All about bamboo flooring

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For an english project I wrote a story based in Myanmar(Burma). So what do you think of it? PLEASE TELL ME ANY MISTAKES!!!! I am only 12.

Lights

The lights of Maha Bandula bridge were never as bright as they were the night my father died. He was only 33 the night he took his last breaths. I looked into his eyes. I held him like he was the baby and I was the mother, a baby who couldn’t point Buddha’s hand in the direction of his destiny. I was alone. Malaria burned into his system and took over the person who I called father. He was not my father anymore. He was not the strong man that held me when I cried, not the man who supported, and cared for me. Our roles were switched. He was Theingi Nyunt. I don’t know why I thought of lights, but I guess our souls are like lights, bursts of energy scattered around earth. My name is Sonswe Nyunt, and this is the story of how I died.

My mother’s eyes hardened.
“Why have you put in my vase?” She moaned as she reached into the cracked China. She brought out a handful of slimy, smelly cane frogs and dropped them on the floor. I looked down.

“Um they are…,” I said as I was trying to think of an excuse. What would she think if told her I was collecting them for fun? I paused.“…a collection, and I thought that vase would be perfect for their living conditions. I mean you weren’t using it!”
I was toast, she hates when I use her things. I was an odd 13 year old I had to say, and collecting frogs one of those reasons. I looked nothing like my mothers small, stout frame, I was like a sprouting bean that just kept on getting taller and taller. I towered over all the local women with my 5’10 frame. My coal, black hair reached my waist, and a portion of it covered my weirdest feature. My eyes. One was the color of the finest black tea, the kind that warms down to your soul and makes you feel as peaceful as a sleeping tiger. The other was blue. The clearest blue, the sky of Myanmar that hid the vaults of heaven. The kind that you imagine birds of paradise sweeping over collecting the fragrant nectar of kiwi trees swaying in the cool ocean breeze. I hated it. I was the only person in Yangon with this mutation, though my mother thought it was beautiful. Mothers, I thought, think everything that their child does is amazing. Even if that child is as ugly as the back-end of a horse. I smiled. My mother’s burning gaze lifted. She forgot about our insignificant conversation, and hurriedly grabbed her sandals and rushed out the door. I was confused. She shouted something as she closed the door to our condo.
“I forgot about the town meeting, don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone. And no more frogs!”
There was an edge of humor in voice and I knew she forgave me. My mother was a government representative in Yangon, and when someone needed her she had to go.
Yangon was like a dead fly. It was arid, dry, and crusty and the people we called leaders were like the maggots that dug into the flesh and destroyed so that they were able to come home with their bellies full of other peoples pain. I wandered out of the simple room, and out of Pyay Garden condos, to Yangon. I was on the hunt for oranges to sell in the market in my handwoven basket made of dried bamboo leaves. It was fun to have a little extra kyat in my pocket on days where a nice lahpet was necessary. It was an acquired taste, it was pickled tea. "A thee ma, thayet; a thar ma, wet; a ywet ma, lahpet,” I sung to myself. “Mangos are good, Beef is great, but none is better than lahpet!” I laughed. Someone heard.
I turned around. A shrunken pile of rags about 5 ft high that smelled of rotten fish slithered before me. That thing, I thought, was human! The smelly pile pulled out a bruised, dirty hand and smoothed across the upper rags to reveal a shock to me. The face behind the rags was simply stunning. It was a girl, about my age, with a face that looked as if it was chiseled by the greatest potter out of the most beautiful mahogany clay.
“Hello, I heard your voice over here, and I wanted to see who it was. Not many people walk around these areas you know. My name is Nadii,” she said as she nervously swayed on the spot. Her neck was abnormally long, it was covered in gold rings as was the tradition of the Kayan people. It was beautiful, in this minority, to have the longest neck as possible and it started at a young age. The women would stack gold rings on their neck until it slowly stretched and if they took them off they would surely die because their neck was so weak. She was from the nearby village, I could tell from the rings. Their village was terrorized by our government so that they could clear yet another piece of land for lumber. It was horrible. I couldn’t imagine being in her situation. I often ranted about these things as my mother obediently listened, normally focusing on something else, and chanted about how bad the government is. This probably was not smart considering the fact that
Ohhh it left out some…sorry. she dies in the end

0_o wow that’s good!

The care for vinyl floors usually involves the use of a dust mop on a regular basis and an annual or semi-annual polish with wax. Discover why products used to clean vinyl floors should not be mixed with those for hardwood floors with help from a member of the National Wood Floor Association in this free video on cleaning vinyl flooring.

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Bio: Joe Harpole has been a member of the National Wood Floor Association since 2006.
Filmmaker: Dimitri LaBarge

Duration : 0:2:7

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The best way to take care of hardwood floors is by keeping sharp materials off of the floor, vacuuming up as much dust as possible and cleaning by going with the grain of the wood. Learn about using a mop and hardwood floor cleaner to keep the floor looking great with help from a member of the National Wood Floor Association in this free video on caring for hardwood flooring.

Expert: Joe Harpole
Contact: procareofnashville.com
Bio: Joe Harpole has been a member of the National Wood Floor Association since 2006.
Filmmaker: Dimitri LaBarge

Duration : 0:1:27

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April 30, 2008

It came to me while I was having dinner with Doris Day. No, not that Doris Day, the Doris Day who is married to Col. Bud Day, Medal of Honor recipient, fighter pilot, Vietnam POW and roommate of John McCain at the Hanoi Hilton.

As we ate near the Days’ home in Florida recently, I Heard things about Sen. McCain that was deeply moving.

When it comes to choosing a president, the American people want to know more about a candidate than policy positions. They want to know about character, the values ingrained in his heart. For Mr. McCain, that means they will want to know more about him personally than he has been willing to reveal.

Mr. Day relayed to me one of the stories Americans should hear.

It involves what happened to him after escaping from a North Vietnamese prison during the war.

When he was recaptured, a Vietnamese captor broke his arm and said, ‘I told you I would make you a cripple.’ The break was designed to shatter Mr. Day’s will. He had survived in prison on the hope that one day he would return to the United States and be able to fly again. To kill that hope, the Vietnamese left part of a bone sticking out of his arm, and put him in a misshapen cast. This was done so that the arm would heal at ‘a goofy angle,’ as Mr. Day explained. Had it done so, he never would have flown again. But it didn’t heal that way because of John McCain.

Risking severe punishment, Messrs, McCain and Day collected pieces of bamboo in the prison courtyard to use as a splint. Mr. McCain put Mr. Day on the floor of their cell and, using his foot, jerked the broken bone into place. Then, using strips from the bandage on his own wounded leg and the bamboo, he put Mr. Day’s splint in place.

Years later, Air Force surgeons examined Mr. Day and complimented the treatment he’d gotten from his captors. Mr. Day corrected them. It was Dr. McCain who deserved the credit. Mr. Day went on to fly again.

Another story I heard over dinner with the Days involved Mr. McCain serving as one of the three chaplains for his fellow prisoners. At one point, after being shuttled among different prisons, Mr. Day had found himself as the most senior officer at the Hanoi Hilton. So he tapped Mr. McCain to help administer religious services to the other prisoners.

Today, Mr. Day, a very active 83, still vividly recalls Mr. McCain’s sermons. ‘He remembered the Episcopal liturgy,’ Mr. Day says, ‘and sounded like a bona fide preacher.’

One of Mr. McCain’s first sermons took as its text Luke 20:25 and Matthew 22:21, ‘Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto God what is God’s.’ Mr. McCain said he and his fellow prisoners shouldn’t ask God to free them, but to help them become the best people they could be while serving as POWs. It was Caesar who put them in prison and Caesar who would get them out. Their task was to act with honor.

Another McCain story, somewhat better known, is about The Vietnamese practice of torturing him by tying his head between his ankles with his arms behind him, and then leaving him for hours. The torture so badly busted up his shoulders that to this day Mr. McCain can’t raise his arms over his head.

One night, a Vietnamese guard loosened his bonds, returning at the end of his watch to tighten them again so no one would notice. Shortly after, on Christmas Day, the same guard stood beside Mr. McCain in the prison yard and drew a cross in the sand before erasing it. Mr. McCain later said that when he returned to Vietnam for the first time after the war, the only person he really wanted to meet was that guard.

Mr. Day recalls with pride Mr. McCain stubbornly refusing to accept special treatment or curry favor to be released early, even when gravely ill. Mr. McCain knew the Vietnamese wanted the propaganda victory of the son and grandson of Navy admirals accepting special treatment. ‘He wasn’t corruptible then,’ Mr. Day says, ‘and he’s not corruptible today.’

The stories told to me by the Days involve more than wartime valor. For example, in 1991 Cindy McCain was visiting Mother Teresa’s orphanage in Bangladesh when a dying infant was thrust into her hands The orphanage could not provide the medical care needed to save her life, so Mrs. McCain brought the child home to America with her. She was met at the airport by her husband who asked what all this was about. Mrs. McCain replied that the child desperately needed surgery and years of rehabilitation. ‘I hope she can stay with us,’ she told her husband. Mr. McCain agreed. Today that child is their teenage daughter Bridget.

I was aware of this story. What I did not know, and what I learned from Doris , is that there was a second infant Mrs. McCain brought back. She ended up being adopted by a young McCain aide and his wife. ‘We were called at midnight by Cindy,’ Wes Gullett remembers, ‘and five days la

YOU KNOW WHAT , WHO CARES !!!

I WANT TO KNOW HOW THE CANDIDATES PLAN TO HELP THIS ECONOMY NOW.
MCCAIN REMINDS ME OF THE OLD PEOPLE WHO CONSTANTLY BRING UP THEIR PAST BECAUSE THEY HAVE NOTHING TO LIVE FOR TODAY.

Twelve Black and White Photographs.

Chapter I
Life is so boring. Sometimes, I just wish I wasn’t alive. I only get this feeling when I really want something, and I’m not getting it. Right now, I feel that way. I know that sounds hopeless, but I never get anything at all. I am Katarina and I am sixteen years old. I’m in grade 11. I have a very far out dream, which is to travel all around the world; over and over again. I love exotic places, but I’ve never been anywhere out of my small (and very boring) hometown, Florida. No, I don’t live in the hot, sunny Florida. I live in Florida, Missouri. What’s odd about this place that you’ve probably never heard about in your entire life? Only ten people live here. Yeah, I know. Now you get it. I get very bored in this little town, because there is no school and no jobs, because there isn’t enough money. We somehow, though earn just enough money to stay alive. It’s a pretty cheap town, although Mark Twain (the author) was born here. At least one small town person became famous. I live with my mother- my dad died when I was six from a fire in our house. My mother and I escaped. I don’t remember him, although I wish I did. We don’t even have photographs of him. My mom doesn’t have a job, and no money, either. She can’t save any money, although whenever she saves any, it’s usually spent within twenty four hours flat. I don’t think she really cares about me. My dad was usually the one who cared before he died, but now he’s gone, and I can’t do anything about it.
You would think she would forget this usually boring day, like every other plain year, but this year, I wake up to the familiar tiny stone hut, lying on my pile of hay on top of the concrete floor, and my mother is standing over me with a small engraved wooden box in her hands. She greets me happy birthday, and hands me the box. I hold it in my hands. I never get any presents. Never.
“It was your grandmother’s,” she whispered, “She would have wanted you to have it,”
“Thanks,” I muttered, wondering what was in this box.
My hands found the lid, and pried it open. What was inside was beautiful. A necklace with a carved bamboo cross lay there, just waiting for me to put it on. My fingers had the urge to pick it up, and they slowly moved towards the open lid. I carefully picked it up, and slowly slid it around my neck. As it was on my neck, I felt beautiful. That was a feeling I’d never had before. I saw my mother had a small smile on her face. Maybe she did care about me. I graciously thanked my mother, and bounded towards the door. As I opened it, it creaked like there was no tomorrow, slammed shut. I walked and walked for forty five minutes, and ended up at my favourite tree- a giant apple tree with tons of draping branches. It was so beautiful. You could climb under the branches, and sit against the stump, and you would be in a little exotic looking room made up of branch walls. I did exactly that, and lay down on the grass. I took off the necklace, and took a good look at it, smiling. It seemed to be hollow. But, it was made of bamboo, so that made sense. But, what didn’t make sense was that there was a little crack upon the middle of the cross, going around. I pried at it, and the two halves pulled apart. A tiny slip of yellowed paper slipped out. I read it over and over again, but the words stayed the same. In a scrawl, they read:
‘You have found the treasure of me, my story, and my life lies in this cross. Just wait and see. As you read, this necklace is thinking. If it shall give you a tour while you’re blinking. Throw away this note, and then you’ll see that not everything is just what it seems.’
So, I threw away the note, and the wind blew it far. What next? I couldn’t remember. Maybe this was a joke from my mother. Suddenly, a large gust of wind sent dust flying everywhere, and a blinked the dirt out of my eyes. While I was blinking, I saw black and white pictures. The first was of a beautiful girl, about fifteen years old dressed in rags. She was living in a small hut, and washing the floors with a brush and a big bucket of soapy water. She was dirty, and she didn’t look like she had much hope. The next was of the girl again; in the hut, where she was before, but the bucket of water she was using to wash the floor was on its side, and water was everywhere. She looked exasperated, and her hands were on her head. The next showed a strict looking woman (possibly her mother?) belting her as hard as she could on both palms with an angry look on her face. The girl’s face held a grimace, but she did not cry. The fourth picture showed the girl, sitting under an apple tree that looked very similar (no, identical, just smaller) to mine, and looking at a picture of a middle aged man with laugh lines. It was labelled ‘Father. 1784-1819.’ it was very sad to see. This girl’s father had only lived until thirty four. But, as I real
got cut off. just a main idea.

Alright, I’m not entirely sure what to think of this. Granted, you’ve got a better story pretense than 90% of the others who ask people to read their story, but that’s not saying much. The good news is that you’ve got grammar (as long as you don’t overuse parentheses, this being an example of a good use), but you really need to work on some things, such as character and plot; you know, most of the things that a story needs.

Your character hates her life because its boring? That’s boring. If a character’s only real drive to do anything is because they have nothing better to do, then they’re technically no better than someone sitting down writing an event-less tale. Also, what’s wrong with her body? Her hands have "urges", and her eyelids seem to be controlled by the weather. Also, despite never getting presents, like ever, her super-special necklace seems to last all of 10 seconds. Oh, wait, I mean a 45 minute-walk, which, according to the geography of Flordia, Missouri, would lead her right through a lake, to an apple tree which apparently resembles a willow. Oh, also, nobody has a name. Did they forget them, or lose them in the fire?

Also, what time period does your story take place in? Before Mark Twain’s time, during, or after? Your time periods are all out of wack, especially seeing as that little reference almost seems like its trying to set up a plot point. If she did live around when Mark Twain was born, then, according to the timeline, she would still have six years until he was born, making that single reference impossible. I may be spending too much time on this, but this is all built to make another point; even back then, people didn’t live in stone huts.

I’m not sure where you’re going next with this whole plot, but I don’t really care. If you were going to do something with the characters’ desires to travel the world, then why put in the father references? Even if she does somehow get magically sent away on some whirlwind-world-travel adventure, at this point, I would be happier if Nameless Jenny just stayed in her town, rotting away in lonely desolation, with her mother who no longer cares about her.

The best cleaning solutions for wood floors are those that are manufactured by the manufacturers of wood flooring. Discover how the wrong cleaning solution can scratch a floor, or make it cloudy and unattractive, with help from a member of the National Wood Floor Association in this free video on cleaning wood floors.

Expert: Joe Harpole
Contact: procareofnashville.com
Bio: Joe Harpole has been a member of the National Wood Floor Association since 2006.
Filmmaker: Dimitri LaBarge

Duration : 0:1:20

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I have a small apartment with small balcony. I like this rug from target http://www.target.com/Bamboo-Outdoor-Patio-Rug-Natural/dp/B0010XIIEQ/sr=1-2/qid=1211412135/ref=sr_1_2/602-9568711-9081408?ie=UTF8&index=target&field-browse=1038618&rank=price&rh=k%3Apatio%20rug&page=1
how do I care for it? Or should I not bother all together? I am trying to make my balcony look nice I hate the floor, as it is cement and has cracks. My balcony has an overhang so it would not be directly in the elements.

It says you just wipe it clean with a damp cloth. You may want to consider something like this (not this particular style, but this type of rug)

http://www.overstock.com/Home-Garden/Courtyard-Crescent-Chocolate-Natural-Rug-53-x-77/3055653/product.html?

I have one and I just toss it in the bathtub when it gets dirty and rinse with the shower. If you have access to a hose you can use that too.

This is the third summer I’ve had mine and it still looks as good as when it was new. I live near the ocean so it gets very dirty from the salt and sand and more than one bird has made a contribution, but I just sweep the worst off and then wash in the tub.

The tablet pen falls on the floor gently and suddenly the entire fucking tablet won’t work. Its a "Bamboo Fun" tablet, for anyone who cares. I’ve uninstalled and reinstalled 5 times, downloaded a new driver, and restarted the computer numerous times. At first only the pen didn’t work but now the mouse that comes with the tablet won’t work either. And the little bastard tablet knows when one of them touches the surface because the light on it lights up, but it still won’t let them WORK.
What is wrong?! Is it honestly that delicate of a piece of shit?
Note I’m incredibly angry, so sorry about the cursing.
Yeah, and the stupid thing is, it was working literally 2 seconds before the pen fell on the floor. So if anything, its probably the tablet’s fault, or at least the pen’s fault. I’ve only had this tablet for 17 days so I suppose I should just return it.

Don’t take the tablet apart! That will void the return policy. If you’ve only had it 17 days and it’s stopped working, I’m certain Wacom or the store where you bought it would replace it.

I had a similar problem with a Wacom Graphire, but I just replaced it because it was old and rickety anyway. I don’t know about the tablet itself, but the pen is quite delicate – the problem with mine was that the tip had moved just slightly and so it was over-sensitive and thought the pen was clicking all the time. I imagine the opposite is quite possible as well.

If you’ve tried everything obvious I can only suggest that you return it for a replacement – you may have a faulty unit.

I live in a condo building that has rules, regs and actual laws we must follow. There are NO exceptions to this unless it is in writing and documented.

Saying this about a year ago one of our homeowners put up a bamboo fence on her second floor balcony and it’s not authorized, docemented or approved anywhere in our docs. I was told by the lady that the old president of the board last year told her not to worry about it. Nobody would care.

1.) her unit faces a neighboring hotel. She claims the bamboo is there for privacy. She also claims it’s there for security as anyone from the second floor can climb over the railing from the cat walk. ( it’s flimsy material and really could n’t act as a barrier.

Our current board has myself and the old president and the new people on it. Part of our jobs is doing monthly walk throughs and this fence issue came up a a rule infraction.

2out of 3 board members said not to inforce the rules to this unit due to the hotel thing.
I was a bit suprised because upon investigation of all or our governing documents nothing giving this fence exemption from anything has been found., anywhere.

I asked if I could get board approval on the same fence and told no by the board majority.

I have my unit facing on the backside of the building and have my neighboring apartments that can look right into my unit too. The privacy isl lacking an would also like the same exact fencing ot be granted to me. Wen I asked why I got a "no"

One member said I had a vendetta against this woman, one said that we have always allowed partitians on the side of the property for years.. ( no docs anywhere )

We also have a rule adopted by the HOA in 2004 that clearly states the only approved fencing on this balcony is a fine mesh wire that can act as a barrier as our metal bars are 10 inches apart and could be dangerous to pets… that is the ONLY approved item. My atty wrote a letter reqesting the same fence 4 me.
The atty is a friend of mine who is doing this for a "freebie" it’s just a letter asking for the same accomodations.. no threats of being sued at this time, just reinforcing that I mean business.

You’ve just stated the exact reason why I don’t like condos.

I would drop it and move on.