Have you ever visited a history museum or a battlefield with your school, when the teacher would give you a cannonball to hold and demonstrate how heavy it was, describing the sounds of battles and explosions in the open field? These experiences encouraged people to think, and provided a glimpse into our history and the physical reminders of conflicts that defined a country.
Cannonballs, the huge iron balls that used to roll out of the barrels of cannons, are typical relics of warfare of earlier centuries. Its basic yet effective structure was instrumental in battles from the medieval period up to the 19th century. Made from solid or hollow iron, these round shaped projectiles were used to knock down walls, disperse the enemies and to pierce through the sides of the enemy ships.
Cannonballs provide a rich understanding of how wars have been fought and the technologies used in the course of history. Every cannonball found or conserved today has a tale of ancient battles and the unrelenting search for military improvement. They were not just weapons of the warfare but also means that played a role in determining the fate of major battles and thus history. Their application and evolution offer an interesting insight into the creativity and adaptability of the military engineers of the past.
To those who collect antiques, an old cannonball is a precious find, a piece that tells a story of great history. People keep these artifacts as trophies for their historical value and the tales that are told by the rust marks on the items. But it is important that collectors do not mishandle these pieces as some of the older cannonballs may still contain unexploded explosives
Thinking about the cannonball, we recall that people are capable of both dеstruсtiоn and innovation. Nowadays, as we showcase these relics in museums or preserve them as antiques, they become sources of information and topics for discussion that can pique the curiosity of people and make them more aware of history.
In conclusion, whether one considers cannonballs to be valuable collectibles or relics of the past, they remind us to look into the past to learn more about our forebears’ victories and tribulations. They urge people to protect and cherish the culture and history so that the coming generations may be able to understand and feel it as we do.
My Stepdaughter Insisted I Reassign All Her Deceased Father’s Possessions into Her Name – I Complied, Yet She Was Unpleased
The emptiness of George’s departure permeates their residence, his presence enduring in the shirt Mariana grips nightly. However, it wasn’t his passing that devastated her… it was her stepdaughter Susan’s insistence on inheriting his wealth. When she reluctantly agreed, an unexpected twist left Susan enraged and Mariana strangely content.
Progressing past the death of a dear one is always challenging. At times, I still sense my husband George’s voice echoing in my mind. I awaken holding his cherished shirt, his fragrance still clinging to the material. Yet, as I mourned him, my stepdaughter’s actions… they utterly broke me…
I am Mariana, aged 57, wed to the kindest man, George, for 25 years. He had a daughter, Susan, aged 34, from an earlier marriage.
Our bond with Susan was once good. She addressed me as “Mom” and filled the gap in my heart from not bearing my own children. I never viewed her as “another’s” child. I cherished her as my own daughter, truly.
When Susan wed her chosen partner, George and I were thrilled. But then, everything deteriorated when George received a terminal cancer diagnosis.
Susan’s visits reduced from weekly to monthly, then ceased entirely. She seldom visited her father, occasionally phoning to inquire about his health.
One day, she posed a question that tore me apart. “How long does he have left?”
Clutching the phone tightly, my voice shook. “Susan, your father isn’t an item with an expiration date.”
“I just need to know, Mom. I’m swamped, you know that… I can’t come by often,” she responded.
“Swamped?” I repeated, my tone filled with disbelief. “Too swamped to visit your dying father?”
She exhaled deeply. “Look, I’ll attempt to come soon, okay?”
But that “soon” never materialized.
Then, the dreaded day arrived. The hospital informed me that George had passed away peacefully.
I was devastated, barely able to stand as the reality sank in. My beloved George, gone.
Shockingly, Susan didn’t attend his funeral. When I called her, she promptly excused herself.
“I’m expecting, Mom,” she stated, her tone strangely indifferent. “The doctors advised against lengthy travel due to some medical concerns.”
I swallowed hard, holding back tears. “But Susan, it’s your father’s funeral. Don’t you wish to bid him farewell one last time?”
“I can’t jeopardize my baby’s health,” she curtly replied. “You understand, right?”
I didn’t, not truly, but I nodded silently, forgetting she couldn’t see me. “Of course, dear. Take care.”
As I sat near my husband’s coffin, I couldn’t dismiss the notion that our relationship had irrevocably changed.
Six months post-George’s death, I was startled by a loud knock at my door. Opening it, I saw Susan and her husband Doug, along with a severe-looking man in a suit.
Susan entered without greeting. “Mom, we need your signature on some documents.”
Baffled, I blinked. “Which documents?”
Doug handed me a stack of papers, including a blank sheet. “Just sign these. They’re for transferring all the properties into our names.”
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