Bainwright

The very first clip of COSMOS—this is where it all began. A voyage from the shores of Earth's oceans to the infinite expanses of the Milky Way, Andromeda, and beyond. Thank you, Carl, for taking us on this journey. We remain forever in your debt.

THIS IS WHY WE VOTED FOR TRUMP‼️ In my opinion, this is still the best pro Trump speech I’ve ever heard, and it was by the very liberal Michael Moore. 👀

In 1975, in Seward, Nebraska, a furniture dealer Harold Davisson decided to leave his descendants a tangible portrait of his era: A Chevy Vega buried in his backyard! He refused to trust the future with a few boxes of keepsakes. Harold Davisson of Seward, Nebraska, built something far larger: a 45-ton concrete vault sunk into his own backyard and packed with more than five thousand ordinary objects from 1975. At the center of it all sat a brand-new Chevrolet Vega, the cheapest model he could buy. He chose it on purpose. It was the plain, unremarkable car that millions of ordinary Americans drove every day. Davisson sealed the vault on July 4, 1975, with one clear order: do not open until July 4, 2025. Two years later the Guinness Book of World Records declared it the largest time capsule ever made. In 1983 he added a second layer of protection above the buried vault, a solid concrete pyramid. Inside that pyramid he placed a worn Toyota Corolla that had already lived ten hard years on the road, a deliberate contrast to the untouched Vega resting safely below. Davisson died in 1999. He never saw his creation opened. On June 26, 2025, his daughter Trish Davisson Johnson began the excavation. It took six hours of heavy work to cut through the concrete and finally free the vault from its half-century tomb. When the dust settled and daylight reached inside for the first time in fifty years, the Chevy Vega looked as if time itself had stopped. Its bright yellow paint was still vivid. The body was clean and intact. A license plate reading “2025” sat on the bumper. The odometer read zero miles. Beside the car stood a Kawasaki motorcycle, thousands of personal letters and messages from the people of Seward, small lucky charms and keepsakes, and one unforgettable aquamarine leisure suit covered in yellow flowers, a perfect frozen example of 1970s style and spirit. Hundreds of people traveled from across the country to stand at the edge of the open vault and look back through a window that had been sealed for half a century. What Davisson had intended as a private gift for his grandchildren became something larger: a direct, unbroken passage into the texture of everyday American life in the 1970s. A fragment of ordinary days, preserved in concrete and darkness until the light found it again.