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Our gardens are nearly planted now; we’ve had to replant the corn, and we are into full-time weeding. Can you hear the creaking of our back bones and knee joints? I am reminded of the “Spinal Tap” t-shirt. 😊 This is the time when we hope Percy Bysshe Shelley *is right when he says “I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, from the seas and the streams. I bring light shade for the leaves, when laid in their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken the sweet buds, every one.” Our gardens need neither our recent down-pours nor last year’s weeks of sun. They want gentle showers and sunshine on days in between, so, we plant and hope for the best. Kerm and I disagree, slightly, regarding planting. He makes straight rows, measured, and with string. And he reads the back of each packet and plants things just as far apart as the blurb on the packet says. I measure nothing and make my rows straight according to my eyes. Well, you all know my eyes aren’t very good now, so the rows might wobble a bit. And it is my thinking that the closer together the plants are, the less room for weeds. We have had a few words about this in years past. 😊 This year, however, my energy being what it is, Kerm planted more of the garden than usual. And I mostly kept quiet; he who plants gets to do it his way. So, this year, anyone may come and admire straight, well-spaced potatoes, cucumbers, tomatoes, cosmos and sunflowers. The peas, green onions, lettuce, and zinnias --- my contribution ---- may wander a bit! On the 14th, we have a day for many things, but first and foremost, it is Flag Day - a neglected holiday, in recent years. Flag Day marks and celebrates the adoption of our stars and stripes banner in 1777. After my parents’ generation, flag information and protocol have been neglected. In fact, I would guess that very few in Congress or the White House are cognizant about Flag Day. The flag should never touch the ground or floor, or be wrapped around one’s shoulders or used to sit on. When it is presented, everyone should stand, and it is hats off for the men. There should be no fooling around or lack of attention when the Star-Spangled Banner is sung, and/or the Pledge is given. Many people have died to keep that flag flying and to keep our nation free of tyranny, and apparently, the struggle is not over. Awareness and respect are due to our national symbol regardless of whose politics you do not like. I’ve always thought that burning the flag is a bad way to indicate dissatisfaction with government. The flag represents all of us, not just those in power. It represents all of our originally fine ideals in the Constitution, the Bill of Rights. So, when destroying the flag, we are showing our rebellion against the very ideals upon which our nation was formed. I’m sharing here the last two stanzas of the poem, “George Washington” by Rosemary and Stephen Vincent Benet:** “Sing for Emperor Washington, the hero of renown, who freed his land from Britain’s rule to win a golden crown! No, no, that’s what George might have won but he didn’t, for he said: ‘there’s not much point about a king, they’re pretty but they’re apt to sting, and as for crowns -----the heavy thing would only hurt my head’ he said. Sing for our George Washington! (At last I’ve got it right!) the first in war, the first in peace, the goodly and the great. But when you think about him now, from here to Valley Forge, remember this ----- he might have been a highly different specimen. And where on earth would we be then? I’m glad that George was George!” George Washington is often called the “Father of our country,” and now, in June, we celebrate our own fathers. Father’s Day, early this year, June 15th. I’ve written about my father recently, so you all know about him; a man who was flawed but intelligent and caring. In addition to Dad, my three older brothers often had fatherly (and sometimes annoying) impact. My brother, Frank was 20 years older, so I grew up with some of his children and was underfoot. Later, he enabled my presence at NY State Fair for a couple of years; he was superintendent of the hog barn there and he allowed me to sleep in the back of his truck (on a soft bed of straw), so he could keep an eye on me. He subsidized my lunch money when I was running low, but not without a lecture on money-management. My middle brother, Donal, taught me to shoot and in later years, stopped by my office to chat. My third brother, Ken, took me on a couple of trips (when he was buying Berkshire pigs), supposedly to help keep him awake. He taught me to walk on the inside of the sidewalk, to order properly in a good restaurant and forgave me when I fell asleep and neglected my duties. My brother-in-law, Raymond, checked out my dates. He sat in our living room when a new one came to pick me up, and the next day, would give me his opinion. 😊 There are many excellent fathers in this world; men who are a role model for not only their children, but others too. Kermit is one of those. He worked with many, many kids through 4-H, and at home too; our house was usually full of teens. As for my father on this day? I wish I could share with him his favorite dessert; a dish of home-made vanilla ice cream with real maple syrup. June is full of special days, and on the 19th is Juneteenth. This is a celebration of the final enforcement of “no slavery in the United States.” After the Civil War, some places, at a distance from news and Washington, DC, apparently didn’t get the mandate, or ignored it. Juneteenth marks the day when finally, nation-wide, slavery was known to be illegal. I am quite sure if I had been a slave, I’d want to celebrate as loudly, as fully, and as long, as I could. This should have been a holiday decades ago, so there is a lot of celebrating due to make up for all those years of neglecting this occasion. We should all be rejoicing that we’ve become civilized enough to recognize that holding people as property is immoral and a contradiction to all of our principles. The Summer Solstice is a week away. And along with that comes Mid-summer Night’s Eve, a magical, pagan observance. Pixies, elves, faeries, and gnomes - all part of the legends surrounding this day and night. The days have stretched out to their limit, and from then on, until the Winter Solstice, the daylight will diminish. I keep thinking that I will go out on Mid-summer Night’s Eve, just to see if I can find an elf or two,or perhaps I will roll a burning wheel downhill as they did in some Celtic communities. But sadly, when night comes, I’m usually falling asleep by 10:00; staying awake until the wee hours is no longer so easy. And of course, since we have visiting bears who come unannounced, sitting outside in the dark doesn’t seem all that sensible. June brings haying season, which emits a more desirable aroma than the earlier spring processes of spreading barn waste on the fields. Growing up on a farm naturally included helping in the hayfields. Our farm had a round baler, not one of those huge things of today, but one that made bales of lighter weight than the square bales of the time. Bales that we girls (my nieces and I) could lift. Mostly we just tipped them from the wagon onto the elevator that then took them into the mow. In June, if the cows are lucky, they are out into the fields. Some cows are kept inside the barn 24/7 all year. They are the unlucky ones.) Animals should be treated kindly ---- and time outside in the fresh air with freedom to run is one of those things they deserve. Seeing cows released from the barn onto a green field is a delight; they kick up their heels and gallop in visible joy. There is a lot of work in June, but there must also be time to enjoy this month of peonies, roses, mock orange, iris and poppies. The fragrance floating around outside just has to be full of health-enhancing energy. Even the poets say: “What is so rare as a day in June?” *May your days, this month, be full of perfect sunshine, light rains and hours of peace. Carol Bossard writes from her hoime in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Percy Bysshe Shelly –English poet who was known for his romantic poetry and his radical social and political views. 1792-1822 **Rosemary & Stephen Vincent Benet---American writers, poets. Stephen is also known for his writing :”The Devil and Daniel Webster” . ***James Russell Lowell ---American poet, editor, critic and diplomat. 1819-1891.

“I’m dying,” the older woman says. Her name is Honey. She is in the meet-and-greet line after one of my shows. She holds one of my books. White hair. Tiny frame. Maybe five-foot. The theater ushers move her to the head of the line because she is using her roller walker. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she says through wheezing breaths. “Your name is Honey?” I say. “Yes.” “Why do they call you that?” She is too winded to answer my question. And she has a lot to get out, so she cuts right to the car chase. “Before I die I have always wanted to meet you. My son brought me here tonight.” Her son stands by. He is crying, too. Honey’s son’s wife is also crying. People nearby are crying. So I follow suit. If you can’t beat them, join them. I lower myself to Honey’s eye level. “You wanted to meet ME? Are you sure you don’t have me confused with someone else?” “I’m sure.” “Don’t you think it’s time to raise your standards?” “No.” Then we hug. Her body is so small and frail. During our embrace I can feel her ribs in my arms. I’m thinking I might break her if I squeeze too hard. Then again, what good is a hug if the other party doesn’t squeeze? You have to squeeze during a proper hug otherwise people will mistake you for a communist who doesn’t love the Lord. So I apply gentle—almost imperceptible pressure to our embrace. Neither of us let go for a little while. Two of us holding each other for a long time. Eyes closed. Honey says into my ear, “I love you. I’ve never met you, but I love you.” Still hugging. “Love you, too,” I whisper. “What’s killing you?” “Cancer.” There are rules to hugs. If you’re going to hug for more than five seconds, if you’re going to KEEP the hug going, it’s required to start rocking back and forth. Otherwise, as I say, communist. So we just sway for a few moments. Honey and I. Two bodies. Two humans. One love. When we release, I open my eyes and the real world is still there. People are looking at us. I wipe my eyes. The old woman kisses my cheek. She touches my face. Her eyes are bright. “Be a light,” she says. “Be such a bright light.” And now I know now why they call her Honey. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

We are coming to the end of a rainy but beautiful May. Those gardeners who didn’t succumb to the early-planting bug (who already have little green shoots in nice, neat rows) are planting gardens now. We were out yesterday putting in sunflowers and cosmos. Supposedly we are frost-free by the end of May, but I do remember a couple of June frosts. You’d have seen us running around and putting brown paper grocery bags over the tomatoes and old sheets over the corn and cucumbers. Lawns need mowing more often now. Peonies will soon be in bloom and roses will follow, to scent the air. Memorial Day is just past; it seemed very early this year. This holiday was quite special to me as a child, because I accompanied my parents to the cemeteries in Orleans County, where many of my mother’s family were buried, and Fairport, where my father’s father and aunts rested. When we went near Holly, that always included a visit to Grampa and Grandma Dusett. My mother took flowers (sometimes to plant), and as we went along, she told me about the names on those cemetery stones. In that way, my ancestors became quite real to me. Some of the names are so unused that they are enchanting: Huld Elizabeth Weatherwax (formerly Weiderwax in the Netherlands), Selenda Pellett, Abner Dusett (a carrot farmer), Aunt Belle Dibble, Jenny Mae Allen, etc. They are part of the tapestry that our family has become. I didn’t think much about the actual reason for Memorial Day back then, although I did have family members who were in WWs I and II, and in the Korean Conflict. My two older brothers, who were in WWII, taught me their military anthems for the Army and the Marines. I was only about 4 or 5, but with one finger, I could plunk out those two tunes, and also learned the words. Later, high school and college friends went to Vietnam, the sons of friends were called for the Gulf War, and a nephew served in Iraq and Afghanistan. Now I know a whole lot more about Memorial Day and wars. Currently, we are watching innocent civilians become collateral damage at the least, and perhaps even genocide, in Africa, the Ukraine, and the Middle East. As General Sherman said: “War is Hell!” And not just for soldiers---- for entire populations, for those who lose loved ones, for the economy of wherever the war is happening. Civilized people ought to be able to figure something else out, but apparently our primitive tribalism lingers. Even as we wish there were no wars, we have this special weekend to honor the people who did what they had to do because we haven’t figured it out. When celebrating Memorial Day, I mustn’t forget our local parades. My school didn’t have a special marching band at that time, but the concert band members became marchers for the Memorial Day Parade down the Main Street. In Junior Hi, even though my instrument was the flute, I marched with the Bell Lyre. I suppose they had enough flutes at that point, so I was assigned this large, instrument much like an upright xylophone. Its center spine fit into a leather pocket which was attached to straps over the shoulders. Then the 18-inch instrument tilted out from the body so it could be played with a “hammer.” And, hopefully, I could hammer the right metal strips while also marching along in, usually, heat and humidity. But small negatives like those didn’t deter us, for, who doesn’t love a parade? Other kinds of parades come with college graduations, and, in some states, high school graduations. High schools in NYS, graduate students in late June because of the infamous (my opinion only) Regents Exams. Graduations can be exciting, or merely an expected closure, depending on one’s attitude. High school graduation was exciting for me. I think we seniors all realized that life wouldn’t be the same anymore; that we, as individuals would be different the next time we saw each other, we would be experiencing a multitude of things from military service to marriage, to college or jobs. Graduation was, perhaps, more of a family event then too, rather than a time for a series of parties, as it is now. College graduation was, for me, sort of mundane. I was glad to be getting a diploma after four years of work and fun, and I dutifully listened to President Perkins, but I was far more focused on my wedding coming up that September. A lot of years have passed between that summer of wedding plans ----- and now. There have been difficult times, scary times and some grief-filled times. But mostly, they have been incredibly good years, with more fine memories than there are scrapbooks to put them in. One of the blessings of being old/elderly/aged/age-challenged 😊 ---- is that most of us have learned what really matters in life, and what can be shrugged off. One question we’ve learned to ask ourselves is: “Will this really matter in 5 years? In 10 years? Even a day from now?” We’ve learned that people we love should never be taken for granted, nor should disagreements become separators. We all need the love and affirmation we feel from family members and good friends, so nourish it. This little excerpt from Cowboy Lyrics by Robert V. Carr* sums it up nicely: “What’s the use to worry, or even to fret for the things of this world you will never get? An’ likewise it’s true fer me an’ fer, you, there’s jus about two tricks that we can do. Be as good as you know an’ cut out the bad, an allers be cheerful, an’ never get mad; For the frownin’ face gathers the wrinkles, my friend, an’ the smilin’ one stays like a boy’s to the end.” If you are on FB, you probably have seen several lit candles, suggesting that FB- users keep the candle burning for any number of causes. One I actually liked, suggested that we keep a candle burning in a window of our home, to let people know that “hope lives here.” I like it because, for many people, hope has been replaced by despair. Many observe the growing disturbances, and suffering around the world and in our own country. Whether it is the world situations, our national politics, or illness, people simply cannot see any light at the end of the tunnel ---- unless it is that proverbial freight train coming at them. They bear a daily burden of anxiety and discouragement, as they focus only on what is wrong. Since I believe we are all called to be beacons for someone; probably for more than one someone, the next questions must be “When things are so desperate, how do I keep my inner light burning brightly?” “Who lights my path? Who lights your path?” For some, it is a central spiritual belief; a tenet of faith that strengthens. For some, it is the experience that “this too, shall {eventually} pass.” Also, we should keep ourselves aware of all the good in the world as well as the bad. Frequently, the light comes from other people sharing their lights, metaphorically as we do at a Christmas Eve service. In that way we are beacons to each other. As I thought of people, over the years, who have kept me from despair, I realized that there were many. There have been family members, family friends, teachers, speakers and writers whose material has struck a chord. My parents lived through four wars and the Great Depression, and yet could still plan for the future, laugh with friends and go courageously ahead. So they were good examples, usually. All along the way people have shared their sparks and their radiance with me. Isolation is terrible for people. We need each other - we learn from each other and we hold each other up. It is a current practice in prisons to use isolation as a punishment. Perhaps a short-lived time out is appropriate, but continued isolation will only make that person desperate, unstable and even angrier. Therapy would be more useful for reformation although our prisons do not have restoration as a priority. Older people, living alone suffer from isolation. As one’s ability to move around, to drive, to hear, to participate in a social group dwindles, there will often be days and days without visitors or conversation. If you know someone who is alone, and home-bound, it would be a kindness to visit them, or even take them out for a ride. We may sometimes think that solitude away from this troubled world would be good, but too much of a “good” thing is not good for us! “No one is useless in this world who lightens the burden of anyone else.”** As we step out of May and into June, even as I wonder how May could possibly vanish so quickly. I’m hoping for a few more days of sunshine and rain drops in proper proportions. There is also a full “Strawberry Moon” in June. Congratulations to the graduates; may the time just ahead of you be a time of discovery and peace. Courage to those of you taking the NYS Regents exams (and any others); you will do better than you expect. And to those of us who are long out of school, may we look with pleasure on our summery world, and enjoy every moment. Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Robert V. Carr -American poet, well-known for his “Cowboy Lyrics.” *Charles Dickens –English novelist, journalist and social critic. 1812-1870. .

Obnoxious loud-talkers who sit at bars, rank right up there with dogs who lift their legs on your welcome mat. Take, for instance, the fella at the bar beside me. He launched into a well-rehearsed speech about his world travels. First, the Alps. Then, Belgium, France, Italy, South Africa, Timbuktu. By then, people at the bar had cleared out. He asked me, “You done much traveling?” I shook my head and said, “No, but I’ve woken up in a cattle pasture.” Loud-Talker rolled his eyes. “See?” he went on. “Now THAT’S your problem. You can’t find your true-self unless you TRAVEL!” So, I paid my tab and traveled my true-self outside. The truth is, I’ve never owned a passport, never stepped foot in Canada, and the closest I’ve come to self-discovery was South Texas in July, where I saw a real mirage. I’m uninteresting on paper. I concede. But I regret nothing. My life hasn’t been bad. After all, I’ve known exceptional people. Like my friend who I’ll call, Alan. Alan has no face. Nothing but eyes and pink flesh. This happened when he woke up in a burning mobile home. Pieces of the smoldering ceiling fell on his face while he slept. Alan taught me more about life than any passport could. I’ve also done fun things: I’ve fallen asleep in the Conecuh River—only to wake up half-naked, sunburned, and lost. I’ve climbed hundred-foot oaks. I’ve seen every Andy Griffith episode. I’ve worked construction with Mexicans who cooked lunch on their tailgates. I’ve watched the sunrise on the beach with Guillermo, Gehu, and Paco, who all missed their mamas. I’ve sat in Bryant-Denny stadium and gone deaf. I’ve visited nursing homes and heard stories from the elderly—who know exponentially more than I do. I’ve laid good dogs in the dirt. I’ve visited Lambert’s, in Foley, Alabama. You want more? Fine. I’ve known love. In fact, I know her so well, she took my last name. I’m also proud to say that at important dinners, I’m the guest of honor at the kids table. I’ve stood around a fire-pit with Mama, discussing the man whose ashes we scattered in the mountains. I’ve played the triangle-game in Cracker Barrel, and won. I’ve watched my buddy Alan strut into a supermarket, knowing full well that everyone would stare at him. And that some folks wouldn’t have the stomachs to look very long. And Alan has the gall not hold it against them. Loud-Talker told me he discovered his true-self on the streets of Kathmandu. Well. I just hope he realizes how lucky he is. Alan found himself the hard way. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

June has sped by so fast that it feels like “one busy week!” Within that time, there have been some fun days. We’ve enjoyed breakfasts and luncheons with friends, a couple of alumni events where I connected with former classmates, family time with our returnees from Ireland, hearing all about the green, green lands across the ocean, and family time with our son in agricultural research and daughter-in-law with a Food Bank ---- both dreading the funding cuts that will hurt people immeasurably. The month hasn’t all been fun though; we have heard of serious illnesses attacking two of our good friends, one death in our extended family, and some serious health issues with two of my family members. On a brighter note, our gardens are doing their best to grow amid the rains, and now the intense heat. The lawns are demanding at least a weekly mowing. School is out and motorcycles zoom by our house in a very noisy celebration of summer. All of our breakfast and luncheon dates were very good times, but one was super-good because it addressed some of my health issues, and those of a friend with a brain tumor. Father Peter, a friend who is a Franciscan brother, brought his anointing oil, and in the grill where we were eating, we had a quiet little healing service. Whether it cured all my problems, I’m not sure, but it certainly healed some of my attitude and perhaps that was more important. Our time spent with friends in Pennsylvania was also good; even though we’ve been gone from there for 50 years, our friendships made there are strong.. We are only nine days from July 4th, the celebration of our nation’s beginnings -- Independence Day. All of us should rejoice, from sea to shining sea, and from the Canadian border to the Gulf of Mexico. Those whose ancestors were here when Europeans came bumbling in, those who settled here before the Revolution (my mother’s French family), those who came here more recently; those of us with all shades of skin colors, all kinds of education, all ways of worshipping, or to not worshipping at all. We all belong, and together, have a responsibility to protect the democratic values upon which this nation was built. If you are one who shrugs, and sees no necessity for continual maintenance of our freedoms, then you should re-read the Constitution. Also, the Gettysburg Address, the Emancipation Proclamation, and the words engraved on the Statue of Liberty. You can’t help but see that we don’t practice what these documents preach. After doing so, take yourself to some quiet place, like a Native American vision quest, and think about where your beliefs come from; should they be adjusted? Do our beliefs stem from culture, or wisdom? Consider what you can do that builds this country. Anyone can tear down and criticize, but it takes skill, understanding, and love, to build. Kerm and I watched the National Spelling Bee recently, and it reminded me of our high school contests, including a speaking contest, which I won when I was a junior. I chose to speak about the Statue of Liberty. Sometimes, even a teenager can get it right. Back in 1885, the United States was such a shining light amid all the monarchies and dictatorships, that France chose to send us the State of Liberty as a gift of appreciation. Read here what it says: “Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame*, with conquering limbs astride from land to land. Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand a mighty woman with a torch, whose flame is the imprisoned lightening, and her name The Mother of Exiles. From her beacon hand glows the world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command the air-bridged harbor…’Keep ancient lands your storied pomp’ she cries with silent lips. ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of y our teeming shores. Send these the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden shore.’”* All countries have growing pains! In the process of separating ourselves from overlords, and from various kinds of class and caste systems, we have been idealistic, we have behaved with cruelty as well as compassion, we’ve been courageous but also grasping. We have made grave errors in policy, but also have tried to create safety nets, correct injustices and continually work for better things. We often disagree about what those “better things” are, and how to achieve them, which is why open dialogue is so important. We must be willing to listen! To change our ideas as we learn more! Maya Angelo said: “When you learn better, do better!” and that generally means change, which none of us like. Without change though, water grows stagnant, butterflies never hatch and we would still be bowing before a monarch across the ocean. I wonder how many of us would have been Tories? It would have been conservative and safe! It is our duty to our forebearers and to all the people who have worked and died, to nurture or save our country. We are great because of the wonderful mix of individuals, along with individual freedoms and responsibility taken on by our citizens. We do not approve of “collateral damage” to gain ends. We uphold our right to protest what we do not like, to work toward change and to be able to speak our opinions, openly. In this difficult time, let us not only remember from whence we came, but try to live out those words on the Lady Liberty and in all our founding documents. We’ve nearly reached the end of June, and, will soon find ourselves perspiring into July, often our warmest month. However, the temperatures of this week are too warm for me. In the last few years, “warm”, in many places, has changed to unbearably hot. Did you know that just last week, Fairbanks, Alaska, issued a heat warning for the first time in history? My July days, when a child, didn’t seem overly hot. They were, however, relatively lazy, and sometimes inventive for fun. I read a lot on the shady front porch. Of course, there were frequent calls from reading, to duty in the garden (weeding) or the barn (feeding calves, gathering eggs), or the hayfield (driving tractor) but mostly, summer meant books, long walks in our fields and woods, and playing with a friend or two (Bonnie and Sharon) and my two eldest nieces (Jan and Barbara). We made little villages using stones, acorns, hollyhock dolls and anything else we could lay hands on. We played “dress-up” and were mad about paper dolls. For a couple of years, there were swimming lessons at Canandaigua Lake, and 4-H camp in the Bristol Hills. As a teenager, there were summer jobs, first at Exit 45 Thruway restaurant, the next summer was at the Locust Hill Country Club, then a counselor for 4-H Camp and in college, Cooperative Extension summer programs. Now, my summers fly by, as I spend time in the garden, have a few gatherings with friends, and still, devour those books. There is no one now to call me from a book to other duties, so the books often win over washing dishes, laundry, etc. Now, at the end of June, we all celebrate the ending of the school year - graduations, changes from grade to grade, and freedom! Summer means starry nights, fire flies (if you are fortunate), the sound of lawn mowers, and loud shouts from the village baseball field. It is a time to be glad, glad for our country, glad to remember who we are and from whence we come, glad that it isn’t snowing, and glad for orange popsicles dripping down our hand as we attempt to cool off with its icy goodness. Summer may be a time for trave tool. If so, listen to this bit of advice: “The main value of travel lies not in where you go, but in leaving where you have been. Go to a new place. Have your former gods challenged. Re-examine your axioms. Find out the evidence for your assumptions and you will, with luck, begin to set a true value on the environment from which you come.” ** Do not be satisfied with what is routine and comfortable. Life is full of change ---and some of those changes are good for each of us and all of us. This summer, try something new. Let it be a summer is for growth, for us as well as for the garden. Happy growing! Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *”The New Colossus” by Emma Lazarous. American poet and activist. 1849-1887. Note: The “new” Colossus as opposed to the former Colossus --- “Colossus of Rhodes, a huge bronze man, standing with legs straddling the Mandrakion Harbor, which is technically impossible, but believed to be true. One of the Seven Wonders of the World **Alan Grego --- a physician in family practice in Ohio; apparently a wise man, though my googling leaves me unsure about this quote’s source.

I got into an argument at the supermarket. This is how volatile our world is right now. It was in the checkout line. My opponent was not only clueless, but pigheaded, refusing all logic. The fact that my opponent is only 9 is no excuse. “I don’t like Superman,” the little boy said. “He’s kinda dumb.” At the time I was holding a Superman comic book, along with my other grocery items. They were selling comics in the checkout lane. The elderly lady cashier was just staring at us, arguing. “You don’t LIKE Superman?” I said. “Everyone likes Superman.” “I don’t know ANYONE who likes Superman,” said the boy. “I literally don’t even know who Superman is,” said the boy’s 7-year-old little sister. This is an affront. When I was a boy, everyone knew who Superman was. Namely, because Superman was a vital piece of boyhood. While girls were off playing “House,” developing useful life skills such as learning how to balance checkbooks and using EZ Bake ovens, boys were running around in our backyards wearing bath towels as capes. As a kid, you’d get into these wonderfully dramatic arguments with your buddies over which superhero was best. These topical disagreements usually centered around lesser superheroes like Batman, Spiderman, or Barbara Eden. But here’s the thing: Superman always won the argument. Because—hello?—he was Superman. My boyhood mind was consumed with Superman. I had Superman pajamas which looked exactly like his costume. I often wore them to school, beneath my clothes. During bathroom breaks I would tear off my civilian clothes and return to class in my heroic get-up. Mrs. Welch would refer to me as “Mister Kent” from there on. I wore those pajamas every day until there were holes in my little Super Butt. One day the pajamas mysteriously went missing. “I don’t know where they went,” my mother said. “Maybe I misplaced them.” I never forgave her for such an irresponsible oversight. As a boy, I ate, drank, and breathed Superman. A local radio station played old Superman shows every weekday after school. On Saturday mornings, I watched reruns of “Superman” with George Reeves. George Reeves was a terrific actor, perhaps the most gifted thespian who ever lived. To give you an idea how talented he was: Even though Clark and Superman were indistinguishable in appearance, nobody ever knew Clark and Superman were the same person. I carried my love of Superman well into my teens. I was a subscriber to Action Comics, which debuted Superman in 1938. I never missed an issue. My teens were hard years. I went through some very difficult stuff during my youth. We moved a lot. I dropped out of school. We weren’t exactly well-off, fiscally speaking. And to make matters worse, I had red hair. But no matter how bad it got, I always had Superman. I knew he wasn’t real, of course. But in a way, he kind of was. And he embodied more than truth, justice, and the American way. Aside from all the other super-powers, he was actually a nice guy. And believe me, Clark Kent had nearly every superpower known to man—flight, X-ray vision, super strength, heat vision, impenetrable skin, ice breath, superhuman hearing, electricity absorption, super speed, biological longevity, tactile telekinesis, microscopic vision, time travel, and (as seen in Superman #62) super-ventriloquism. And he was STILL painfully humble. Clark could have been the king of the world. Master of the universe. Had any girl he wanted. Won every high-school football game single handedly. Had his face on Fortune 500 magazine. He could have bullied the entire universe into his will. But he chose to be nothing. He chose to be anonymous. He chose horn-rimmed glasses. Would that I might be such a man. Superman’s popularity might have faded from mainstream attention, but I wonder what that says about us. Your modern Marvel-movie heroes are nothing like Supes. In fact, I’m not sure what your Marvel heroes are even fighting for these days except likes and shares. Not to be critical, but your modern cinematic superheroes are little more than clinically depressed computer-generated underwear models who DON’T EVEN HAVE CAPES. I placed my comic book on the conveyor belt. The little boy was still unconvinced. When the elderly lady cashier rang me up, she looked at the comic book and wore an amused smile. I asked the cashier, “Who do YOU think the best superhero is?” She thought about it. “Matthew McConaughey,” she said. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

Father's Day... a time to remember the dads we treasure. They've taught us well in the ways of life. I remember a lot about my dad. In fact, it would be fair to say that I had put him on a pedestal while growing up... not a wise placement for anyone. But it seems he could do anything and everything, a jack-of-all-trades, almost perfect in my little-girl eyes. Though none of us can measure up all the time, there is One who is perfect... who forgives all our failings... our heavenly Father. Yes, there is so much my Dad taught me and my five siblings, including all about the love of Jesus. As a small child on the farm, I would say, “Jesus is my best friend!” But, for a time as a teen, I forgot my childhood friend until my Dad reminded me of those words I used to say as a little girl. Oops! I loved playing board games on Sunday afternoons with my Dad, especially Scrabble. I love the challenge of this game and tend to play aggressively, perhaps because I was in tough competition with my Dad. Though I won only one game against him over those several years, it was a sweet victory knowing that I’d accomplished the win without his having given me an edge… his way of readying us for the world. He taught me honesty was the right way such that in 8th grade English class I chose to write an essay entitled “Honesty Is The Best Policy”, receiving a coveted A. Actually, I may have gotten writing and art abilities from him. Although he was an exceptional storyteller, perfectly imitating voice and mannerisms of various comedians, I speak best through the written word. He also had a gift for drawing with his talent for art passed on to me and my son. He loved trains, especially the old steam engines, having grown up next to the tracks in Clifton, NJ. I loved watching him as he built a passenger car for his train set, using tweezers to handle those tiny parts. I watched him build Packard and Duesenberg model cars, and a German Focke-Wulf plane from WWII, taking us with him as he flew it using a remote-control system… until an unexpected gust of wind dove and smashed the plane into the ground. As we grew up, we loved hearing Dad tell family stories of his and our childhoods. He had a gift for telling any story in a humorous unique way, and how I long to hear them all again. I asked him to write them down for posterity, but he never did. When he drove truck in the 1960s through the 1990s (and later huge tractors for an Iowan farmer), he’d come home with stories from the road. He shared radio routines by Bill Cosby and Southern Cajun comedians, recalling their stories and imitating accents perfectly! That was way better entertainment than TV any day! I recall a few stories of his time in the Army at Fort Greely, Alaska (1956-1957), a foreign assignment before official statehood. From 18 months to 2 years of age, I was too young to remember my 6-8 months at Delta Junction with my baby sister. But I also remember having heard how he, his best buddy Roland Neefe, and two other friends found a sunken rowboat. As it lay not far below the surface of a lake, they pulled it up, cleaned it off, and took it out to fish. It made for an interesting adventure to say the least – while they took turns fishing, the other three worked hard at bailing to keep the boat afloat! Now that’s dedicated fishermen! Fort Greely is also where he learned to drive big rigs. With someone ill, he was asked to take over in the motor pool one night. Proving he could handle backing up a trailer perfectly, the commanding officer asked where he’d learned to do that since everyone else struggled. “Backing up a manure spreader, Sir!” was his dutiful reply. They kept him in the motor pool, where he gained invaluable training for later driving 18-wheelers. He was also given a rare promotion because he took the time to thoroughly clean an office coffeepot, a skill learned from his Dutch immigrant mother who had taught him all aspects of housekeeping while growing up, like any good Dutch mother. When a general visited Fort Greely, the coffee-making task was passed off to my Dad as no one wanted to be making coffee for a general! He didn’t complain but took pains to provide a clean urn for making fresh-percolated coffee… which greatly impressed the general. When the general asked who made the coffee, the aide who was supposed to have made it “blamed” my Dad. Instead of the feared reprimand for the typically bad-tasting coffee the office was known for, the general complimented my father on making the best cup he’d ever tasted! Turning to the senior officer, he ordered him to give my father a promotion! When we were younger, he always had time for us. When we lived in Jersey, I loved it when he took us fishing at Garret Mountain in Clifton, Lake Hopatcong and Upper Greenwood Lake. It got me out of the city and into nature where I felt at ease. And, though I could never bring myself to touch those worms (still can’t!), let alone put them on a hook, and never did catch “the big one,” it was the quality time with our Dad that meant so much to us kids. As a tomboy, I especially enjoyed working outside with my Dad whether it was in the barn learning to care for the animals, in the huge vegetable gardens, or traipsing the fields and woods to hunt rabbits and deer. That love just naturally transferred to enjoying time spent working alongside my husband in the barn or in the yard, and growing and weeding gardens of my own. As we grew older, we teens were often in our own little world yet I still adored my Dad. He listened and gave sound advice. I recall the day he didn’t go to work, taking me instead for a drive to discuss a problem I was dealing with. At times though, I wasn’t ready to listen to him because, as life moved on, his anger took control and he wasn’t always there for us as a family, causing division with his divorce by expecting full support for his side. No parent in a divorce situation should ever do that their children. But I treasure our renewed relationship later in life. With apologies for my own errors as a teen, I heard his sadness as I expressed how family dysfunction affected all of us, and he understood my saying I/we all had needed him more than he realized when he was on the road for 2-4 weeks at a time. I appreciated his compliments on my writing for a local newspaper, my own blogs, publishing genealogy research on my mom’s ancestors in a nationally recognized journal (The New York Genealogical & Biographical Record), and for how well I raised my family and took care of my Mom, even saying he’d never realized all the difficulties I’d faced in my life. Honesty and forgiveness cleared the way for a better relationship with love expressed to both my parents. God truly takes our most difficult situations, working them for our good when we love Him, admit our errors, and make amends. My Dad’s careers changed from his love of farming, to driving a grain truck delivering feed to dairy farmers (winning top NY State Purina Feed salesman awards for 1961 and 1962), to carpentry with his Dad, a revered general contractor in northeast New Jersey, to driving an 18-wheeler hauling tanks locally and later OTR (over the road/cross country). When we lived in Clifton, NJ, he drove chemical tankers “locally” in northeast Jersey, southern New England, and New York City. What stories he brought home from his experiences! I got to ride with him only twice and wish it could have been more. But I was never so happy as when we moved back to New York on August 16, 1969! Though I hated city life, I can now look back at special memories of Clifton where I was born. As we settled into “backyard farming,” he taught me how to care for our mare, War Bugg, a granddaughter of Man O’ War, a retired Western working ranch registered Quarter Horse. One of his trucking buddies also rode the rodeo circuit and put War Bugg through her paces – she did a figure-eight so tight you’d’ve thought she’d fall over! I helped Dad build her corral and box stall in the barn, along with re-roofing and remodeling the old chicken coop for our flock. And then came the heavy-duty barn chores of bringing hay down out of the mow, hauling 50-lb bags of grain, mucking out the pens, learning to groom War Bugg and pick up her feet to clean the soft undersides, devouring books on horses and their care, dreaming of being an equine vet. I saw his deep concern when I stepped on a wasp’s nest in the haymow with 11 stings on my leg, and his gratefulness for my dousing him with a 5-gallon pail of water when a torch threatened to catch him on fire while trying to burn tent caterpillars, chuckling later that I almost drowned him! He did have a great sense of humor, which I valued in my husband Ed, too. But I also learned the hard way that running War Bugg flat out up the road and back could have killed her, hot, sweaty and lathered. Not realizing the depth of War Bugg’s Western training, I’d simply clicked my tongue and she took off like a rocket, so I let her run… on the paved road. I was scolded hard, yet taught to walk her slowly, allowing her to have only small sips of warm water till she cooled down. After riding her another time, I dismounted, tied her to the backyard light pole, and ran into the house briefly. On returning, I realized she’d pulled on and broken her bridle, standing as if still tied with reins straight down. And it was then I realized she was Western trained to be “ground tied” and to take off at the click of the tongue, very responsive to touch, the absolute best horse! I still miss her… and her gentle neighs when I put grain and hay in her feed trough. Soon enough, I got married and began a new life with my new family, while my siblings and parents scattered themselves around the U.S. Life changes, and we change with it. We learn from those childhood mistakes and grow up wiser for them. As a child, I teased Dad when he turned 30 that he was old, and that when he’d turn 50 he’d be “over the hill!” Well, Dad, guess what? Your oldest daughter reached that milestone a good ways back, and she’s still thankful to be alive and working! Giving him this writing in 2014 before he passed away April 17, 2015, his wedding anniversary with my Mom, he knew I felt blessed to have him as my Dad. Sometimes I wish I could go back and relive the childhood fun of days long ago, but I treasure those memories that linger still... and I love you, Dad! May you each be blessed with very special memories of your Dad, too! Happy Father’s Day! I Remember A Dad Linda A. Roorda ~ I remember a dad who took me fishin’ And remember a dad who hooked my worms, Who took those hooks from fishy mouths, And showed me the country way of life. ~ A family of six, two girls and four boys Fun and trouble we shared as we grew. From farms and fields to paved avenues, Walking and biking, exploring we went. ~ I remember a time spent playing games, A dad who’d not cheat for us to win. Family and friends and holiday dinners, Lakes and farms and countryside drives. ~ Weeds were the bane of childhood fun, So ‘tween the rows we ran and we played. But as I grew and matured in age, Weeding was therapy in gardens of mine. ~ I remember a dad who thrived on farming Livestock and gardens, and teaching me how. I remember a dad who took me huntin’ Scoutin’ the fields, always alert. ~ I remember a dad who taught us more For growing up we learn by example. I remember working alongside my dad Roofing a barn and building corrals. ~ I remember a dad whose gifts were given In fairness to meet each child’s desire. I remember a dad whose wisdom we honor In memories of caring and love in small ways. ~ I remember a dad who brought us laughter With Cajun and Cosby stories retold. For blessed with a gift of retelling tales Family and childhood events he recalled. ~ I remember a dad whose time was given To help his children face life’s turmoils. Time spent together are memories treasured For things done best put family first. ~ I remember a dad who taught me more To treasure my faith in Jesus my friend. In looking to Him as Savior and Lord, Salvation by Grace, not earned by my deed. ~ As I look back to days long ago, I remember the dad I knew so well. For I miss the dad who took me fishin’ And remember the dad who taught me more. ~ Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer.

Waffle House. My waitress has a bunch of tattoos. The women customers in the booth behind mine are talking about it in voices loud enough to alter the migratory patterns of waterfowl. “Did you see ALL her tattoos? Our waitress?” “I know.” “Why do they DO that to themselves?” “I know.” I personally do not have tattoos. I come from teetotalling fundamentalists whose moms ironed our Fruit of the Looms. If I had come home with, for example, a Superman tattoo on my chest, the proverbial fertilizer would have hit the proverbial oscillating fan. But I don’t dislike tattoos the way some do. No, tattoos weren’t in fashion when WE were young, but if they had been, believe me, we’d have them. I know this because during my youth members of my generation were clambering to purchase $10 polo shirts with $90 alligators embroidered on the fronts. My friend Pete and I were the only ones in the entire fifth grade who did not own Izod polo shirts. So Pete and I took matters into our own hands. Pete’s mom had an embroidery machine. We begged her to craft a dozen alligator patches to sew onto our Kmart polos and—voila!—instant cool factor. We gave Pete’s mom DETAILED instructions, then left her unsupervised. Which, looking back, was a mistake. Because Pete’s mother delivered 12 polo shirts bearing colorful patches of Snoopy, Papa Smurf, and four of the original seven dwarves. The waitress was visiting each table, warming up coffees. She visited two ladies behind me. The ladies represented my generation. Their conversation kept growing louder. “They just look so trashy. Tattoos.” “I know, I wish I could tell these kids, ‘Quit screwing up your bodies.’ It’s stupid.” The young waitress finally made it to my table. I saw her inkwork. Her arm was painted in a sleeve of faded reds and greens. Images of dragons adorned her forearms. “I like your ink,” I said. She smiled. Then she glanced at the ladies in the booth behind me, who were evidently trying to speak quietly but were still using voices that rattled most dental fillings. “Thanks,” my waitress said. That’s when I noticed a date inscribed beneath one of the dragon tats. The waitress noticed me staring. “It’s my son,” she said, giving me a better presentation of her artwork. “He used to LOVE dragons.” “What is your son’s name?” She smiled again. This smile looked like it hurt. “His name was Daniel.” Was. She moved away from my table and kept about her busywork. Meantime, the women behind me kept about theirs. “I see so many pretty girls with tattoos. I JUST don’t GET it.” “Why would anyone want to LOOK like that?” “No idea. I’d be SO embarrassed.” The waitress visited my table again. She tore off my check and placed it facedown. “Anything else?” she asked. “May I ask you a question?” I replied. She waited. “What happened to your son?” There were no tears in her eyes. But there were tears in her voice. “He was 11. His uncle was driving. It was instant.” None of us said anything. She looked at her own forearm and admired it. “My son designed this one.” The ladies behind me had quit talking. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

Maybe we don’t say it enough… those little words that mean so much - “You make a difference…” or “I appreciate you…” or “I love you!” Along with the words, there are ways we can show how much we care, and here are a few I’ve been pondering. Since retiring, I have totally enjoyed a second “career” - subbing in our public school district, and noticed something right away that has been consistent… the welcoming words and smiles from staff on up to the principals and superintendent – words of appreciation and thanks for coming in and helping out, for being there for the kids, no matter their age, from pre-K3 thru high school. And it got me to thinking about us as family and friends. I appreciate each of you for who you are, for your being a very special part of my life, for your kind loving words, for words of wisdom and words that teach me… Thank you! You’ve made a difference in my life! And I love you! In thinking about others, one of the best ways we can express how much we care is by simply serving them, expecting nothing in return. As the Apostle Paul wrote, “Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.” (Philippians 2:4) Ask how they’re doing and truly listen when they express life is not going so well. Make the effort to really understand what someone else might be feeling, or what they might be going through. Volunteer your time, that rare commodity in our hectic schedules. We can help those in a difficult situation, or those recovering from surgery or illness. We can provide a meal or simply give attention to a shut-in to let them know they’ve not been forgotten. Perhaps we’re able to volunteer in a program where serving will benefit many… such as the local fire department, ambulance squad, or a local food cupboard. There are so many ways we can share our time to express care. Be a mentor to others. Encourage them in their endeavors. Help them succeed. Lift them up emotionally. Listen to their concerns. Cheer them on! Perhaps helping to widen their horizon in a favorite hobby might lead them into a fulfilling venture. Be there for the grieving. Many words aren’t necessary. Simply ask how they’re doing. Sharing the silence with a hug and sitting with them brings comfort. Listen to their heart as they express their sorrow. Share their pain. Show you care. And know that so many have done this well. Give a smile to those you meet along your daily path, even strangers! Watch their face light up knowing that you care enough to share a simple smile to brighten their day! Be joyful for each other! Praise them for even their smallest accomplishments, and express how happy you are for them in their larger successes. Let someone know you'll pray for them. Make someone a gift using your special talents, or gift them something unique to their interests. Greet others with a genuine friendly tone. Share a positive attitude. Make others feel wanted and welcomed. Let them know how much you appreciate them and all that they do. With the passing of my friend Julie’s daughter a few years ago (the age of my children who shared my March birthday), I shed tears of sadness for her family in their deepest loss. She had become a dedicated funeral director, comforting those who grieved their loved ones. She moved on to a new job, showing those in need, and those she took care of in group homes, the depths of love from her heart. Loved by family and friends, she made a difference in the lives of others. Two years ago, I learned this month that my friend, Mimi (a distant cousin found when I was researching my Mom’s ancestry), was in serious condition in the ICU. My heart broke to hear that news, and then again when she passed away. Treasured like a sister, we bonded right away, learning we had so much in common when we first met online. We shared family ancestry data that we had gathered, while I learned much from her. A former nurse, she next found fulfillment as a teacher’s aide, assisting special needs children. In so many ways, she made a difference in the lives of those with whom she came in contact from her own caring and generous loving heart. In the past, I’ve shared some of our daughter Jenn’s writings for a college psych course, as a memorial to who she was. Passing away too young at 25 in 2003, she had much to look forward to, but God knew her days before even one of them came to be… She made a difference in the lives of everyone around her with gentleness, wisdom, and a kind and caring heart of love. As a sub for teachers and TAs since March 2021, I’ve enjoyed giving each of my students a listening ear and caring. Sometimes I feel like their “adopted grandmother”, giving time and attention as they each need. And it does my heart good to hear some of their comments, “You’re our favorite sub… we really appreciate you… it’s because you care.” Little do my students know that their responding well to my input and caring completes the circle of love. And I know that you, too, can name many examples of how others made a difference in the world around them, even in your life… just as you share this same loving kindness to make a difference in someone else’s life… someone in need of your compassion, comfort, kindness and generosity. Feel free to share your thoughts with us all below. We can each make a difference wherever we are in whatever we do! Shining our inner light as a reflection of Christ’s love within us, we let others know how much we care about them. Be the one who makes a difference in the world today! You Made A Difference… Linda A. Roorda You made a difference in the world today… You gave a smile to someone in need Your face truly showed you cared from the heart For your love was felt wrapped up in the glow. ~ You made a difference in the world today… You lent an ear to someone hurting You listened to tears and heard their story You held their heart in the depths of your soul. ~ You made a difference in the world today… You walked the path where a friend was plodding You carried their burden, you went the extra mile, You eased their stress and brought hope to their day. ~ You made a difference in the world today… Your hands rough and worn, were held out with warmth Bestowing attention, you covered their needs As your arms enveloped to guard and protect. ~ You made a difference in the world today… You spoke words of truth with gentle kindness You showed concern, asking how they were And shared their dreams scattered in the storm. ~ You made a difference in the world today… You took the time to sit in silence You held their hand bringing peace and comfort When their life was torn apart in sorrow. ~ You made a difference in the world today… You shared their joy with laughter’s ring You praised them for a job well done As your love and hugs showed the depth of care. ~~