![]() Right on the oh-my-posh GitHub page, Quote: there are a lot of specialized fonts that don't have every character location defined. When you see boxes, that means that the font doesn't have that specified character. I would absolutely appreciate it a lot if anyone can help me out of this mess and suggest what to do to fix my prompt. I think I have met all the prerequisites to use oh-my-posh like install posh-git and PSReadLine and having powerline Cascadia Code font and also using ConEmu as they officially suggest. There is a weird question mark after "master". But it does get worse if I change repository: It's better in a way that I can see the Python symbol and some more symbols but still there is one box that cannot be rendered. Then I set ConEmu's font to Cascadia which I installed from nerdfonts and this happened: ![]() Next, trying to fix this, I went to and I installed Cascadia Code from there as opposed to Microsoft's official GitHub repository. I would also like to tell that I am using Cascadia Code as my font and also this is the Powerline version of Cascadia Code. The colors and the design are beautiful and I want to use it but those weird boxes are keeping me from doing that. But I saw some empty boxes in random places in my Prompt.Īnd this is an issue that I face on all the themes. I installed oh-my-posh and the Paradox theme looked nice. I found out about posh-git and oh-my-posh and how they can customize your PowerShell experience. Since I am not on Windows 10, I cannot use Windows Terminal but ConEmu is not bad at all. I find that ConEmu is a really good terminal. Lots of elderly people once lived in small towns and encountered authentic train-hopping hobos.I use PowerShell as my shell on Windows 7. If Willy Howard were alive today, he would be nearly 120 years old since it’s unlikely that you’ll meet another Willy, your next best bet is to glean a first-hand account of long-ago hobos from an elderly person who encountered them as a kid. We were like two men who briefly shared a box car, never to meet again. The way it happened, a nurse walked in and handed me my discharge papers while Willy was out getting X-rays. He settled on industrial work in Trenton’s many factories, which is how we crossed paths. He owned and ran a lunch wagon that was a victim of sabotage. Willy went on to various gigs after his road-bound days were over. ![]() Men like Willy filled me in on the specifics, and they left me awed by the hardships they survived. The thing I’ll always remember from his first-person account: It was not an easy life, and romanticized versions of it are, at best, misleading. Others were kooks, and some were dangerous scoundrels-or some combination thereof. He had a small dog that kept him company and would even ride a hay rake with him when he found work on the many farms that dotted the countryside. On that long-ago October afternoon, Willy told me about back-breaking farm work, long hot days and long cold nights. Trains were relatively easy to hop aboard when they slowed at switch points, long bends, and creaky bridges. Prior to the advent of the Interstate Highway System after World War II, the railroad was sometimes the only practical means of getting goods where they needed to go. And when he couldn’t do that, he went hungry, which was often.įreight lines were a steel highway to ship goods through the U.S. And when he couldn’t find it, he scrounged. Willy became a hobo, a footloose worker who took employment whenever and wherever he could. But when steady work dried up, he did what hundreds of thousands did during the Great Depression: He hopped a freight train. In the South, he’d found work wherever he could, sometimes riding out into the countryside in a Model T with a root doctor, a skilled rural practitioner who used roots and natural remedies. “That blanket feels good,” he said, “like a warm piece a’ bread.” Suddenly in a reflective mood, he turned to me and with a weary grin, said, “For a white boy, you’re okay,” and proceeded to tell me what it was like to be a Black man who came north from Georgia in the 1930s. When the hospital room’s heat failed, I gave him one of my blankets. One morning I fished Willy’s slippers out from under the bed.
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