King Henry VIII ruled over England from 1509 until 1547. He married six times, struggled with the Catholic Church, dissolved the English monasteries, started wars on a whim and executed more than 70,000 of his subjects. He was a complex mix of proud athlete, spoilt child and sexual predator, yet still became one of history's greatest English kings. The young Henry Tudor was never meant to be king it was supposed be his elder brother Arthur, the first born son of King Henry VII who won the crown from Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth Field in Leicestershire in 1485. King Henry VII, was very frugal and closely managed England's economy by raising taxes so that a prosperous kingdom would be passed to his son. England was always in danger of invasion from its powerful enemies, Spain and France. The king was determined to diminish this threat through a marital pact with Spain thus assuring a long lasting peace. Prince Arthur was to marry the King of Aragon's daughter, Catherine of Aragon which would cement the two countries in friendship. They were married in 1501 but Arthur suddenly died of the sweating sickness a few months later. This made the young Henry Tudor heir to the throne whilst Catherine of Aragon became an expensive embarrassment for both England and Spain. Prior to his brother's death Henry Tudor had lived the life of a wealthy young nobleman, he had enjoyed all of the privileges but avoided the responsibilities of an heir to the throne. He had lived an outdoor life, hunting and fishing, Henry excelled at physical sports such as archery, swordsmanship, wrestling and even tennis. He had become a free spirit. In addition Henry had a keen brain, finely nurtured by the best tutors in Europe which he shared with his brother. King Henry VII died in 1509, the young Henry being only eighteen years of age. Prior to his death the father had grave concerns about Catherine of Aragon and the possible collapse of the peace with Spain. He considered marrying young Henry to her, but the Catholic Church, the primary English religion, would not countenance such an option. His only hope was to persuade the Pope in Rome to issue a special dispensation based upon Arthur and Catherine's marriage never being consummated. The Pope eventually did this as a favour to the king rather than being based on proven facts. However, the young Henry initially refused, as a very pious religious scholar it conflicted with his Catholic teachings, although he finally recanted when requested by his father's dying wish. King Henry VIII and his Queen Catherine were crowned on 23rd June 1509 at Westminster Abbey. At the time Henry VIII was a fine specimen of six feet one inches tall and powerfully built. He had striking red hair and small watchful eyes. Living in an age where the average man rarely grew past five feet six inches, the new king must have appeared as a giant when moving amongst his people. Henry started his reign with good intentions. He recognised his father's rule had imposed excessive taxes and fostered corruption in the offices of power, he also saw the strain suffered by the average family when merely struggling to survive. To prove he would make things change he immediately arrested two of his father's most hated tax collectors and had them publically executed, he then redistributed a proportion of the taxes previously extorted from the poorest in society. This new king and queen soon became much loved, but Henry, unlike his father, was a spender. Fine clothes, expensive jewels, lavish settings and elaborate ceremonies became the order of the day and the kings court quickly became a running party for the most rich and famous nobles in the land. Still young, athletic and wallowing in self glory, Henry was hailed as the most handsome king in Europe. He was also a proud and boastful sportsman who would challenge any takers when an adoring audience could be attracted. Queen Catherine was also adored by the people in her own right and they were delighted when she fell pregnant at the thought of a male heir joining the fold. The king in readiness arranged great celebrations and jousting competitions, plus he had written hundreds of letters announcing the new prince's arrival. But when the child was born a girl, Mary, all such festivities were cancelled and the king's feigned joy of a first born soon faded. The king desperately wanted a son to follow the Tudor line and the queen's next pregnancies were miscarried or stillborn. Catherine was getting older and Henry took solace in his mistresses. One, Elisabeth Blount, gave him an illegitimate son which he acknowledged as Henry FitzRoy (son of the royal Henry), he was groomed for succession in the absence of a proper Tudor boy. But getting rid of Queen Catherine became the ‘Kings Great Matter' in a Catholic world where divorce was forbidden.
I recently lost my car (which I used to live in). I am currently living in low-income housing. I haven't worked in five months. I have no money for transportation (bus, or getting a ride from someone). I have had to cancel several job interviews because of transportation issues. I am currently taking several medications, one of which is critical for me, I haven't had them in over a month because I can't get transportation to the pharmacy and I don't have a dollar for the co-pay. I currently volunteer at a non-profit (it's within walking distance from my building). I won a funny (easter) bunny picture contest from radio station 104.7 (WAYZ). The prize was a $50 AC&T gift card. AC&T is a gas station/convenience store. I have no way to get to Greencastle, PA to pick up the card. I asked them to mail the card to me, but they said they couldn't mail it. So I told them to give the card to someone else. I am hoping my story will inspire someone perform a selfless act of kindness or to volunteer. No matter had bad your situation is, someone is always worse off than you.
My thirteen-year old grandson and I are flying together for the first time. Rainy England to sunny Spain. I hope to take him to Thailand to visit family there but first, secretly want to test his flying skills. I quickly learn he also has a hidden agenda; for the first time in his life to really, test my nana patience. During take-off he grabs my hand. In recent weeks he's been dodging family hugs and kisses - unless it's a pally high five you're not coming in. Talking him through any turns and tiny bumps I try further distraction with Pringles and Uno. “If you let go of the armrests we can play Uno. You'll give yourself cramp. Here, have a Pringle.” He gives a look I haven't seen before. One suggesting I'm a stranger. “Huh? I always sit like this.” Countless memories of him lounging disagree. Thrown, I use a wrong word. “Please, you'll give yourself dead arms.” I'm a jinx now. “Well, that won't matter if we crash, will it? All of me will be dead.” “Love, chances are we're not going to crash so it will matter when we land. I'm ancient! I can't carry all the bags myself!” Clearly, today I am ancient and, no longer funny. He looks away, sighing. “God.” But I do keep standards. “Please don't say that.” Which today he ignores. “Jeez. What's the time?” My patience rubs. “Please stop asking the time. Asking the time every five minutes won't get us there any quicker.Try to enjoy it! We're flying!” He's staring, “Don't remind me.What was that?!” “The wheels being released.” I sing a high-pitched joy, sweet joy. “We'll be landing soon!” Refusing my hand, he makes one last-ditch effort to pooh his teenage pants. Gripping knuckle white on the armrests he scrunches his eyes. “God. I hate landings. Landings are evil.” Distracted by his ears popping, something else on his loathe list, he misses the landing, looks up to see the cabin doors being opened: The ultimate despicable act, “Why are they putting the chute out?” Pettily I throw him the stranger look back. “Eh? Oh, they're not. We've landed, they're attaching the steps.” “God. I hate it when you don't know you've landed.” Had he been younger when we arrived in Barcelona I wondered if he would have done his happy dance. He used to do his happy dance whenever we'd had a tube journey in London and resurfaced back to fresh air. Arms and legs flying everywhere, singing nonsense at the top of his voice. Older, he reacts differently to stopping here. Waiting to disembark, “Hurry up. I need the toilet.” Highly likely, he refused to go an hour ago even though he said he was bursting. Queuing at Passport Control, “Get a move on. I'm starving.” Probably also true, he didn't eat anything because his hands were superglued to the armrests the entire time. Outside, standing for the coach transfer, “Whennn? I'm melting.” Remember this? I've brought him from rainy England to sunny Spain. FOR A SUNSHINE HOLIDAY. My patience flies. I lift my face skywards. “Me too. Lovely, isn't it? Can't wait to take my shoes off.” By way of some small sympathy I suggest he move to stand under shade. He stands his heated ground, “I want to see when the coach comes.” I dig deeper, “Would you like another drink?” As does he, “Nah, I want a shower.” Nah? What is nah? I flip a funny. “Nah? Lazybones! That's only half my name!” Deadpan, he comedies too. “Alright, Sal.” I ask, during our transfer to Calella, what he's looking forward to most. “Swimming pool? Beach? Paella in Calella?”. In a bid to lighten the mood again I pronounce my last option as flamboyantly Spanish as possible. Not colourful enough. “Getting there. The music he's playing is driving me mad.” I agree, try again. “Then Paella in Calella?” My foody persistence elicits a half smile a semi-agreeable palm wave, “As long as it hasn't got mussels in. I hate mussels in paella. They look… dead.” I give him that one, “They are.” My standards however, thrive, “Hate's a very strong word.” That old chestnut. “You always say that.” Here's a new one. “I don't really do beaches.” Too much to say, much too much. I bite my tongue, “Paella in Calella it is then!” Dramatically hand gesturing I accidentally flick him in the eye. “Ouch!” He bursts out laughing, playfully punches, “Nana! Stop beating me up!” Our travel agreement for the rest of that day can be summed up thus: Don't expect him to eat mussels or take his shoes off on the beach. Don't expect me to take his moodiness to heart or keep mine on. Naturally, he throws curve balls. One of them, “Do buses run from Barcelona to London. We could get the bus back?” is still winging its unquantified way through the airwaves somewhere. Another, “Nana, don't take this the wrong way but I think you might be going a bit deaf.” whooshes closely behind. Three months later, still honing our foreign flight compatibilities but now at, long haul speed, we arrive safely together in Bangkok. Our seven weeks stay in Thailand is anything but dull; some of our selfies even show us smiling.