cinematic play Peer Gynt has strong surreal elements. After Peer Gynt Ibsen abandoned verse and wrote in realistic prose. Several of his later dramas were considered scandalous to many of his era, when European theatre was expected to model strict morals of family life and propriety." #facebookrepost

Remembering Elvis on his birthday

All I want for 🎄🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🥺

#usa love this

Everyone is more than welcome to join me 😉😉………

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