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Wake up early. Saturday morning. Leap out of bed. Oh, the bliss. You sprint to the television set, racing your sister. Last one’s a rotten egg. You are still wearing Superman pajamas. Beneath your Man-of-Steel PJs, you’re wearing Batman skivvies, which is a slight conflict of interest, but you make it work. You slap the power button on TV. The old Zenith console warms up. The television is cased in a faux wooden cabinet, with warped oak-grain veneer from a bygone Dr. Pepper someone once placed atop the television, even though this someone’s mother told them to NEVER set ANYTHING atop the TV, not that we’re naming names here. So anyway, you’d sit on the floor, before the old tube, criss-crossed, which we used to call sitting “Indian style.” (No hate mail!) Cartoons blared. It was undefiled rapture. Until your mom yelled from the other room, “Don’t sit so close to the TV or you’ll hurt your eyes!” But you HAD to sit close. They were playing all the greats today. Bugs, Daffy, Elmer, Porky, Marvin the Martian. Yosemite Sam growled, “Say your prayers, varmint!” Speedy Gonzales would be chirping, “Ándale, ándale!” Wile E. Coyote and the bird were hard after it. Then came Yogi and Boo Boo, “Smarter than the average bear.” George, Jane, Judy, and Elroy. Fred, Barney, Wilma, Betty, and Mister Slate. After cartoons, you’d eat a wholesome breakfast of Rice Krispies. Rice Krispies had the same dietary value of No. 4 Styrofoam packing pellets. But it was okay. Your mom increased the nutritive value by topping your cereal with liberal spoonfuls of refined white sugar. Next, it was time to go outside and play. Mainly, we played Army Man. We used imitation firearms, pump rifle BB guns, and Andy’s dad even had a real bayonet from World War I. We used these items to keep America safe from the spread of Russian communism. Sometimes, however, we played Cops and Robbers. Or, Cowboys and You-Know-Whats. (Stop typing that email!) Then we’d hop on our bikes and ride to the closest filling station where we would purchase Nehis, or Ko-Kolas and peanuts, or Moonpies and RCs. We rode bikes great distances. Unsupervised. Without helmets. Usually, we’d try to convince Mister Peavler behind the gas station counter to sell us some tobacco for (air quotes) “our father.” Usually it was Copenhagen chew, Beech-Nut, or Red Man. (Do not send that email!). Sunday mornings were even better. You’d run out to the driveway, early before church, wearing your little trousers and penny loafers. There by the mailbox was a newspaper, rolled in a tube about the size of a NASA Saturn rocket. The paper was so big it required four or five men just to lift. The paper was jam packed with coupons for Mom, box scores for the old man, and just for you: Three pages of full-color funny papers. You had Dick Tracy, Peanuts, Garfield, Family Circle, Calvin and Hobbes, Wizard of ID, Andy Capp, B.C., Blondie. God bless the Far Side. Many of those things are gone now. But you can still remember it all. The way you felt. The way you looked. The way you would read the paper all morning until it was time for the family to go to church by piling into your dad’s old Jeep Cherokee. (What the heck. Go ahead and send the email.) 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

Once upon a time, when I was still a paramedic and we’d just finished a particularly unusual call, I remarked to the E.R. doctor that someday I was going to write a book about what it’s like in that world. “Honey, they’ll never believe it,” she said. And I know now that she was right. Between my time on the streets and later when I worked in the emergency department, I spent sixteen years of my life, from age nineteen to my mid-thirties, seeing and dealing with the worst that humanity has to offer. Blood, brains, guts and more… If I knew then what I know now, I’d go back to 1994 and stop nineteen year old me from walking in that door for an interview. Then again, maybe not. Because I also know that with the bad came some good. That every now and then someone got a second chance, some are still alive today, because I was there and told Death, “No.” It’s what any medical provider can take pride in, and I do. But the job takes a mental toll, as you can well imagine. Things are changing now for the better, but there was still a time, not that long ago, that you didn’t talk about that. You sucked it up and kept going. That pressure needs a relief valve though, or it becomes dangerous. For some, it can even be deadly. And though I didn’t realize it until much later, for me that relief valve was writing. So I began doing just that, writing down the good, bad, and ugly of those years with the intent of someday publishing them. However a few years ago it occurred to me that, while the stories were mine to tell, they didn’t belong to just me. These are the stories of someone else’s life, their loss, etc. Who am I to reveal that to the world? And so I decided that they would remain untold. However while going through them this morning, one stood out that I think is rather timely considering all that’s going on in the world. And a little part of me thinks that, if we were able to ask him, the old man would want me to. ******** The old man couldn’t talk. A previous stroke left him that way, and he was probably having another one now. Well into his seventies, time was taking its toll on him, and he was taking one more trip to the hospital. First order of business was a blood pressure. As I pulled his arm out of his sleeve I saw it there on his forearm. The tattoo. Faded blue numbers told me what he couldn’t. He was a Holocaust survivor. It stopped me dead in my tracks. After all, I’d heard about these but I’d never seen one before. Of course the old man watched me stop and stare at it. I looked at him, and as his eyes met mine a silent affirmation passed between us. He knew that I knew what I was looking at. Sitting here now if I close my eyes I can see him looking back at me. If I were an artist I would draw him so well his own family would recognize him all these decades later. His gaze seemed to burn into my very soul. Time had slowly robbed him of what the Nazis tried and failed to. He had seen and endured horrors I couldn’t begin to imagine, and a stroke left him unable to tell me. Yet in his eyes I could sense something pass between us, an unspoken message. Those eyes spoke a testimony and a message, if only in one word: “Remember.” I’ve never understood how anyone can try and deny that the Holocaust ever happened. And, for as much as I believe in the right to free speech, it’s one of the rare conversational red lines I have. I simply won’t tolerate it. Because I know better. The old man told me everything I need to know. Chris Sherwood writes from his home in North Chemung. He is the author of the In Times of Trouble trilogy a post-apocalyptic series set in Upstate New York. To learn more, go to cmsherwood.com

To the kid with cancer of the bones. Who is up late tonight because his meds won’t let him sleep. To his mother, who is beside him, rubbing his tummy. Mothers have been rubbing tummies since the dawn of the man. To the man who raises palmettos in South Alabama, whose wife passed yesterday morning. The same man who is starting a pecan orchard because it’s what she always wanted. To the woman who is the janitor for the Baptist church. Who clocks out of her other job to push her cart up and down the halls. She cleans bathrooms, dust offices. Who doesn’t get home until eight at night, and still has time to cook her kids a full supper meal before bedtime. To the nine-year-old girl whose father abused her. Whose life will forever be painted with the badness he left. She is now thirty-three. She got married this morning. Someone emailed me photos of the ordeal. Once, that same girl said, “I didn’t trust anyone for a long time, it was a big mistake. I’ve wasted a lot of years being scared of good people.” And to the young man who fell off the roof of a construction site. He broke two ribs. The woman across the street took him to the hospital. She carried him twelve hours to Texas to be in his mother’s house while he recovered. “Sometimes,” said that neighbor woman. “A man needs his mother.” I’m writing this to the Walmart employee who was on a smoke break ten minutes ago. She sat on the sidewalk. She cried while talking on the cellphone. If I didn’t know any better, it sounded like her boyfriend was breaking up with her. And to Jason, who just discovered he’s good a basketball player. Who has felt like a failure until now. Who tells me he developed a love of Mel Tillis after a friend sent him several albums in the mail. “‘Coca-Cola Cowboy’ is, like, one of my favorites songs now,” says Jason. Mine, too, Jason. To the young man who drives a truck for a living. Who thought it would be a great line of work, but doesn’t feel that way anymore. Who finds himself far from his kids and his wife. Who spends his nights on the phone and on his computer, keeping in touch. And to you. The person who believes you aren’t quite enough. No matter what you do, the feeling is there, beneath the surface. It nags at you like the tag in a new pair of underpants. You have waited so long to see your ship come in, you’re beginning to think you’re on the wrong dock. You are sad. You can’t have a baby. Or you’re poor. Your girlfriend wouldn’t marry you—even after eleven years together. She left you and got married a year later. Then had kids. Three of them. I know this is late coming, and I know it doesn’t mean much coming from a stranger. I know it doesn’t take away the ugly parts of life. But I mean it when I say it. And I hope you know that. God bless you. 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

He was tall, lean, and young. When he approached me, he hugged me. Then, his mother hugged us both. A three-person club sandwich. He must’ve been a foot taller than I was. His voice squeaked with adolescence. His skin was freckled. He had a long neck. He recognized me. “I liked your books, sir,” he said, through a nervous stutter. Sir? No way. Such titles are reserved for men who wear penny loafers when fishing. “I read them all when I was in the hospital,” the boy went on. “I kinda got to know you, and it was like we were friends.” His mother tells me his story. It’s a long one, and it’s not mine to repeat. But he has the determination of a saint, and he still has a long road ahead of him. He suffers more than other kids his age. And as things stand right now, he might not survive his struggle. Before he walked away, he told me something. Something that stuck with me. “You know what I do when I’m down?” he said. “I list ten things I love every day. I write’em on paper. My dad told me to do that.” He tapped his finger against his head. “Gotta keep on thinking ‘bout things I love.” I was mute. I couldn’t seem to find words. I noticed a large moon-shaped scar beneath his hairline. I tried to say something, anything, but I just smiled. He hugged me one more time. His mother took his arm, they walked away. The boy walked with a pronounced limp, holding his mother for balance. And I can’t quit thinking about him. On the off-chance that he is reading this, I’ve come up with a few things I love: 1. I love Mexican food. In fact, I have had a lifelong love affair with it. A Mexican man I used to work with with used to make a dish called “chilaquiles verdes.” Before work, he would fry corn tortillas and scrambled eggs, then crumble enough cotija cheese on top to short-circuit U.S. Congress. This heap of food would be served, covered in green sauce his wife made. 2. I love sweat. I know that sounds bizarre, but if I go too many days without breaking a sweat, I feel like I am not quite human. Yes, this creates more laundry for my wife. Yes, my wife threatens to string me up by my tongue if I change my shirt one more time. But I like sweating. Once I was in Phoenix, Arizona, on business. A land where sweat evaporates before it accumulates. I didn’t have a good sweat for two weeks. Five minutes in the sun, your skin burns. Ten minutes; you turn into Lot’s wife. I didn’t have a very good time. 3. Stray dogs. Sometimes I go to animal shelters just to visit them. There is an extra special place in my heart for dogs who live in shelters. 4. I like old movies. I don’t go for new movies. I don’t like special effects, blood, realistic explosions, or music that sounds like two chainsaws having a cussing match. I enjoy Bogart, Hepburn, John Wayne, Shirley Temple, Randolph Scott, Don Knotts, etc. 5. Cheese. 6. Hank Williams. Don Williams. Willie Nelson. 7. Old books that smell like dust. I like to hold them in my hand. 8. Love stories. I got an email yesterday from an old friend of mine. He got married to his high-school sweetheart after thirty years of beating around the bush. It was the perfect love story. 9. Old folks. Last week, I met a woman who was 100 years old. I hugged her neck. She was sipping a glass of wine with dinner. I asked her what the secret to a long life was. She answered, “Just try not to quit breathing.” Then she had a coughing fit. 10. You. You might not know this, but I think about you a lot. I know we don’t know each other, but that’s inconsequential—and may I point out, “inconsequential” is a five-syllable word. Still, we’re probably not that different. Maybe we’re even alike. Maybe sometimes you worry too much. Or sometimes you get so swallowed up with tiny things in life, you wonder if you’re going to make it. Sometimes you wish you had answers. Lord knows, I don’t have any. But here’s what I DO know: I know that a wise young man is likely reading this right now. A kid who told me he is grateful to be alive, no matter how brief his own life may be. A kid who told me that every so often, he makes a list on paper, like the one you just read. A list of good things. Simply to remind him of how much he loves breathing. I wrote this for him. If for no other reason, to tell him that his name is at the top of another very important list I have going. 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

“If I ever saw blessing in the air, I see it now in the still-early day…..” are words from poet, William Blake. *April days can be varied; turbulent and fierce, as refreshing as a cold drink of good water or as peaceful as a benediction. Early, when the sun is about to rise, the air is fresh and awash with colors, mistily gaining depth of hue as the sky grows lighter. Sometimes a veil of snow sweeps over the landscape. Spring is here with all its ups and downs. This is Holy Week for western Christians;Today Maundy Thursday. Tomorrow is Good Friday and Sunday is Easter. Russian and Grek Orthodox Christians celebrate a week later. Jewish Passover began last Friday at sunset, and will end tomorrow. Earth Day is next Tuesday. Those who start seeds inside have probably done so by now and are happily watching little green shoots growing under lights. Spring fragrances are more pronounced, and this certainly includes what farmers spread on their fields in April. But it all is part of growth and eventually, beauty. We usually manage, during April to experience what we call a “perfect” spring day - blue skies, sunshine, mild and gentle breezes, and greening plants everywhere. What if we allowed every day to be perfect in its own way? Rainy days bring pearly, smoky-gray or charcoal skies, sometimes a rainbow; sometimes dramatic, darkened clouds, slashed with lightening. Some days are for curling up with a book or making the house fragrant with baking cookies. Breezy days may feel like a cleansing of our minds from the dust and darkness of winter. Perfect days are surely in the eyes of the beholders. The word “perfect” is multisided. It can mean that something is done so well that there can be no criticism, like the Mona Lisa. Or it can mean impossible standards that are so discouraging, no one will try to meet them like agency annual reports for the Feds. Perfect may simply mean correct as in the calculations for engineering bridges and roads; we do want those to be perfect. Or it might mean a person or group being dissed for not meeting someone else’s “perfect” standards. When an individual glibly recites the Biblical admonition: “Be ye perfect, even as your Father in Heaven is perfect,” they usually mean their definition of perfect. Those people need to be informed that most theologians, who have translated from Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek say that admonition should be translated “Be ye whole, even as…..” Be the real, the whole person you are designed to be. My father was a perfectionist. SIGH!! He wanted his white shirts ironed with nary a crease or wrinkle. Shoes must always be polished and shiny. Manners, especially table manners, were expected. “Talking back” was verboten. Nor was there an acceptable excuse for getting a B when you could, “with a bit more effort”, have gotten an A. The lawn couldn’t be mowed in swirls; it must be mowed in straight lines. Dad was neither a plumber nor a carpenter, but he took on both jobs for home improvement projects. It was definitely no fun to be his assistant, or even be in the vicinity. He was grumpy and loud, during and afterward, because his work didn’t meet his standards of perfection, so he was irritated with the world, as well as himself. As a result, I probably have had life-long feelings of being incompetent when facing new challenges, or feel that I’m not doing enough. That is perfection’s damaging downside! It leaves metaphoric cuts and bruises. Fortunately, Dad had quite a few other virtues that made him a good father. Because of those experiences, I’m in an on-going personal training program to avoid requiring my concept of perfection. However, I have probably been as grumpy as my father when I was in the middle of a sewing project; ready to snap and growl if I carelessly put a collar in backward or inadvertently caught an extra fold of fabric in a seam. While I try to avoid demanding my idea of perfection from others, my subconscious continues to expect it from me. Sadly, some of the traits we disliked in our parents do come back and attach themselves to us. Kerm has remarked that my whole family is afflicted with irritability; he says prickly! And he is quite right; we don’t suffer fools gladly, and we tend to be impatient with ourselves and others. (I’m hearing a little bell here, regarding Sunday’s sermon on compassion, I believe it mentioned self-compassion…Hmmm!) I’ll work on that but meantime, I hope that I never impede anyone else’s work or damage feelings, leaving scars. However ---Toleration/patience is not mindless nor endless; I don’t accept sloppy work or apathetic attitudes. We do need standards! When our kiddies were toddlers, they needed to learn that writing on the freshly-painted church nursery wall, and crawling beneath the pews, was taboo. When in elementary-school, that shutting your brother between the screen door and the front door at home, did not fit into Emily Post’s Book of Etiquette for brothers. And later, we all had to learn that there were good ways to stand up for a principle, and some not so good ways. Adults in the labor force, whether white collar or t-shirts, need to remember that the quality of their work and general attitude, do impact other people. Assuming someone will have perfect skills in everything is silly, but asking someone to be responsible and do their best is a valid expectation. Learning does take a while, and expecting instant perfection from children, cats, dogs or gerbils, is what my father would call a “pipe dream,” although he, himself, had trouble accepting it. It is good to remember, in this season of Lent, that Easter exists because we are all imperfect (sometimes, abysmally so!). Lent and Easter offer to all of us, change, restoration, and acceptance of who we are. Part of human maturity is absorbing large servings of patience with ourselves and others. Easter meant some good times while growing up. I think I may be repeating here from other April essays, but they are such good memories. There was coloring Easter eggs, preparing for a large family dinner, going to extra church services and hearing wonderful music. And there were also spring clothes. New clothes were not every-day happenings in my life, but Easter usually meant a new dress, possibly shoes and definitely a hat. I remember some of those hats well. There was an ivory straw cloche with black velvet ribbons, a white hat with a turned-up brim, trimmed with a yellow velvet ribbon and daisies, and there was a pink derby wreathed in tulle. The dresses I remember clearest, I got when I was ten or eleven and note the plural. My father took me to buy an Easter dress that year. This was highly unusual and I don’t remember why. After much wibble-wobbling, I finally narrowed my choices down to two (at Miss Farrell’s in Canandaigua), and was having trouble deciding. My father finally said: “Oh for goodness’ sake, take them both! We need to get home!” So, we left with a pink organdy trimmed with little roses, and a peach muslin trimmed with white lace and black velvet cord. My mother looked at them with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing. My small mind stored away “ooh, shopping with Dad is a very good thing!” Easter has always, since childhood, been my favorite celebration -- surpassing Christmas and my birthday. There is something about the agonizing and yet joyful story of Easter, plus the church filled with fragrant flowers and beautiful music, children with Easter baskets and starched new clothes, that creates an enchanted time of color, sound, goodness, and Light. Maundy Thursday and Good Friday ceremonies are reassuring traditions; times for quiet introspection. It seems to me that many traditional ceremonies and rites are vanishing in the name of “simplicity.” Some years ago, we were invited to join in a Seder event, part of the Jewish Passover. It was beautiful, and meaningful. Simple is often a good thing too, but we humans need ritual in our lives. It keeps us connected to our traditions and nourishes our souls. Kerm and I have been dismayed by the decision of some families to not have any kind of service or gathering for those who have died. We need not only closure, but a time to celebrate that person for what they have been in our lives. I think that people who deny needing a spiritual element, miss avenues of joy, peace, trust and help, that could be theirs. As St. Theresa** explained: “I never really saw with my bodily eyes, but only with the eyes of the soul.” Some of life is like that, and we need to be awake to soul visions, seen with “soul eyes” for adding depth and wonder to our lives. If you are celebrating Passover, I hope it has been wonderful. If you are preparing for Easter, I wish you joy. And next week, I’d urge you to mark Earth Day in some way that makes sense to you. You may agree or disagree with theories about climate change. The theories may not be totally accurate, but the weather patterns are changing, no matter what the reason(s). We need to heal and care for this small, lovely planet of ours. So, plant a tree, make a garden, fill a pot with flower seeds, let dandelions grow in your lawn for the bees, vote responsibly instead of selfishly or blindly------ do something to be a grateful tenant of earth. And rise early one of these spring mornings; go outside and breathe in the morning air. You may feel that blessing in the air, as expressed by William Blake. Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *from “To Spring” by William Blake, an English poet. **St. Theresa of Lisieux created the Society of Little Flowers, which still exists today. 1873-1897.

I continue to watch and listen to the Fox Business News channel. Yes, to a great extent, they (Fox Business hosts) continue to ignore the strategy of Dip Buying. Still, their guests, such as David Bahnsen of the Bahnsen Group and Kenny Polcari, who also manages an investment portfolio, continue to stress the importance of Dip Buying. And yes, others share the same strategy. So, when I say listen but ignore, I mean listen to the guests, not the show hosts. Dip buying is a proven strategy based on simple mathematics: “When the price of something falls, your dollar can buy more of it.” The same concept applies to stocks. When I find myself short of cash to invest, I place all my stocks that are in decline in the drip program. Why? The dividends on those stocks can buy a larger fractional share of the stock. Volatility, I love it for the opportunity it offers to buy good, beaten-down stocks. So, I love the down market for its advantages. Questions? Email me. Raymond Maratea is a retired small business owner who has had some experience investing in the stock market (not a financial advisor or broker/dealer). Having started investing with small amounts, on individual investor platforms, Raymond is offering his experience to individuals who would like to invest, but who feel that because of their income level the stock market is out of their reach. Disclaimer: The author of “Small Potatoes” is not a registered investment, legal or tax advisor, or a stockbroker/dealer. All investment/financial opinions expressed in the “Small Potatoes” articles are from the personal research and experience of the author of the articles and are intended solely as educational material. Although best efforts are made to ensure that all information is accurate and up to date, occasionally unintended errors and misprints may occur. The information given in these articles must not be understood as “risk free” investing. The user must be careful about the quality of stocks being selected.

We’ve all heard the old adage that there are two sides to every story, and a classic trial brings that point out vividly. I’ve served on three juries in the past – one guilty, one given a lesser settlement than desired, and one not guilty. It’s an honor to be selected to sit with peers to carefully review and ponder the facts of the case as presented by the respective attorneys, and to be responsible for the right verdict. Certainly, some have abused the trial-by-jury system and condemned truly innocent folks; but, more often than not, it has been and still is an equitable and fair justice system. The legal teams for the defendant and the plaintiff each present salient points to be considered, arguing their case convincingly with evidence and witnesses. Once the case has been handed over to the jury, it’s up to these 12 peers to discuss evidence presented and determine guilt or innocence. Typically, at each trial, we jurors took our first poll at the beginning of deliberations. It was evident that we could often tell early on where the truth lay. We also brought along our own life experiences and knowledge which helped weigh the evidence from both sides as we listened to each juror’s assessment. But sometimes it seems that a trial with its accusations is like that voice in my head reminding me of how guilty I am. It’s Satan pointing out all of my sins… one after another, stacked high, like a mountain tall. The right way to live is spelled out in the Ten Commandments, in Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, and scattered all throughout God’s Holy Word. But I’m also well aware that we cannot keep God’s commands and expectations to live a pure and holy life… because we can be easily swayed in the wrong direction when overwhelmed by life’s challenges or our thoughts are not resting secure in God’s Word. And I have a serious debt which I can never repay. So, what am I to do? Go to the Lord, confess my sins and failures, and accept God’s love and forgiveness, for nothing I could ever do will wash away my guilt. My favorite verse since childhood has been – “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” (John 3:16 KJV) Jesus took the punishment I deserved on that fateful day we call Good Friday. He was put on trial, a one-sided sham of justice. He was whipped, mocked, and nailed to a cross… not because of anything He had done for He was sinless, faultless, perfect… fully human, yet fully God. He did that for me… and for you. He willingly took our place, giving His life to purchase our right to join Him in heaven forever. His grace and mercy bring me to tears. Someday I will stand before Almighty God, my judge, to give an account of my life. I will have nothing to say in my defense… except that I put faith in my advocate, Jesus, who will be standing at my side, declaring me guiltless because He already paid for my sins… with His own life… my advocate, my Lord and Savior. My Advocate Linda A. Roorda With accusations I’m now confronted No plea have I but guilty as charged I hang my head to litany stark And with quiet shame my accuser I face. ~ It once had seemed the world was my own I learned the games to lie and to cheat I did not care if others were hurt As long as my will and goals were achieved. ~ But in the spiral of downward tumble I lost the vision I’d once beheld A purer focus, others before self Humble respect in tangled webs lost. ~ And one by one as charges were read I clearly recalled the past with deep pain Words now regretted, carelessly spoken How could I ever repair what I had done? ~ In my despair while under scrutiny My only hope was to beg for mercy That perhaps some deed along the way Would balance the book, the ledger of sin. ~ But, alas, I heard the judge declare Guilty as charged; no mercy be shown. Like rock upon rock my sins were stacked high As I stared upon that mountain of debt. ~ Just then the doors were flung open wide And striding forth came a man in pure white Boldly he exclaimed, “This debt has been paid!” “I hung on the cross, and took all the shame.” ~ Slowly I sank to my knees in awe. Who was this man who gave all for me? How could he give his life for my debt? For I can’t repay such a merciful gift. ~ Reaching out gently he pulled me up tall And showed me his scars and nail-pierced hands He held out his arms in welcome embrace As he dried my tears and declared me free. ~ I love you my child… I did this for you. I carried your shame upon my beaten back. I purchased your soul with life-giving blood That you might have life with mercy and grace. ~ Now all I ask is by faith you walk, Bringing to the world compassion and peace. Carry my light to the corners dark, Open your heart to love and forgive. ~~ Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer.

In about two days I will be celebrating my 93rd birthday. Recently I have been reflecting on my life increasingly. I am happy to share a brief history of how I became the person I am. My parents were both in their teens when they arrived from Naples, Italy. From what I have learned, most marriages in those days were pre-arranged. I was the last of ten children, two of which passed on in their early childhood from causes unknown to me. I have a surviving brother, who is 100+ years old and living in Florida. In the old days, a midwife delivered the children. Knowing that we all survived childbirth was nothing short of a miracle in those times. Having been born in the middle of the Great Depression, our parents allowed us to earn something doing chores for others. I inherited the job held by my brother, delivering prescriptions for a corner pharmacy. I also stocked the shelves (with the aid of a stepladder at times). I clearly recalled having to package certain products for women in a way that would allow them to avoid embarrassment when having to walk out in public. This was because “modesty” was paramount then. Men, of course, had their needs secreted in a lap drawer behind the counter. That was then, today is another story. When my dad believed I was strong enough, he took me to Bayshore L.I. when school was out to work as a laborer. When I graduated from High School, I worked at various jobs until I entered the service. In late 1954 I enrolled in evening classes at Pace Institute, later called Pace College in lower Manhattan. My first job was as a bookkeeper for J.P. Morgan. In those days, there were no computers just adding machines. One of my responsibilities was to prepare a monthly balance sheet. It was there at Morgan one day when I received a call from their Comptroller telling me my balance sheet was off two cents. I will never forget his remarks, “Take care of the pennies, the dollars are big enough to take care of themselves.” Although I was never an accountant, I carried that phrase in my mind throughout my business life. At age 40, I moved to Candor, NY. While seeking employment, I worked for a local dairy farmer and learned the true value of a gallon of milk. Eventually, with the help of my nephew, I started a business called Candor Specialty Packaging. This business specializes in the consumer packaging of processed grains of all kinds. In 1980 I had the opportunity to purchase a 100-year-old firm called “The Raymond-Hadley Corp. We moved that business to Spencer, NY, and merged the packaging business with the newly acquired company. At age 82, I retired and put the firm in the hands of my two highly competent sons. Needing something to keep me busy, I once again turned to investing, which has kept me busy to this date. ******** This column is a departure from what I had planned to write about. /In recent weeks, the markets have experienced some serious declines. I have remained focused on Dip and Drip investing. If you have opened an account with a brokerage firm and believe you are ready, this would be the most advantageous time to begin investing. I encourage you to do the following: Email me with your name and email address. Give me a general idea as to the time you could contact me to set up a “one on one” session during which you and I could set up your positions spreadsheet making it ready for your first stock purchase. If you opened an account with Chas. Schwab, I could easily walk you through the process as I have a Schwab account. Disclaimer: The author of “Small Potatoes” is not a registered investment, legal or tax advisor, or a stockbroker/dealer. All investment/financial opinions expressed in the “Small Potatoes” articles are from the personal research and experience of the author of the articles and are intended solely as educational material. Although best efforts are made to ensure that all information is accurate and up to date, occasionally unintended errors and misprints may occur. The information given in these articles must not be understood as “risk free” investing. The user must be careful about the quality of stocks being selected.

I haven’t always been a morning person. God knows. When I was a young man I was anti-morning-people. Morning people were insane. My mother was a morning person. As a boy, I’d awake to find my mother already in the living room, snuggled beneath a lamp, where she’d been reading for hours. The cat in her lap would just stare at me with moral disapproval. “There will come a day,” Mama would say, “when you won’t sleep as good as you do now.” My mother evidently put a curse on me. Because I get up early now. I didn’t CHOOSE to begin rising at 4 a.m. every morning. I have no reason to awake early. I am not a farmer. But my brain decided, years ago, that no matter what time I go to bed, I’ll be up with the chickens. At first I resisted early rising. I did NOT want to be the kind of dork who got up at 4 a.m. to water ferns and take inventory of his commemorative Dale Earnhardt stamp collection. But there you are. Thus, each morning, my wife arises at 8:30 a.m. to find me on the porch, tapping away on a laptop. The cat on my lap just stares at her. Also, I’m not sure when I started cooking, but I do that now, too. Lately, I’ve become the interim cook in our household. I’m not a great cook, mind you. My specialty dish is something my wife calls “chicken sushi.” But I’ve found myself enjoying the culinary side of life. I read cookbooks for fun. I watch cooking shows and use words like “al dente” with a straight face. Last night for supper, I made chicken and dumplings. A few nights before, scalloped potato casserole and banana cream pie. My wife—God love her—who actually KNOWS how to cook, is gracious with my gastronomical experimentation. She’ll take a bite, dab her mouth primly with a napkin, and say, “I’ve never had blackened cheese casserole before.” Something else I do now is walk. I’ve never been a huge walker. Used to, I’d see older couples power walking in the mall, and I’d think to myself, “That will never be me.” But I’ve started going on walks. I leave the house without a destination. And I just walk. As I walk, I find myself praying. Which is also weird. Because that’s DEFINITELY something I never did as a young guy. I was never big on praying. But I do it all the time now. Usually, I pray for people I love. I pray they finally figure out who the heck they are. God knows, I never did. I pray they are uncommonly strong. I pray that whatever they are facing, they win. And I pray they’ll realize that everything will work out when it’s all over. If it hasn’t worked out yet, then it ain’t over. When I arrive back home, it’s almost time to start supper, and I’m almost ready for bed even though it’s still daylight. The cat sitting on the porch steps is staring at me. The cat is trying to tell me to hurry up and get busy. Time is ticking. Life is short. And we have an early morning tomorrow. 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

I started a small business in 1977 with my nephew under the name Candor Specialty Packaging, and when we incorporated, it was with two hundred shares. I held fifty shares, and my partner holding the other fifty shares. We withheld one hundred shares in case we wanted to take in another partner later. But corporations listed on the NYSE typically incorporate with millions of shares because they never know how many investors they are going to need to get their business up and running. Sometimes they may need more money, and, in that situation, they would release more shares to get the funds they need. Once they have established a pattern of generating income, they may decide whether they want to pay a dividend to their stockholders. They can do this in one of three ways: one is to declare a one-time dividend, secondly, a quarterly dividend, and lastly, a stock dividend. When a stock dividend is declared, it is associated with the number of shares you hold. In one or more instances, Board Members may need to voice approval. As the corporation matures and generates substantial income each year, the owners may decide to buy back some of their shares on the open market. Under the rules of the Securities and Exchange Commission, they must file necessary documents outlining their intentions. When this happens, your stock becomes more valuable because fewer shares are outstanding. Consumer Staples In a previous column, I listed the eleven stock market sectors. Of these, I feel the most comfortable with consumer staples. When I think of staples, milk, bread, eggs, bacon, pork, beef, and cheese come to mind. Other products, although not called staples, are in our daily lives, such as utilities, gasoline, toilet paper, and toothpaste. So, when you begin to accumulate stocks, include these also. A fund manager recently commented on his belief that iPhones will eventually become a staple. I encourage you to email me if you have any questions about the stocks to include in your investments. Google search can find any stock you want using any variety of words you use. When you do find a stock you like, use the criteria I listed in my column titled “examining the value of your stock (col.#3} To comment further on my last column on gold at $3,000.00 per troy oz, the measurements of the gold bar are 40.4mm x 23.3mm x 1.8mm. At this size, one of your greatest risks would be misplacing it. Yes, owning physical gold would bring adventure to your home. As I complete this column, all market indexes have fallen ten percent, and some are down over twenty percent. Those who have been waiting to take the step should do it now. Raymond Maratea is a retired small business owner who has had some experience investing in the stock market (not a financial advisor or broker/dealer). Having started investing with small amounts, on individual investor platforms, Raymond is offering his experience to individuals who would like to invest, but who feel that because of their income level the stock market is out of their reach. Disclaimer: The author of “Small Potatoes” is not a registered investment, legal or tax advisor, or a stockbroker/dealer. All investment/financial opinions expressed in the “Small Potatoes” articles are from the personal research and experience of the author of the articles and are intended solely as educational material. Although best efforts are made to ensure that all information is accurate and up to date, occasionally unintended errors and misprints may occur. The information given in these articles must not be understood as “risk free” investing. The user must be careful about the quality of stocks being selected.

Sometimes there’s just no explaining Albany. That’s really been true over the past six years of New York State government under one-party control. It’s been head scratching, to say the least. Infuriating might better describe the current state of affairs. And the current situation is chaos. Take the latest on public safety which, since Governor Cuomo and the Albany Democrats taking majorities in both houses of the Legislature, has been driven into the open arms of criminals and other bad actors that the majority of New Yorkers feel have made their communities and streets and neighborhoods and parks and subways far less safe. Albany Democrats just keep on sticking to their story: What crime? All this concern over crime and violence only exists in the minds of all those New Yorkers and all the police and corrections officers, district attorneys, and crime victims, who keep warning this state is less safe. It’s all just fear mongering, according to Democrats. At least Governor Hochul might be feeling the heat of public opinion. Despite continuing to toe the line about how safe things really are on New York City’s subways and elsewhere around the state, the governor is seeking changes as part of the new state budget. While many of us believe her proposals don’t go nearly far enough, she’s at least willing to take a few important steps in the right direction of restoring New York’s criminal justice system, strengthening public safety, pursuing justice for victims, and acting on the clear and convincing need for common sense. First, the rising tide of homelessness and violent mental illness is a tragedy impacting many, if not most communities in one way or another. There are too many people on our streets not receiving proper treatment. They do great harm to themselves, and they commit crimes that, in the worst instances, result in vicious assaults and killings of innocent victims. Governor Hochul is rightly recognizing the danger. She acknowledges the need to keep severely mentally ill patients in hospital care and has proposed to expand New York’s involuntary commitment statute to ensure that more of our severely mentally ill will remain in hospital care. The governor’s proposal would clarify the information considered in making these decisions to include whether the actions of a person with a mental illness would "result in serious harm." She also proposes allowing the decision-making process to include a person's capacity to understand their inability to provide for their essential needs like food, clothing, medical care, safety, or shelter. So far, the governor’s changes to the involuntary commitment statute have been rejected outright by the Legislature’s Democrat leaders. It’s the same story on what’s known as “discovery reform.” In 2019, then-Governor Andrew Cuomo and an all-Democrat Legislature enacted far-reaching bail and discovery law reforms that have turned criminal justice on its head. It has been roundly criticized as a disaster. While the disastrous consequences of bail reform have been well documented, the Democrats’ discovery changes can’t be overlooked. They’ve had an equally alarming impact on crime victims and public safety. While I agree that changes for fairness to the accused were warranted, the 2019 discovery law changes went too far the other way, just as their no bail changes did, in this instance imposing far too tight a timeline on the state’s district attorneys to provide discovery. Failure to meet that timeline results in dismissal of charges. This has proven to be unworkable. As a result, thousands upon thousands of criminal cases have been dismissed in some prosecutors’ offices because they simply don’t have the staff or resources to exercise a proper process carefully and thoroughly in such a short time period. The impact on crime victims has been unimaginable. The consequences for overall public safety and security have been equally destructive. One recent report noted that New York City’s criminal courts have seen an almost unbelievable increase of 455 percent (an estimated 50,000 cases) in forced dismissals following the 2019 law. According to the state Office of Court Administration, criminal case dismissals in New York City skyrocketed from 42% before the reforms to 62% in 2023. In Albany recently, appearing with our Senate Republican Conference to call for changes, Nassau County District Attorney Anne Donnelly said, “As a prosecutor with over 32 years of experience, and as the District Attorney of one of the largest counties in the state, I’ve witnessed firsthand how 'Cashless Bail' and 'Discovery Reform’ laws have compromised public safety. Since the implementation of these laws, we’ve seen a revolving door of justice, where criminals walk free on technicalities while victims continue to suffer. These laws have made it harder for law enforcement and prosecutors to do their jobs, jeopardizing public safety and leaving our communities vulnerable. This is not a justice system that protects the people of New York.” Her assessment has been echoed by district attorneys across this state. Governor Hochul knows it. She’s proposed changes as part of this year’s state budget. Her proposal would tighten the scope of evidence prosecutors are required to turn over to the defense. It would establish a more sensible timeline for defendants to challenge whether prosecutors are in full compliance. Judges would be allowed discretion to provide sanctions, such as limiting the use of certain evidence inadvertently not disclosed, short of the outright dismissal of cases, to address errors by prosecutors. Again, the governor doesn’t go nearly far enough, but her proposals are limited, reasonable, badly needed, and should be accepted. Yet the Legislature’s Democrat majorities, in their recently enacted one-house budget resolutions, rejected the governor’s discovery law changes. Whether to gain leverage in budget negotiations, or whether legislative Democrats simply prefer the status quo, remains to be seen. “I’m not pro-defendant, I’m not pro-prosecutor,” Assembly Democrat Speaker Carl Heastie recently told Capitol reporters, “I’m pro-justice.” That may be the Democrats’ story and they’re sticking to it. The reality for the rest of us is that for the past six years, Albany Democrat policies have been pro-criminal and not pro-victim -- not by any stretch of the imagination. Senator Tom O'Mara represents New York's 58th District which covers all of Chemung, Schuyler, Seneca, Steuben, Tioga and Yates counties, and a portion of Allegany County.

Sometimes we hold onto the pain from hurts long ago... holding tight to a grudge. It doesn’t do anyone any good, least of all us. It’s quite likely the other person has no clue why we might be upset at them. Life is full of hurts and offenses… some are made accidentally without realizing we’ve done the offending, while at other times we intentionally get even with someone for the pain they’ve caused us. Oh, what a vicious cycle! Then there is the pain and guilt we feel for our offense that has hurt another. It’s a healthy inner warning signal which nudges us when we’ve caused pain to that other soul. It prompts us to seek forgiveness by confessing and repenting, and making restitution to the one we’ve offended. But, if you live with abuse, or are the abuser, you are urged to seek appropriate professional guidance. God does not approve of abuse in any form. We know that, but we somehow manage to let it slide, quickly forgiving repeatedly, taking responsibility for trying to make things better. However, it’s the abuser who needs to understand in their heart that what they are doing is wrong. With true repentance and sorrow, and a genuine change in behavior, a relationship can be reconciled and restored… but not until the evidence is visible. Others unfamiliar with the patterns will not recognize this and try to coerce you back into a relationship… which can become even more harmful. Yet, forgiving ourself is also sometimes easier said than done. We think we cannot forgive and release the burden within ourself… thinking we must hang onto the pain… like carrying such a heavy burden will somehow compensate for what we’ve done. Yet what right do I have to think I cannot forgive myself when God clearly forgives us upon our confession of the wrongdoing. He doesn’t hold it over our head into the future. In giving it all to the Lord, He wants us to pray and express the depths of our heart to Him. In prayer, we can visualize placing the issue that overwhelms us into His hands, asking Him to take care of it for us, and to heal everyone involved… rather like the popular saying, “Let go and let God!” Still, I know how hard that can be – as the oldest of six, it’s one of my struggles, thinking I can fix everything… or that I cannot forgive myself for something I said or did even after asking for forgiveness. In reality, I cannot always fix it. Though I certainly must do my part to apologize and forgive, I need to confess and give any situation to the Lord for Him to handle with His infinite wisdom. After all, didn’t He say, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30 NIV) And in so doing, we find the rest we need from our fretting, worrying, and trying to fix the problems… while the Lord blesses us with His love and peace as we are covered with His mercy and grace… so we can share with the world the same love that He gives to us! All My Heart Linda A. Roorda Some days the pain that life hands out Is more than I alone can bear, But there is One who calms my fears When all my heart to Him I give. ~ How easily kept are hurts and pains We tightly hold to stay in control, But they don’t matter and are best let go When all my heart to Him I give. ~ And though I’ve learned that life is not fair Some days I plead, Oh God are you there? Can you hear me? Do you really care? Then all my heart to Him I give. ~ From out the silence He whispers soft You are my child. Your life’s in my hands. Give me your cares, your burdens and fears, As all my heart to Him I give. ~ Do not carry the guilt and the shame That overwhelms from days of the past, Trust in His Gift with arms open wide As all my heart to Him I give. ~ You have taught me the depths of true love That anchors my heart when dark storms assail And calms my soul with heavenly peace When all my heart to Him I give. ~ A love that learns to think beyond self With others first Christ’s love shines through To meet their needs in body and soul When all my heart to Him I give. ~ A love that chooses to hold ever dear Even despite disappointments deep Then greater are the gifts and rewards When all my heart to Him I give. ~ A love that grows and matures with time That finds its way to the soul at peace, Blessings of love abundantly known When all my heart to Him I give. ~~ Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer.