The PR Blog

Margaret Sanger (referred to as Margaret) was born in New York, US, on September 14, 1879 to Michael Higgins (Higgins) and Anne Purcell (Purcell). Her parents were Irish-born Catholics whose parents had emigrated from Ireland during the Potato Famine of the mid-1800s—the Higgins family to Canada and the Purcell family to the US. 

As a youth, Higgins crossed the border to the US. and served as a Union soldier in the Civil War. He never returned to Canada, which was disliked by the Irish because of its ties to Britain.

It has been a good many years since I read " Crime and Punishment " by Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky.  

It is essentially the story of a man who does something terrible, lives to regret it and how WE, as humans, are ultimately responsible for how we live our lives. We may seek redemption but we cannot turn the clock back and undo what one has done. 

All we can do is live with the consequences, try not to repeat our mistakes and hope like hell that those around us cut us some slack if we rectify our behaviour and start being productive members of society.

Certainly, our leaders who advocated for vaccines, masks, lockdowns and social destruction don't seem to be doing a damn thing about ensuring that they do not repeat their mistakes. The problem is that WE have to live with THEIR mistakes. And they are still hell-bent on repeating them. 

Comedy. The Last Frontier. 

The Marshalls have moved in. The posses are out in force. The lynch mobs are around every piece of tumbleweed, ambush alley or Acme shed. 

No one is safe from the hanging tree if you are white, heterosexual, conservative and can still have a  laugh.  Hell, even the black conservatives are in the firing line. 

In a world where political correctness tiptoes on eggshells, navigating the fine line between being offended and being offensive has become an art form.   

All I can say is no wonder the chicken crossed the road. She hoped it would be safer on the other side. Only it isn't. Because to get to the other side means you have to cross a highway of laws, hate speech accusations and lawsuits. The poor chicken rarely makes it. And, if she does, she is roasted for giving a cluck. 

Every joke these days is reported to a moderator on social media because someone was offended. It seems to me that to laugh these days, is offensive. 

I have always been fascinated by lighthouses. The power of a man-made structure standing as a guardian to shield us from the fury and power of the sea. 

Though, these days, we seem to need men to stand as guardians to shield us from the fury and power of our fellow man and government.

It struck me that when we confront problems head on, we find solutions. Ignoring the incoming storm does not make it go away. 

Without a light to guide us during the tempest, we are doomed to a life in darkness and perpetual fear of being drowned by a tempest that seems to be building by the day. 

Speckled about the steep slopes are clumps of small, fieldstone cottages. Their crumbling mortar and aging stones are victim to the ravages of time. Sprawling green meadows, vivid and fertile lay terraced and latticed-worked with pastel pinks and blues of the prolific hydrangeas which form hedgerows and borders.

Throughout the town streets are narrow, they dart willy-nilly between tall houses.  The hooves of a horse resound as it gently picks its way over dark cobblestones  polished to a sheen by countless feet before. Upon its weary back and mounted side-saddle an old man journeys.

Although late summer the air is already crisp as it transports and mingles the salty tang of sea and other heady aromas that give a hint to the freshly made cheese and bread still browning in the ovens. This, somehow, remains commonplace to the people of the Azores.