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“Rain, rain go away.” “I don’t want to friggin’ mow my lawn again today!” I’ve been uttering that ditty all summer and fall because of all the !@^%$! MOWING I’m doing because of all the !@^%$! RAIN. (Editor’s note: Upper case letters and exclamation points signify that the writer is really @^%$! PISSED OFF!!!!!) My lawn has more mow lines then the outfield at Fenway, and they are deep enough to grow corn. My life revolves around a series of repeated lawn aggravations: Mow. Wait for rain to stop. Mow. Repeat. I have a double lot, and the adjacent lot is nothing but grass. I call it the “North 40,” but of course it’s not really 40 acres. (It’s more like 38-39 acres). It also has a hedgerow that is so long it covers two time zones and takes me four time zones to trim it. My lawn is so large, that when I’m done mowing the last of it, I have to go back and mow the first section, because the grass grows so fast. The high and thick grass hides the gazillion piles of dog poop from my dog, neighborhood dogs and even dogs from outside the hood, who bus in just to do their business on my lawns. It’s a regular poop-o-rama. I mow with a TORO self-propelled push mower. What I need is a John Deer S690 combine and thresher. My TORO is a mulching mower. It cuts the grass into tiny pieces and deposits them back into the lawn. All that mulched grass has increased the height of my lawn so much, that when I mow, I can see the curvature of the Earth on the horizon. I used to reward myself with a cold beer after mowing, but not anymore, because I can’t afford to buy that much brew and my liver can’t afford any more cirrhosis. To get a better idea of my mowing blues, here is the ten-step procedure I endure each time I mow: I search through the garage clutter for the gas can, only to discover that it’s empty because I neglected to fill it the last time I used it. So, I have to go get gas, but first I have to refinance my home to afford the ridiculously high price of gas. I try, but can never, fill the mower gas tank without spilling it over the mower, my hands and my sneakers. For the rest of the day, I smell like a Molotov Cocktail. As I try to weave the mower out of my cluttered garage I clip bikes, a gas grill, a kayak and a recycling bin, tattooing them with dents, twists and scrapes. My mower, like all mowers, is designed to never start until I pull the cord so many times, my arm falls off. (It is during this “yank period” that I unleash my most torrid, raw and venomous string of cussing. Sometimes I kick the mower, stub my toes and dance about in pain.) The triceps in my right arm are three times the size of their left arm counterparts. Once I regain feeling in my arm, I yank away at the starter cord until it breaks (swearing, kicking and dancing in aggravation) or the engine eventually turns over. My mower has a deadman safety lever, on the handle, that I must hold closed while mowing or the engine will stop. As I move the picnic table, lawn furniture or neighbor kids out of the mower’s path, I must lift them with my right hand, because I’m dragging the mower (with lever held tight) behind with my left. My left arm is now three inches longer than my right. (Yes, I know I should move those obstructions prior to mowing, but that’s not how I do it, OK! If you don’t like it, you do it, you snotty-nosed know-it-all!) It rains so often, that the grass doesn’t have time to dry. Wet grass and dog poop clogs up the underside of the mower until it’s too heavy to push and the rpm’s drop so low that the grass actually giggles from the slow-turning blade tickling it. To remove the clogged grass, I turn the mower on its side, gasoline leaks all over the hot muffler until it smokes or bursts into fiery explosions. I have to go to the garage to get a screwdriver, skin my shins on the “who left this damn kayak in the middle of the floor?” return to the mower, use the screwdriver to stab away at the thick carpet of congealed mower grass and leave behind a steaming wet pile of clippings large enough to ski down. At least once, while mowing, I mow over a hidden tree root or rock and the mower blade screams out in a shrill and loud metallic pain or stops all together. (I also mow over the screwdriver that I forgot and left lying in the grass). The blade has more nicks in it than my shins. 10. When done, I return the mower to the garage, leaving behind a trail of wet grass and dog poop skid marks, from the mower’s wheels, on my driveway, sidewalks and garage floor. 11. Wait. I forgot. There is one more step in the process. My once-white sneakers are dyed chlorophyll-green and covered with sticky wet grass clipping, dirt, dog poop and screwdriver fragments. If I forget to remove my sneaks before I go in the house, the remainder of my day will be spent sweeping, scraping and vacuuming up the grass while listening to my wife explain, in minute detail, why I am such a moron. I’ve read about homeowners using goats to maintain their lawns. I’m going to do that. As soon as it stops raining. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page and the Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Star-Gazette newspaper.

For the past few years I looked at the year 2016 as one of, if not the worst we have had to endure. I’ve long since forgotten most of my issues with that particular trip around the sun, with the exception of our family having to endure not one but two burglaries barely six months apart. So from that alone you can understand why I was happy to see 2016 ride off into the sunset. Or to Hell, it didn’t matter to me. Then 2020 came along and said, “Hold my beer.” Now, I knew 2020 was going to be a challenging year before it even arrived. By this time last year we knew Ginger, our adopted beagle was going to be leaving us. When we visited the vet that week before Christmas I got the news and the advice of, “When it’s time, you’ll know. Call us.” And yeah, we knew. But there was no was in hell we were going to give our sons that news right at Christmas. Doc said we should be able to get through a few more weeks, and we got through the holiday. Shortly thereafter, it was time. On January 17th, 2020 Ginger left us, wrapped in a warm blanket and her belly full of treats. She could be a pain in the ass, but she was our pain in the ass. Additionally, I’d begun mentally steeling myself for the day when our oldest went off to college in the Fall. Granted, he’d only be a couple hours away, but still, there was sure to be an adjustment period as the ‘ol nest half emptied out. There were some good things on the horizon though. Our band was scheduled to headline a major event in Scranton again after several years of not playing there. We’d get to have a big graduation party come Summer. A bunch of other things I can’t even remember at the moment. If this post had a soundtrack, right here is where you’d hear the needle dragged across the record ( “vinyl” as the kids call them these days). That little virus we now all know and hate so well made its debut. Life as we knew didn’t just become crap, it swirled the bowl a few times before becoming a clogged toilet. Event after event was canceled. In fact, life itself seemed to become canceled as shutdowns happened across the nation, including here in Chemung County. "Ready to go to Wegmans?" I’m sure I don’t need to write a list of ways 2020 sucked. ( “Oh 2020, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.” ) We all know what happened. A pandemic, a year of heightened civil strife, a contentious election cycle, businesses shut down for way longer than we ever thought, etc. Here on the home front, we knew things would suck and we prepared for it, as much as anyone could that is. Some things threw us for a loop but for the most part we managed to hold it together with each passing month, largely by trying to find the silver lining in those depressingly dark clouds. It missed both the building and my head, so I had that going for me. High school graduation managed to happen, albeit differently than any class before them. Freshman year of college would start online, but hey, it beat having to go back and bring him home after a major outbreak closed the campus down less than two weeks into the first semester. I spent a lot of time at home and when I returned, things at work changed in ways that really make a job I love a little less enjoyable. But it’s temporary, and at least I’m still employed. The holidays weren’t what we wanted them to be, but as I told myself repeatedly, maybe they were the “holidays we needed.” Quiet, subdued, and affording time to reflect. Yet, if you’ve guessed by this point I am Pollyanna-ishly optimistic about the coming year, you guessed wrong mein freund. I will consider it a minor miracle if things stay steady early in the coming year. I think any plans for the next six months need to be made with a huge frickin’ asterisk next to them and written in pencil. Things in the “new normal” ( tired of hearing that yet? ) are going to be different on the other side of this thing, and I just hope they’re different in ways that are good. Because let’s face it, many aspects of the old normal weren’t working so well. James Taylor sang, “The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time,” and if ever there was a time to enjoy changing the calendar, it’s now. I just don’t think I’ll be getting my hopes up too high for what’s to come. Keep the bar set low, and then maybe be able to celebrate the minor victories as they come. And they will, eventually... someday.... maybe....

There’s been commentary from some officials and 2022 candidates regarding the current redistricting that the County Charter tasks the Legislature with after each census. With some time browsing the County website, one can piece together minutes, videos and audio recordings located on various pages. In the interest of discerning fact from opinions, I encourage everyone to make the effort. Those records provide a revealing glimpse at conduct and sentiments of some local officials. To address the mandate to “reconsider its representation, and, if necessary, redraw legislative district boundaries”, the Legislature seated “The Legislative Redistricting and Efficiency of County Government Operations Advisory Committee” in early 2021. The original proposal for a $48,000 study from the Center for Governmental Research (CGR) was scrapped after the County Executive and Treasurer advised it wasn’t authorized in the 2021 budget. What was the Legislature’s reaction to this news from its counterparts in other branches of government? Under the guise of “Efficiency of County Government Operations”, discussion turned to matters far outside the realm of “redrawing legislative district boundaries”. Namely the notion of abolishing the offices of County Executive and Treasurer. The Executive’s misgivings on contracting with CGR were well founded. Their presentation to the committee during the first meeting indicated that their efforts would be dedicated to crafting a report to suit the Committee’s agenda. Not only was transparency in question, CGR assured secrecy. They promised that any findings that the Committee didn’t like would be hidden from the public: Once Census data became available in December, another group (from SUNY New Paltz) was brought in. Their presentation January 14th was professional and encouraging. Joshua Simon objectively outlined legal requirements and changes in election law. He advised ranking priorities that fall outside legal parameters to generate multiple map choices. He also stressed the importance of public involvement throughout the process, recommending multiple public presentations and input/listening sessions before Public Hearing on the final proposal. In his experience, he noted, transparency and partnership greatly increase the likelihood of a mandatory referendum passing. Some in attendance were receptive to his advice of seeking public input. However, some louder voices have been dismissive of the idea during the entire process. Those louder voices may prevail, but I’d like to offer input anyway, as a member of the public that Mr. Simon encouraged involvement from. First, abandon the idea of eliminating other elected branches. Countywide officials are elected by considerably more voters than any of the 15 legislators in individual districts. Installing appointed staff, serving at the Legislature’s behest, erodes the power balance on which democratic representation is built. And offers no savings to taxpayers; qualified appointees would receive compensation comparable to current elected officials. This is not the first time the Legislative body has sought to eliminate the elected Executive & Treasurer positions. The very first Legislative term passed a resolution in 1977 to do the same thing....and that Charter Amendment was defeated by voters in the mandatory referendum. Secondly, seek public participation at every stage in the process. A handful of legislators on one committee taking it upon themselves to define priorities for 84,000 constituents is presumptuous. The last half-century shows voters have repeatedly rejected Charter Amendments for redistricting and restructuring county government. When the Legislature provides final proposals that don’t reflect constituents’ priorities and wishes, they must start over next year – expending more time and taxpayer resources. After the 1990 Census, voters rejected redistricting plans in 1992 and again in 1993 before finally approving the plan presented in 1994. Current legislators should consider why such attempts by their predecessors have failed, and rather than blithely skipping down the same path, strive to do better. Otherwise, legislators will face voter rejection again when offering yet another ballot proposal that ignores constituents’ voices. Kathleen Reed is a Town of Catlin resident. "Guest View" is a column written by readers from the Southern Tier. For information on how to submit something for a Guest View column, email us at twintiersliving@gmail.com

I see that Kanye West legally changed his name again, this time to “Ye,” with no middle or last name. For real. He said he did it because Ye is the most common word in the Bible, as in “Yo Ye. Thou art a narcissist.” Most rap and hip-hop entertainers change their birth names, like J-Z, Dr. Dre, 50 Cent, Eminem and my main man Snoop Dogg, whose many monikers helped him go from rap star to Martha Stewart to the pinnacle of stardom, TV beer commercials. Snoop was born Calvin Broadus Jr., and went by prior names of Snoop Doggy Dogg, Snoop Lion and just Snoop. (Truth: His mom called him Snoopy because he loved Snoopy in Charlie Brown cartoons). Why do they do it? According to my Internet research, hip-hop’s first artists were in gangs, which gave out street names to create a bond and protect identities in times of crimes. (I’d need a sick load of aliases to cover-ID all my stupid stunts, capers and pranks). Real names aren’t always catchy or easy to remember. Ice Cube is easier to recall than, O’Shea Jackson Sr., his birth name. It’s not just rappers who name change. Retired NBA player, Ron Artest, rebranded himself “Metta World Peace.” (Metta gotta a lotta work ahead of him). Some stage names are creative and reflect the artist’s desire to quickly roll in the bling, as in “A$AP,” whose birth name is Rakim Mayers. (He could have changed his name to “Rakim-In-The-CA$H,” and it would have been just as dope). Names are important. They elicit images, can make life difficult or embarrassing, reflect your lineage and can just be plain dumb, like Richard Head (real name of a kid I knew in my youth). His parents must have been huffing glue when they named him. I’m happy with being James Michael Pfiffer, although my last name is pronounced “Pie-fer,” not “Fife-er,” as it’s spelled. I’ve been called “Pa-fifer,” “Piper” “Pisser” and “Pie face,” by my good friend, Stoney, when he’s had a few beers. I’m a man of many names, most of them bestowed upon me by schoolteachers. I liked to have fun, create laughter, play the dare devil and generally be the center of attention. My classmates called me “class clown.” My teachers called me “a future drain on society.” Don’t get me wrong. I loved Southside High School in Elmira. It was six of the best years of my life. I found it odd that I repeatedly got sent to see the principal, Mr. Harrigan, for “being smart,” as in “don’t get smart with me, mister!” Isn’t getting smart the purpose of education? When a teacher told me to stop being “smart,” I cleverly replied, in a low and slow voice, “Duhhh. I’ll try to be dumber in the future, teach.” That resulted in a trip to Harrigan’s office, where I was a regular. Had my own desk and chair. The office secretary asked me why I was there, again. I sarcastically explained that I was “guilty of being smart in class.” She glared at me, and even more sarcastically, retorted “Are you, some kind of a wise guy?” So, you see, I was right back where I started from – too smart for my own good. That’s why teachers routinely labeled me: “troublemaker,” “immature,” “instigator,” “incorrigible” and “the F#!@>* reason I’m quitting teaching and joining the F#!@>* French Foreign Legion!” My favorite moniker was “rambunctious.” I thought it meant I was joyful and lively. I looked it up and discovered it means “uncontrollably boisterous” (see: “fidgety loudmouth with ADD”). Bummer. An English teacher called me a “provocateur,” which I liked because it had a savvy French-sounding sassy sound. I even wore a beret to better provoke. A visibly angry and shaking substitute biology teacher told me that I was “waaay out of line.” I replied, “Whaaat line should I be in?” Another visit to the principal. I didn’t know the meanings of many of the labels affixed to me, like pernicious, truculent and insolent. I assumed they all meant bad things, so I didn’t look them up. I’ve had enough given names. Now it’s my turn. I’m considering adopting a hip-hop street moniker. A good columnist needs to keep current and hip to the slangy language of the people. A totally coolio name might attract younger readers. Know what I’m sayin’? I checked online to learn the latest hip-hop lingo. I think I got it down pat and won’t sound like a Boomer when I rip-rap this riff: “I was a high school pranksta’, Not a ballin’ gangsta’. Teachers didn’t know me, Tried to mofoe me. Gotta see the principal again, Rap some more with Harrigan. Don’t matter, cuz nothin’ t phaze me. I’m not lay-Z or cray-Z. I’m flexin for ‘shizzle, Off da hook in da drizzle. I’m stillin’ ‘n’ ‘trillin,’ Cuz I’m willin’ and chillin’.” You feel me? I’m going to initially change my name to “Pfif Daddy.” Has a nice and easy to remember three-syllable cadence. When my column goes viral, I’ll change it to “P. Daddy,” “P. Diddy” or maybe “P. Diddy Daddy.” When I publish my first book, I’ll shorten it to “PD.” When I shoot my first rap video, I’ll cut it to “P,” which is what I must do now cuz I drank too much green tea. Word! Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.

As a mental health counselor, I am witnessing an emotional ass-beating unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed before. People are coming into my office defeated, exhausted and some, barely able to function. Others are restless, uneasy, walking out of jobs and even marriages without a second thought. Some are fleeing, making big moves, a futile attempt to escape themselves. Some are consumed with rage, guilt and shame. Prior to COVID, it wasn’t unusual to have parallels between my story and the stories I have the honor of holding space for, but I wasn’t in my client’s battles. Now, I feel as though I am experiencing this ass-beating right along with them. I have days when I can hardly function, finding myself grateful for an unexpected cancellation so I can curl up on my couch and take a nap. A couple weeks ago, I told my husband I was ready to move. It was a toss-up between New Hampshire or the Netherlands, I’ve never even been to the Netherlands. The slightest inconvenience, my child being sick, feels like a monumental stressor. There is the emotional weight of worry, what if they have COVID? What if I get COVID? And then there are the moving pieces, where can we go to get tested? How long will it take? How am I going to navigate remote schooling while trying to conduct virtual sessions? It would be one thing if this happened every so often, but we are less than a month into school and we have had two weeks with way too many moving pieces. And then there is the guilt and shame that immediately follows as I can’t help but think, others have it so much worse and as a counselor, I should know best how to navigate this season we are in. A week ago, I found myself in my primary care doctor’s office in tears, my chest hurt so bad I wasn’t sure if I was having a panic attack or a heart attack. The diagnosis from my doctor was that I am human and have stress. In a recent article in the Washington Post by Amy Cuddy and JillEllyn Riley, they coined the term, “Pandemic Flux Syndrome” to describe what people are experiencing nearly 18 months into this collective trauma. The article resonated deeply with me and gave words to my experience and what I am bearing witness to with those I see. The article goes on to explain reasons we are feeling this way, “for many people, our brains and bodies are simply fatigued, and recalibrating to the new circumstances is too much to bear.” They refer to the concept of ‘surge capacity,’ which you can read about in an interview with psychologist Ann Masten and science journalist Tara Haelle. In the healthcare field, surge capacity refers to the ability to manage and care for a significant increase in volume of patients. Outside the healthcare field, it refers essentially to our capacity to draw upon our internal resources to manage a crisis. A crisis or trauma spanning the course of a year and a half, takes a toll. Brene Brown recently did an interview with Amy Cuddy discussing this concept further. Many of us were hopeful over the summer, we felt the end was in sight, we could see the light at the end of the tunnel. And then, it was as though someone flipped the switch on us. Some of us are hyper focused on whom they perceive has turned off that light. Lines are being drawn and we are taking our beaten emotional minds and body into battle with others, sometimes with our own family and friends. I believe we have a hard time accepting what we cannot understand and for many, this seems impossible to comprehend so we cope by lashing out, by trying to find the why, the seemingly elusive solution. So, what can we do? How can we cope with this emotional ass-beating? I have a few thoughts I would like to offer. First, we need a ‘what the flux friend’ or better yet, ‘what the flux friends.’ We need someone who can hold space for us to express how we feel, whether that is rage, anxiety, sadness, grief or shame. Connecting with someone we can be open and honest with can help us heal our bruised minds, we need someone to encourage us to return to battle. We also need to know we are not alone and hopefully in reading this and other articles, you realize you are most definitely, not alone. We need to move and not out of state. Most self-help articles around caring for our mental health during the pandemic mention the importance of exercise as a form of movement, along with eating healthy, staying hydrated and getting enough sleep. Moving our bodies can serve multiple purposes though. When I can, I go for walks with my clients. The cooler fall weather is perfect for being outside and the changing color of the leaves offers a beautiful backdrop. One of my clients recently said, ‘I like walking when we are talking about hard things.’ Movement, whether that is walking, running, hiking or dancing, can help us not only to feel physically better, but can also serve as an outlet to our emotional experiences. There is a saying, ‘emotions need motion.’ If we don’t tend to the thoughts and feelings arising within us, they will not dissipate on their own. To prevent an external or internal eruption of these emotions, it is best if we can acknowledge and tend to them with compassion and intention. The other day, my 8 y/o daughter lathered soap on her hands and arms, she told me the soap represented her ‘worry thoughts.’ My daughter then turned on the water and scrubbed her hands and arms vigorously, effectively ‘washing away’ those painful thoughts. We all need to find a way to release and wash away what comes up for us throughout our day. Create, get outside, meditate, spend less time doing and more time being. I believe whole-heartedly in this quote by Rumi: “We carry inside us the wonders we seek outside us.” I truly believe what we need is within, we must quiet the noise to be able to access that wisdom and right now, there is a lot of noise. We need to create quiet pockets of time, even if that is just a couple minutes a day where we can take a couple breaths, tune into how we are feeling in our bodies, minds and hearts and just let that be. Notice what is coming up from a space of compassion and tend to those emotions arising, maybe you are feeling overwhelming anxiety and you need a couple breaths to create more internal space. Maybe you need a good cry or maybe you haven’t had anything to eat or drink. Maybe you need to step outside and feel the fresh air on your skin, maybe you need to turn off the News for a while. I know it can be hard in a society where we are constantly on the go, but now perhaps more than ever we need to pause, breathe and just be. Be Kind. It’s truly that simple. Yesterday, I was waiting in a long line at a store, a trip that was supposed to be a quick ‘in and out.’ I had ice cream in the car and it was an unusually warmer Fall day. I could feel the heat rising in my face and tension throughout my body, why is there only one person working? What is taking so long? I was so consumed by my own gunk that I didn’t notice the man in front of me. “You have the most beautiful mask,” he said sincerely. I snapped out of my anger trance. Such a simple statement and suddenly, the anger and irritation I felt melted away, kind of like the ice cream most likely was in my car. With kind words, we can bring people into the moment, we can extend our light and illuminate their light through a compliment or just a simple gesture that communicates, ‘I see you.’ If we could all be more intentional about extending random acts of kindness, I think we would all feel a little less fluxed. I want to end by pausing and creating a space to acknowledge and honor the lives we have lost, those left behind and those living with long-term effects of COVID-19. We are all living in the midst of this collective trauma and I believe we are all connected by a collective experience of grief as well. Even if we haven’t lost someone we love, we likely know someone who has. And while some of what I have written is in jest, I know there are those experiencing waves of anxiety and depression and others who feel like they are drowning. If you feel this way, there is help and support: SAMHSA’s National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) National Domestic Violence Hotline Psychology Today, Find a Therapist For residents of NYS: NY Project Hope If you are in crisis, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 Renae Carapella-Johnson is a licensed mental health counselor and owner of Ray Of Light Counseling & Consulting in Savona NY.

Knowing someone we love is facing the journey to her heavenly home soon, and thinking of those who have recently lost their loved ones, I wanted to share this poem and reflective thoughts today. Sometimes… the pain that life hands out is just too much to bear. You’ve lost a dear loved one, perhaps a beloved pet, or an awesome job which was an extension of yourself, maybe you live with chronic illness, or perhaps an incurable disease… And in those difficult times, isn’t it a wonderful feeling to have someone who truly cares come alongside you… someone willing to listen to your heart, to help ease the grief, to share your tears, to speak a few words of wisdom, to help you deal with a particular hurdle, or just to be there to hold your hand while sitting quietly with you? This poem was written several years ago as we continued to face my husband’s chronic illnesses. It all began in the fall of 2008 with statin drug muscle damage and rhabdomyolysis (excretion of blood from muscles), polymyalgia rheumatica, and constant dizziness - with numerous diagnoses (comorbidities) added to the list since then with multiple hospitalizations, and near-death situations too many times. This is a new way of life for both of us... certainly not the life we dreamed of when we got married. Gone are the easier and somewhat carefree days. Gone is the freedom for Ed do what he enjoyed doing, like stacking his own firewood, being able to take care of our yard and other household chores with ease, or going for evening walks up the road… all the things we used to take for granted. No longer are we able to travel as a couple beyond doctor appointments, or enjoy an evening out to dinner. We enjoyed going to Cooperstown, New York for our 20th anniversary and later with our kids – to the Baseball Hall of Fame and The Farmers’ Museum. We’d hoped to take a dinner cruise on the Erie Canal some day. We long to just get in the car and go visit our children and their families; but, sitting in the car, even for doctor appointments, takes a toll on Ed with increased pain, stiffness, and a generalized sick feeling. So much of what the rest of us can do and take for granted takes great effort on his part due to various limitations. Yet, we both know very well we are not alone in this journey. You, too, are likely facing your own difficult struggles… and our hearts and prayers go out to each and every one of you. For God never promised that this journey called life would be easy just because we put our faith in Him… and may we know He is still in control no matter the circumstances. A few verses come to mind that we cling to during the hard days and which give us a sense of peace (all Scripture from the New International Version): 1) “But he said to me [the Apostle Paul], ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” 2 Corinthians 12:9 2) “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him…” Romans 8:28 3) “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Isaiah 41:10 4) For “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16.33 In your most difficult times, may you feel the comforting presence of loved ones helping to ease your pain, just as you feel the presence of our Lord wrapping His arms around you in love… as He covers each one of us with His peace amidst the turmoil… Sometimes… Linda A. Roorda Sometimes… The hurt just cuts too deep As you watch your loved one Face endless days of pain. Sometimes… You feel abandoned When prayers seem unanswered As waves of despair set in. Sometimes… You stand alone along the side Holding their hand in love Helpless to assuage the hurt. Sometimes… Tears that flow from out the soul Tenderly touch the heart When words cannot even convey. Sometimes… A hand that reaches out To hold, to steady, to calm Brings precious comfort to the weary. Sometimes… The voice of wisdom Gently whispers in your ear As the love of God gently enfolds. Sometimes… To understand the trial Is simply to accept God’s hand is still in control. ~~ 09/09/15 ~~

Down in The Valley, Waverly to be precise, there is a hidden little gem of store/bakery/pizza place/a whole lot of stuff. I discovered the Sopranos about 9 years ago while working and needing lunch. I challenge anyone to walk into this place and not buy something. Lunch time is always a magical time there. They have daily specials on top of a full hot and cold sub menu. At least 6 different types of pizza. They also sell fresh pasta and pasta take and bake dishes. I am also told they have great veal cutlets. Finally the bakery with fresh breads, cookies, brownies, pies, cupcakes and more. Finally onto my lunch. Country fried steak and gravy with a double helping of mac & cheese. At the time of the picture it was cooled down because I couldn't get to it right away. Even reheated this was delicious the gravy was nice and peppery the steak still nice and tender. The mac and cheese as always on point. I prefer the orange cheese over white. It was an internal struggle to not eat the whole thing. However I now have a delicious lunch tomorrow. Sopranos in Waverly you are Fat Guy approved!

For me personally, quarantine began on St. Patrick’s Day 2020. I remember because I spent the day teaching our daughter how to draw leprechauns and unless I’m mistaken, I’m hard-pressed to think of another reason why I would be teaching a four-year-old how to draw leprechauns. Well, I guess if we were big Notre Dame fans but no, that is not the case. So it was St. Patrick’s Day and now it’s almost another St. Patrick’s Day and this has lasted a year. The four-year-old is now a five-year-old and there’s also a six-month-old kicking around the house. Our dog first enjoyed us being around so much, but now I think she’s kind of over it and headphones have become my best friend. They’re probably the dogs as well. She’s not as into Soundgarden at an extremely loud volume as I am. Her loss. But all of this is most likely not exclusive to my quarantine experience and for the most part, I would assume plenty of other people have similar tales and anecdotes. Well, except for young people who live alone or maybe with a significant other. The idea of living this quarantine life sans children is still beyond me and I don’t think I’ll ever fully be able to understand it. There are definitely days where such a life seems too good to be true and there are also days where I may or may not pine for such a life. Of course, there are days where I’m good with how things are currently constructed around these parts but where is the fun in that. The grass is always greener, especially amidst a pandemic. With the one-year anniversary of quarantine life coming up, I, like a lot of people are looking back and taking stock of everything that has transpired over the past year. Or at least I’d like to be doing that. Unfortunately, I’m distracted by something far more pressing, something incredibly more serious. My board shorts are starting to fall apart. Stop, this is important. These aren’t just any board shorts, my friend. These are the board shorts I have worn EVERY DAY since quarantine life started. And they are starting to rip, starting to show signs that the end is near and I’m sorry but it’s very sad. Once these babies go, I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t even want to think about it. Of course, I have, but I don’t want to. It’s too painful. These board shorts of mine, they’re lime green and white. On the left leg, it says “Rip Curl” in black lettering. They’re probably a couple of years old, so it’s not as if quarantine life did this on its own, but it definitely played a part. Early on in quarantine life, I put on pants during the week, usually jeans. I did this because I felt like I should. That first month or so was all about trying to make things feel normal. But even with a few hours each day spent wearing jeans, I still wore the board shorts before and after. Once the warmer temperatures started though, the jeans fell by the wayside and it was all board shorts, all the time. It was likely around mid-April when they became a full-time starter as opposed to a valued bench-player, so it was also around that point that their days became numbered. You are probably wondering why board shorts? Would board shorts actually be comfortable enough to wear so often? Yes, yes they would, especially if they’re older and a little stretched out, meaning you could throw on some boxers underneath. But I’m not here to go inside baseball on you. Just trust me when I tell you that they have been the most comfortable pair of shorts imaginable and the best partner in crime a quarantined man such as myself could ask for. At one point, I had a gift card for the local surf shop here and while I would have normally used it to buy a new button-up shirt, what was the point in that. So I purchased a new pair of leisure shorts. They’re like sweat pants, but shorts. Seemed like a slam dunk and as my wife hoped, these newer, cleaner shorts would replace the older, dirtier board shorts. That was not the case. The new shorts are fine, but fine isn’t going to replace gold, which is what these Rip Curl board shorts have been. And still are! Despite a slight rip here and there (and there and here,) they are still wearable. Everything is good. But not for long I’m afraid. I know how this goes. The rips start small, then gradually get bigger. They make friends; new rips emerge. I wasn’t washing them a lot to begin with me, but now I fear that every spin through the laundry seems to shorten their life expectancy even more. It’s a dicey game I’m playing. Wash them, keep them somewhat clean but hurt their long-term chances of survival or don’t wash them and just flat out keep them. Spoiler: I’m not washing them very often. I’ve had something like this happen before, a treasured and valued article of clothing gradually slip away from me. It was a hooded sweatshirt and I loved that hoodie with every ounce of my being. But nothing lasts forever and eventually, the frays started to overtake the sweatshirt, creeping up around the hood and at the sleeves. The sweatshirt began losing some of its integrity, becoming more of a moo-moo than a sweatshirt and as the days went by, it was worn less and less, partly to preserve and partly because it just wasn’t fun to wear anymore. It was a damn shame. I think about the sweatshirt often. And now here I am, stuck in a similar situation with these board shorts, these lovely, comfortable, very broken in board shorts. I’m not giving up just yet. They still have some life to them. But that life is much closer to the finish than the start. It’s almost as if it is a race against time. Either quarantine ends and I start dressing like a grown-up again, thus buying these shorts an extra month or so or this quarantine life continues and these shorts disintegrate into nothing, leaving me left to find a new pair of shorts to wear every single day. But it wouldn’t be fair to those new shorts, having to now live up to the expectations of replacing the old shorts. The Patriots are struggling to replace Tom Brady and I will no doubt struggle to replace these shorts. It is quite literally, the exact same thing. Until that day though, I ride with these shorts. I live with these shorts. I dad the shit out of things with these shorts and go pick up dinner with these shorts. I take out the trash and recycling and I get the mail with these shorts. Sometimes I forget and sleep with these shorts and sometimes I don’t forget and sleep with these shorts. Could I have made it through this past year without shorts? Hard to say. But what’s not hard to say is that I don’t even want to think about such things. Thank you, green and white Rip Curl board shorts. Now let’s enjoy what time we have left, shall we? Ryan harbors a constant fear of losing his keys, prefers flip flops and will always choose cereal if it's an option. He maintains his own blog, Giddy Up America and hasn't gotten a speeding ticket in over the year. He has previously contributed work to UPROXX & Heavy. Ryan is on Twitter: @ryanoconnell79

Let me start this review by saying I am ashamed of myself for waiting so long to give this place a try. You voted for it (mail-ins not accepted) and after a few months I am giving you my review of The Starlite Room. Right off the bat I knew I would like the place. They offer online ordering and in my opinion everyone should offer it. I can stare at the menu for hours customize my meal and I don't have to sound like a tool on the phone. So now down to business. My meal tonight was the philly cheese steak peppers and onions with a side of onion petals. So my first thoughts when opening the container was maybe I should have got two. Oh how WRONG I was. This thing was packed full and the roll was not split at the bottom. You would have thought Snoop Dogg rolled it. The roll itself was nice and soft the onion and pepper ratio was perfect. Everything was chopped up so no big chunks. I had to take the 1/2 eaten picture to show you how stuffed it was and then how much cheese. You knew you were eating a cheese steak. Also this slowmo just realized he didn't even put any condiments on it. I am usually a ketchup on my philly guy but I think it would have ruined the flavor. The onion petals were good the batter/coating was thicker which was good and I recommend the boom boom sauce for dipping. I am going to say at this point it was the best cheese steak I have had in a long time. If you made it this far I also had the pleasure of trying their mac & cheese. What you see was just a side order. I do not think there is another like it in the area. It has almost an afredo taste to it definitely unique and delicious. Finally I also got to try the Starlite burger it had a good char grilled flavor to it very good. The owner of said mac & cheese and burger said it was something they would order again. That compliment almost out weighs this Fat Guys approval of The Starlite Room.

It has been over a year since we became aware of the Covid virus in this country. So far hundreds of thousands of Americans have died from it and thousands more continue to die each day. Every American death diminishes each one of us. We are all connected in this web of life. Thankfully we now have vaccines that can protect most of us from the potential ravages of this terrible virus. These vaccines were tested on a total of about 70,000 people and their efficacy has been proven. There is hope for the future. I know there’s been a lot of controversy surrounding the new vaccines. As a scientist and a physician I would like to present to you, my friends, the latest information about the Covid 19 virus as well as some of the major therapeutic options we now have. I want to start by defining a few terms in order to clarify our understanding of the issues involved with the vaccine. Stay with me. I’m going to simplify the relevant science for your understanding. CELL A cell is the most basic unit of life. It is a “building block” of life. There are over 30 trillion cells in the human body. There are many different types of cells in our bodies. Most cells have two parts; an inner part(inner chamber) called the Nucleus and an outer part(outer chamber) called the Cytoplasm. (See picture) Think of it as a large balloon with a smaller balloon inside the larger balloon. The smaller balloon is the Nucleus and the space outside the smaller balloon is the Cytoplasm. Another example is a one-bedroom house. The house is a cell. When you open the door and walk into the house you are standing in the outer chamber/living room called Cytoplasm. If you continue to walk ahead, you open a door that leads you to another chamber/bedroom called Nucleus. Got it now? Easy isn’t it? The Nucleus (the inner chamber/bedroom ) is the ‘mission control’ center of the cell. Our precious genetic material called DNA resides in the nucleus (in the bedroom). You hide all your precious stuff in the bedroom, right? All instructions from what color your eyes should be, to how much estrogen should be produced in your body, comes from the DNA in the nucleus. The Cytoplasm(the outer chamber/living room) is the “manufacturing, assembly and packaging” part of the cell. So, my people! How does the factory (in the living room/cytoplasm) know what kind of hormone or protein to manufacture for Vivian or John or Veruschka? Answer: The instructions are sent by the DNA (in the bedroom/inner chamber/nucleus!!!). How do those instructions get from the DNA in the nucleus(inner chamber) to the Cytoplasm (outer chamber) where manufacturing takes place? Answer: The instructions are carried by a messenger called RNA. (Messenger RNA or simply mRNA!)-the delivery truck! In summary, if the body wants to manufacture something, whether it is a hormone or a protein that your body needs or an antibody, whatever it is, the instructions for making that item come from the DNA in the nucleus(the inner chamber) and these instructions are carried/transported/transferred by a messenger called RNA(mRNA) to the outer chamber which we call Cytoplasm where the manufacturing facility is located. After the item is manufactured it is then packaged and then a ‘door’ opens and releases the final product outside the cell. Therefore mRNA’s job is mostly to deliver instructions about how to make things! FUN n EASY STUFF! Hang in there with me..... What is a VIRUS? It is an independent particle which comes in various shapes. Inside that particle is the genetic material of the virus which is either RNA or DNA. A virus will not survive without your help. It cannot reproduce itself! It needs to enter your cell, hijack your cell, take over its manufacturing plant and then instruct your cell to produce more viruses. After your cell has produced many copies of the virus, it releases these new viruses outside so that they can infect other cells to produce more copies of the virus. The virus has an envelope/covering which is made up of either protein or fat material or combination of these. This envelope surrounds and protects the important genetic material(DNA or RNA) of the virus. Often times you can tell what kind of virus it is by its covering. How can you tell the car you’re looking at is a Cadillac GTS? By its shape and its Cadillac emblem! Therefore just like the Cadillac sedan, the coronavirus has its own ‘emblem’ on its surface/coating/envelope which distinguishes it from other viruses. It can use that same ‘emblem’ to attach itself to a cell in your windpipe. And then that cell in your windpipe opens its door and allows the virus to enter. Once it enters your cell, as I explained above, it instructs your cell to begin manufacturing many more copies of itself. This is how the virus works. REMEMBER... bacteria on the other hand does not need you or your cell. It can multiply on its own. The virus cannot do this so it needs you to produce copies of itself! So if I have you in a toll booth on the highway and I instruct you to stop every Mercedes Benz car that is trying to pass through, how would you do that?. Obviously you will look at the Mercedes emblem which is specific to Mercedes. Every car that comes by that has that emblem on it, you will stop it from passing through the gate. The same is true for coronavirus. When your body sees a virus that has an ‘emblem’ of a coronavirus on its surface it produces antibodies to target that specific emblem therefore arresting the virus. The new vaccine by Pfizer and Moderna is an RNA vaccine. Specifically it is a messenger RNA vaccine(mRNA). We know that the job of messenger RNA is to carry instructions from the DNA in the nucleus out to the manufacturing facilities within the cytoplasm. The messenger RNA in this vaccine has instructions (already coded in it) about how to make an ‘emblem’ of the coronavirus. Exciting stuff!!! And easy too! The messenger RNA vaccine when injected in your muscle enters one of your muscle cells and stays in the outer chamber of that cell where the manufacturing facility is located. There it delivers the instructions already programmed in it about how to make a coronavirus ‘emblem’. Please note that the messenger RNA in the vaccine DOES NOT go into the nucleus (the inner chamber where your DNA is located!). (No need to! It already has the instructions in it!) Therefore it cannot influence your genetic information! This is extremely important for you to understand because so many of the vibrant conspiracy theories out there are talking about messenger RNA doing things to your genetic mechanism (your DNA) when it is injected in your muscle as a vaccine. This is absolutely wrong! Now you see why! When your muscle cell factory produces the coronavirus ‘emblem’, (based on instructions it received from mRNA vaccine) it spits it (the ‘emblem’) outside where it can be seen by your immune system. The cells of your immune system immediately grab it and process the ‘emblem’. Then these immune system cells send instructions to your lymph nodes to produce specific antibodies to completely destroy the ‘emblem’. Now that the body has recognized the ‘emblem’, the next time a real coronavirus(with its known ‘emblem’ on its surface) enters your body, these antibodies which are now primed and ready will recognize that ‘emblem’ on the surface of the virus and annihilate/destroy the virus immediately. This my people, is how the vaccine works! WHAT WE KNOW. Over 50% of Covid transmissions may occur via asymptomatic people!!! About 70,000 people were enrolled in clinical trials for this vaccine and received two vaccine doses each. It is a safe vaccine. Major complications from any vaccine (measles, HPV, mumps, yellow fever, polio, etc) are usually appreciated within 2 months of receiving it. It’s been 2 months since the trial ended. The vaccine is about 95% effective. If you have had Covid, you should still take the vaccine. We do not know how long you are protected after a Covid infection. Monoclonal antibodies for emergency use authorized by the USFDA are available for those who test positive for Covid and are at risk for severe disease! This treatment can keep at risk people out of the hospital. Therefore if you test positive and are at risk for severe disease you must ask your doctor why you are not being given one of the FDA authorized antibody therapies. As of January 6, 2021, over 400,000 doses have been delivered to inpatient and outpatient facilities in the US. Pregnant women who have a Covid infection may not pass the virus to their newborn. The coronavirus has mutated! There is a new strain here! Another is on its way from South Africa. This new mutant strain is 50% more contagious! Every indication tells us that the vaccine will also work on this new strain. The best test for coronavirus is the Rapid Polymerase Chain(PCR) test which is about 97% sensitive. The Saliva Spit Test (which involves coughing and clearing the throat before spitting) stacks up well against the gold standard for COVID-19 test which uses a deep swab in the back of the nose. Home test kits are not as sensitive at this time. They work best within 5 to 7 days of contracting the virus, when the viral load is still high. In an effort to vaccinate more people using the currently available amounts of vaccine, some European nations have suggested delaying the second vaccine dose so more people can be vaccinated. This issue is being debated vigorously over there and here in the USA. There is concern that a long interval between doses would lead to resistant strains of the virus. Also the information we have about the effectiveness of this vaccine is from studies where people received two doses of it, NOT one! RECOMMENDATIONS 1. Facial covering. 2. Hand washing. 3. Social distancing. 4. Vaccine. 5. Monoclonal antibodies for Covid positive who are at risk for severe disease. Best wishes to all and a Happy 2021! N. A. Zama, MD, PhD. Dr Nche Zama, MD, PhD is a cardiothoracic surgery specialist in East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania and has been in practice for 35 years. Twin Tiers Living would like to thank Dr. Zama for giving permission to reprint this guest column.

What is it about a small town that can help us curb the spread of a virus? Is living in a small town safer? And, is all this change going to affect how we interact as a community? Two words. Population density. Population density is a major consideration when it comes to the spread of viruses. As we saw in the early stages, viruses spread rapidly in dense populations like major cities. Small town life allows us to interact with our community and get what we need without having to expose ourselves to lots of risks. What are some of the things we can learn, especially from the small-town life of the past, that can help us today? Obtain Products Locally If you remember in April when covid first began to spread many of the meatpacking facilities had to shut down. The cost of meat immediately doubled, or more. This wasn’t the only supply chain affected. Milk and produce also were interrupted. Huge waste occurred. And the virus spread quickly through large facilities. This highlights the need for small-scale local production as opposed to large-scale production and transport. In most of the world, local food production is still very much a reality. By obtaining as many goods as we can from our community we grow our local economy, and ensure that they don’t have to travel through lots of hands to get to us. Return of the Schoolhouse We all know that it wasn’t too long ago every neighborhood had its schoolhouse and it contained a small number of students, and a teacher or two. The tiny schoolhouse has its benefits. Students create bonds with the local community, and teachers are very accessible to the parents. This prior model is ideal in a world where large masses of people is not a good idea. It may be possible that students going back to school this fall is the major contributor to the numbers skyrocketing again. I’m sure people will resist switching to the small schoolhouse model, finding it difficult to justify the expense of current large schools. But, it seems that the mass production of our children’s education is no longer in our best interest. The Resurgence of the Small Business The shift in our society since the onset of covid-19 has been devastating. Families have lost loved ones and livelihoods. But, this change in our lifestyle is going to present new economic opportunities. If we can roll with these changes, maybe people can find growth within our communities. The idea of getting in my car and going to the store is not appealing to me. Fighting traffic for 45 minutes, bustling through a parking lot to grab ahold of a shopping cart that 200 other people have held that day, push it through a crowded store trying not to touch anything, knowing that we’re all sharing the same immediate space and everyone has got their hands on everything anyway! I know I would love to have someone delivering milk, eggs, and bread. Yes, large companies are rushing in to pay people next to nothing to grocery shop for you and bring it to your door, and they charge you a fortune to have it delivered. We don’t have to let it go this way. The situation presents opportunities. I would rather pay a local person to deliver my food from a local grocery store. When that large company isn’t skimming 90% of the delivery, everyone else makes out better in the end. By taking some lessons from our roots, and considering how these changes in our lives are going to affect us on a local scale, as well as a global scale, it will be possible for us to affect the way our community cares for itself. Maybe we could be stronger than ever. Twin Tiers Living welcomes Mathew to the Local Writer's section. His blog, RambleNewYork.com, offers a look at some of the best New York State has to offer. Born and raised in Upstate New York, Mathew lives in a wooded valley north of the Susquehanna River with his wife and kids. His first book "Simple Sutras" was published in 2014.

by Jeff Minick “A society that loses its sense of outrage is doomed to extinction.” So stated New York State Supreme Court Justice Edwin Torres over 30 years ago in a private communication. From the bench, Judge Torres added this lament: “The slaughter of the innocent marches unabated: subway riders, bodega owners, cab drivers, babies; in laundromats, at cash machines, on elevators, in hallways.” We find the judge’s remarks, which read like today’s headlines, cited in Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan’s 1993 article “Defining Deviancy Down.” By normalizing what was once abnormal, Moynihan argues, we eventually ensure “the manifest decline of the American civic order.” He uses as his data points soaring rates of crime and gun violence, disintegrating families, a chaos of ideas about sexual practices and marriage, failing schools, and the closure of facilities for the mentally ill. Moynihan outlines his argument in this way: Now, flash forward 31 years. Those of us old enough to remember the 1990s may recollect that time as idyllic when compared to our present troubles. The Soviet Union had collapsed; the national debt in 1993 was around $5 trillion compared to today’s more than $34 trillion; our southern border was relatively secure. San Francisco was famed for its beauty rather than for its homeless population, crime rates in New York City were declining and would continue to do so over the next decade, and drug overdose deaths in 1993 were less than 10 percent of what they are today. Fortunately for the future of our country, some Americans of all ages are in fact outraged by today’s cultural radicalism and deviant behaviors. In “Culture Shock with Lindsay Wigo,” for instance, the young, eye-rolling Ms. Wigo brings us a man who claims deep suntans are racist, a woman who boasts about being a stalker, and another woman who identifies as a pig. In the 1990s, our society would have looked on this trio as oddballs at best and, at worst, as suffering from mental illness. Another negative take on our decline into deviancy —and there are countless others, both online and in conversations with our families and friends—can be found in Naomi Wolf’s “Broken in What Way?” Here, Wolf recounts at length a recent visit to New York, a city she loves but which now seems to be in ruins. “I think if one lives here day to day,” she writes, “the shocking decline of the city is not so obvious. But to me, the change in the city was like seeing a beloved friend, who had formerly been beautiful and enchanting and witty, in a hospital bed, on an IV drip, half-unconscious.” Here Wolf puts a finger on another reason for our demise: the gradualism that moves society from condemnation of an idea or a practice first to tolerance and then to acceptance. So, where do we turn if we wish to reverse this decline into deviancy? In 1993, Senator Moynihan recommended several political solutions, yet given the federal government’s increasingly dismal performance in the 21st century—the massive debt, the lost wars, the broken border, the malfunctioning domestic programs—that rutted roadway promises only more failures. No—if we are to reverse our present decline, we are the ones who must take action. In some instances, such as reducing the deviant federal deficit, most of us have only a vote as our weapon. In other cases, however, such as combating neighborhood crime, seeking the best possible education for our children, or opposing society’s attacks on marriage and the traditional family, our power to effect change vastly improves. Here we must begin by reviving the old-fashioned concept of decency, which one online dictionary defines as “behavior that conforms to accepted standards of morality or respectability.” Those standards derive from our Greco-Roman, Judeo-Christian heritage, but they have been shoved aside in the last 50 years in favor of relativism, which is no standard at all. We find one glaring example of this sea change in the recent phenomenon of drag queen story hours in our public libraries. Billed as family-friendly events promoting diversity and foisted off on communities by the American Library Association, these performances for children aim at subverting the family, normalizing deviancy, and confusing preschoolers about gender and sex. At the same time, we must recognize that accepting deviancy as a norm comes with a tremendous cost. In many of our large cities, for example, crime and murder are now accepted as everyday events. The weekend casualty counts, assaults, and robberies out of places like Chicago and New York receive due notice in some media, but little if any effort is put into reducing these tallies of murder, rape, and theft. Once we understand that the deviant behavior found across the board in today’s culture is neither normal nor desirable, and we have the heart and the spirit to do something about it, we can take action. The field of education more easily demonstrates this power of the individual or a group of citizens to make a difference. More families are homeschooling now than ever before, and private academies of all sorts are springing up around the country. Parents are voting with their feet and leaving government schools. The Dylan Mulvaney Bud Light ad and the subsequent backlash that caused Anheuser-Busch InBev to take a major hit in sales was yet another demonstration of our power to make change. The lesson there was to stop supporting companies that are intent on radical cultural transformation. Public libraries have also become battlegrounds in the culture wars. From Prattville, Alabama, Lori Herring writes “How to Save Your Local Library From Cultural Marxists.” Pratt and a group of concerned parents spent nearly a year working to divest their public library’s children’s section of pornographic material, but they finally succeeded. Courageous people like them are making a difference. To take charge of our lives rather than looking to government is a tradition as old as America itself, and it can be applied to everything from cleaning up our city streets of trash to crime prevention. Participating in local elections, voting, becoming candidates ourselves, volunteering, staying engaged in local affairs—in these ways and more, citizens can have a direct effect on culture and community. Stout hearts, willing hands, and a sense of common decency can heal any number of the wounds inflicted on our society. Enough, then, of defining deviancy down. Let’s start defining decency up. Jeff Minick lives in Front Royal, Virginia, and may be found online at jeffminick.com. He is the author of two novels, Amanda Bell and Dust on Their Wings, and two works of non-fiction, Learning as I Go and Movies Make the Man. This article appeared on IntellectualTakeout.org and is shared under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Easter parades are over; a total solar eclipse before us. Birds are returning. I heard, in late February, that a friend had seen two bears, locally, and another friend mentioned the return of her bluebirds. The bluebirds were a welcome sign, but we hoped the bears would stay away until May. However, one or two have already come by, briefly, and so we will soon be moving the big seed cans into our storage shed. This means some inconvenience for me --- up our hilly lawn and around to the back of the out-building. But the exercise is probably a good thing and certainly better than allowing an ursine sunflower seed orgy on our sidewalk. Hopefully, those early bluebirds will find enough buggy food to satisfy their spring optimism. Do you know what a vernal pool is? In the woods on our farm, there were little pools that held water only for the spring season. By mid-summer they had dried up. But for a little while, they glimmered and rippled like tiny lakes, surrounded by mossy stones, and inhabited,just briefly, by tiny frogs, darting water insects and,maybe,possibly, wood faeries. They reflected carpets of violets and starry bloodroot blossoms. And on a nearby slope, in slightly drier terrain, there was a hillside of white trilliums. These 3-lobed trumpets must line the path leading to Heaven, they are so beautiful. In a slightly different terrain,the sandy soil in my brother’s woods (only 3 miles away) we used to find creeping arbutus, a delicate pink flower with a lovely fragrance. Vernal pools, opening wild flowers and a variety of mosses, all greening my little portion of earth. As lawns lose their winter brown, and the trees show the beginnings of leaves, it is good to just get outside. Andy Morris,* a regional poet, says this about the spring of the year in an aging world: “Kneeling down to feel the fresh green grass, I found, lying just beneath it, white as bone, a ghost of grass from a summer past, long since mown I held in my hand like so much paper, or even less than that, a milky vapor. And I thought of how age gives way to youth. And how truth is but the mulch for further truth. And I thought of how my life is but ashes, little more than a fading blade of grass. But when I looked again upon the scene, and remembered what I felt when at first, I knelt, and took the time to celebrate the green.” Celebrating the small bits of new life brightens my day. The seasons of fall and winter, and realization of aging may dim our spirits briefly, but we are restored by the whole, panoramic view of increasing “green”. “Green” is now what we all try to be in an attempt to be environmentally wise. We try to use products that do not pollute land, sea or air. Traditionally, spring cleaning has its own season. This endeavor, in the 1800s and early 1900s, involved rug-beating, scrubbing brushes, pails and pails of water, sometimes lye and white wash (and no latex gloves!). It was a labor-intensive series of tasks that truly was an actual “season”. Little House on the Prairie books give a couple of vivid house-cleaning scenarios. For them, it involved taking the old straw out of mattresses and replacing it with new straw, dragging the rugs outside to be beaten, and washing (with home-made soap) anything washable in the house. My only memory of anything resembling this, was when the inside of our dairy barn was swept down, hosed down and whitewashed, in the spring, after the cows had been let out to pasture. Today, vacuum cleaners, rug-shampooers, Swiffers and a whole array of cleaning products make house-cleaning all year ‘round a much easier process (though often quite polluting), and there is little need anymore, to tear up the entire residence. I think home-makers today may well wish to lift a glass of whatever to the new robotic cleaners, power washers and wipeable paints that make life so much easier --- and, if we are alert, safer too. As I thought about the tradition of spring cleaning, I was also reminded of other traditions with which I grew up. Sitting around a table for daily meals or for tea time is one custom that seems to be dwindling. TV trays, frozen dinners, and conflicting schedules have made meals less of a gathering-together event and more of a fast-food way of survival. We may be feeding our bodies, but are doing less in the way of nourishing our souls and connecting ourselves with family and friends. We did fairly well with sitting at table while our boys were home and in school but then college and summer jobs saw us sitting together less and less often. Now, Kerm and I do eat together but while watching the nightly news. Talk about inviting indigestion!! I have good memories of sitting around several tables. When we went home to visit, our first activity, after dropping our suitcases near the stairs,was to sit around my mother’s kitchen table for a cup of tea and molasses cookies. The table was placed before a large window with a bird feeder attached to the sill, looking out on a flower garden and a pond. So, there were plenty of beautiful things to watch and to encourage conversation. It was like taking a deep breath and relaxing for the allotted time of our visit. Then, at my brother’s house, the front door opened straight into the dining room. We shed shoes, and claimed a chair around the large dining table. We had cups of our favorite tea accompanied by considerable conversation and laughter as the stories flowed with who was doing what. There was a merry tale of a salad that was the “last straw” for Bob (not one for creative or odd foods) when he found a plastic curtain ring therein. There was the time I requested a wonderful potato soup recipe --- discovering that it was originally mine, but totally forgotten. Other family members often dropped in. As we talked, hands were busily doing bead work, blankets were being knitted, and one patient person was creating a needlepoint pillow cover. Coming home and being around a table was a mini-vacation from daily reality and created a sense of forever belonging. When we visited at Kerm’s home it was much the same feeling. I have old photographs of family sitting around the table at holiday time. The round table, pulled out, with leaves added, was laden with good food and filled the small dining room. Smiling faces indicated that we were in good company. Besides meals at that table, there were also riotous times of playing Monopoly or triple-deck pinochle, instigated by Kerm’s grandmother. Then the kitchen table was where we had delectable pancakes for breakfast and where we caught up with Kerm’s mother and what was going on in her life and the neighborhood. What we prideful, independent humans do not always realize is how much we need each other. Some of us mingle more reluctantly than others; we are introverts who find our peace in solitude and quiet. But even introverts need the company of others for healthy living. Good company, that is. I used to give my sister grief about not participating; about staying by herself (with a good book, of course) so much. In recent years, I’ve found myself behaving in a similar way. Given a choice, I’d usually rather stay home and read than go out and socialize, unless the people are near and dear. But when I do make the effort, I have felt completed and renewed by participating. Especially do I find this fellowship and encouragement in our small groups whether they be pinochle nights, Bible study or Spencer Singers. Small groups create a space where we feel safe and affirmed. So many people boast that they don’t need other people. But, of course, we all do. Every single one of us! Families, whether blood relatives or those we’ve built from friends, keep us connected to people who care about us and keep our ability to love, polished. There are two quotations that speak to the value of companionship. “Life is full of opportunities for learning love….the world is not a playground but a schoolroom. Life is not a holiday but an education. And the one eternal lesson for us all is how better we can love.** And, “Two people are better off than one, for they can help each other succeed…….three are even better for a triple-braided cord is not easily broken.”*** We need good people in our lives for support, for mirrors, and for inspiration. In April, besides finding companionship with people who make life better, the usual spring work is waiting to be done. As the buds on the lilacs and trees swell, so do the numbers of tasks on the “to-do” lists. We’ve had some rainy days this week, the upside of which is giving us a brief respite from the outside jobs. It is good to cross off some of the inside tasks ---- like taking down the glass snowflakes still decorating my porch and picture window, and sorting the immense pile of catalogs, letters and notes to myself. Whether inside or out, may your April bring you just enough showers to refresh, and may you rejoice in every bit of sunshine that comes your way. Be sure you notice the increasing, wonderful greening all around even as you carefully, with special glasses, watch the solar eclipse. Carol may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Andy Morris ---from “Quiet Moments; Lessons In Life And Love” **Henry Drummond ---Scottish evangelist, biologist, and writer. 1851-1887. ***Ecclesiastes 4: 9 and 12b.

by Cadence McManimon It doesn’t take a fashion designer’s sense to notice the decline of American clothing in the last few decades. The neat suits and dresses of yesteryear have been replaced with stretchy athleisure, the hats and coats vanished in favor of sweatshirts and leggings. Quite honestly, I don’t think fashion and clothing is all that important. Sure, we’ve lost some aesthetics and have nearly erased any sense of modesty. But in the end, clothes are still just clothes, right? And yet, even the humblest elements of history have something to teach us in this regard. For example, I have been a skinny jeans girl all my life. I literally used to sleep in jeans as a teenager! I prioritize comfort, as do most of my generation. I would be the last person anyone would expect to promote a return to wearing dresses. And yet, here I am, writing this while wearing an ankle-length skirt. What happened to me, a lover of comfortable modern clothes? I got pregnant. How very ordinary, right? I am currently expecting my third child with my husband, and since during my pregnancies I tend to get extremely sick, clothing choices rank at the absolute bottom of the priority list. That is, until this third time around, when I have some new symptoms. Let’s just say I am dealing with some inflammation in very sensitive areas! Tight clothes, legging seams, and denim fabric only worsen the discomfort. So, I’ve had to put away my beloved jeans in favor of soft skirts and dresses. And that’s when I realized why skirts have been so very practical throughout most of history. Most women, up until recent decades, did a lot more childbearing in their lives. It was common to have at least three children, if not seven or eight or more. Of course skirts would be more comfortable than pants as women carried, delivered, and nursed many consecutive babies! It’s only in recent decades that birth rates and motherhood have drastically decreased. On top of that, skirts and dresses are also far more adjustable for changing figures and weight fluctuations, which are a natural part of childbearing. I’ve been surprised these days that the garments that fit me the longest through my pregnancies are different dresses I’ve had since I was a teenager. Historically speaking, this type of adjustability was imperative during centuries when women could only afford two or three dresses. They needed clothes that would fit many seasons of life—it was simply impossible to buy different clothes for different body changes, as we have the option to do today. Along with that, historical—that is, non-synthetic—fabrics are far more durable. In the last couple of decades, we have had the luxury of clothing made of elastic fabrics. Clothes made of nylon blends, spandex, and jersey can stretch and accommodate pregnancies easily, as well as being affordable. So why am I nevertheless turning to skirts these days? Simple. Those elastic fabrics don’t hold up. They function like a rubber band and can only be stretched so often before losing their ability to “snap back.” The stretchy clothes I do have remain functional for only a year or so. The longest-lasting fabrics—coincidentally, those my dresses are made of, are woven from natural fibers such as cotton, linen, and wool. These fibers are simply more durable, and because they don’t stretch, they last for years and don’t wear out with laundering. It’s easy to see how this greatly benefited mothers throughout history. Along with these unexpected practicalities, I’ve also come face to face with dresses being gendered clothing. Our culture has distinctly pursued androgyny and unisex fashion, where men can wear women’s clothing or vice versa. Wearing traditional clothing is not in itself going to fix the gender confusion in our culture. But it does make an often subliminal visual statement. I recently came across this post by the Modest Mom from way back in 2012. I was impressed that her primary reasoning for dressing traditionally was not Biblical modesty, as I expected of her, stereotypically. Instead, she wrote about the stark visual difference skirts give to denote the female versus the male form. She said this is a very easy way to show her children the beauty and differences between the sexes. It reminded me of an experiment I took part in back in college. I, my sister, and a good friend were all in the depths of our coursework, and we had a lot of male classmates. We were discussing one day the popularity of androgynous athleisure fashion on our respective campuses. One of us had the bright idea to try a little social experiment just to see what would happen if we dressed completely femininely. So, on a normal day of classes, we each wore a pink dress all day long—and, yes, we agreed it had to be pink. We were shocked at the results. Yes, female students would comment “I like that outfit!” or “You look cute.” But the more drastic change came from our male classmates. My friend was in organic chemistry with almost exclusively male students; in her group project, she’d been pulling most of the weight in writing a hefty paper. But during the pink dress day, every member of her group offered to do double the amount he’d previously contributed! My sister experienced chivalry in the streets—every car driven by a man stopped to let her cross the road that day. I was offered multiple better seats in lecture halls, and every single time, men I barely even knew opened the door to let me pass. Without exception, we saw a huge increase in the amount of positive attention and deference from men in every setting. What was the lesson we learned? Men respond positively to women who look like women! Far from being preyed upon, as modern culture claims, looking feminine offered us three college girls more respect and kindness than wearing androgynous clothes ever did. And of course, I’m not the only writer to have noticed the difference dressing well can make in our lives. “What does our own sloppy dress tell us about ourselves?” asks Jeff Minick. “Are we rebelling against the idea of beauty and culture? Or are we just too lazy to pull on a pair of slacks instead of wearing the sweats we slept in?” As Maida Korte previously wrote on Intellectual Takeout, “Getting dressed in something more than flannel-patterned pants and a somewhat stale T-shirt signals that we are part of life and living it on purpose.” In our modern culture, have we too quickly thrown out skirts? What have we lost by rejecting the classic gendered dress of yesteryear? I don’t think we need to burn our jeans or swear off leggings forever, but we could certainly consider the benefits of returning to clothing that reflects our traditional values. What might dressing traditionally look like in our modern culture? It can start very simply: Recognize the value and visual signals of a classically gendered appearance. Apply good hygiene in our daily habits. Take five minutes to do something extra for our appearance, like curling or braiding our hair or having a fresh shave. Choose our clothing pieces thoughtfully. Practice frugality by maintaining the clothing we already have. There are so many small things like this we can practice, things that were commonplace mere decades ago. We don’t need to burn our newer wardrobes, or try to look like sock hop attendees, or start completely from scratch. A few small changes like this go a long way toward making our outward appearance reflect our values. Let’s rediscover the wisdom traditional culture can offer our modern closets. Cadence McManimon is a published author, former special education teacher, and now a wife and mother. She has too many houseplants, plenty of artsy projects, and not enough pens that work! (Doesn't everyone?) Her novels Name Unspoken and The Lily Girl are available at her website cadencemcmanimon.com. Her favorite things include crayons, sarcasm, Sherlock Holmes, and hearing from readers! This content originally appeared on InetellectualTakeout.org and is is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License Image credit: Pexels

February is sort of a transition month. We may still get snow, sleet, and freezing rain but, there is some snow melt, and daylight becomes darkness, later and later. Somewhere out in the snowy woods, high up in a tree, a mama owl is sitting on eggs, warming them with her fluffy self. And squirrels, having found mates, are aggressively defending their territories. Hal Borland*, renowned naturalist, said: “In February, snow will actually melt in very cold weather; evaporating without going through the water stage, and is absorbed by the dry air passing over it. I’ve seen a snow drift shrink six inches in four days, without the temperature getting above 30 degrees. ……the sun is warmer, the day is longer, nights are shorter.” No wonder our skin suffers in winter; dry air = dry skin. Lather on the moisturizers! Today would be my sister’s birthday were she still with us. Betty (Elizabeth Selenda) was 12 years older than I, and we had three older brothers. She took me to school at least once that I remember --- sort of a senior high show and tell, baby sat me a few times on the rare occasions my parents were away ----- and I babysat her first child when I was in my early teens. We were sort of like ships passing in the night while I was in college, seeing each other mostly on holidays; she was busy with family and later, after college, I was occupied in the same way. We also lived hours apart. But in our later years, saw each other more often and found much to share. She was fond of gardening, bird-watching, and reading. She was also fascinated by the big locks on the St. Lawrence River and collected Cape Cod light house replicas. She and Ray, my brother-in-law, had four fine sons, losing one baby in between. And she gallantly put up with motorcycles, big shoes, and more people in and out of her house than she might have preferred. We were different in many ways----- but quite similar in others ---- and I miss her. I always think of Betty when I see this poem by William Butler Yeats**, the Irish poet: I will arise and go to Innisfree, and a small cabin build there of clay and wattles made, none bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, and live alone in the bee-loud glade. ….I will arise a go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore…...” She would have liked the peace and simplicity. We are less than a week away from Valentine’s Day. Some call this a Hallmark Holiday since it creates considerable income for retailers selling greeting cards, lingerie, chocolates, and flowers. Perhaps you remember, as a kid, making valentines --- and the valentine box at school? Our big table, when the boys were small, was covered with tiny red paper cuttings, glue, glitter and those small, humorous valentines that came in a package of 25.; a rather messy collage of creativity. I loved it! I still have a small stash of red construction paper, lacy doilies, and appropriate verses, in case, some fine February, I am taken over by a valentine-making mood. And of course, we always try to stock up on those little candy hearts with the terse sayings. The day, itself, is named after a pastor and physician. Valentine, was a Christian Bishop of Rome, when Rome was focused on conquering much of the world. He fell afoul of Emperor Claudius II Gothicus. Claudius was fighting wars and needed soldiers --- preferably young men with no romantic attachments to distract them from warlike duties. So, there was a ban on marriages for people of a certain age. Bishop Valentine, in direct disobedience of the no-marriage edict, continued to marry hundreds of young couples. His defiant behavior came to Claudius’s attention, and Valentine was thrown into prison where he was beaten and finally beheaded on February 14th, 270 AD, thus becoming a Christian martyr. While he was in prison, he sent notes to his friends, signing them “Te Amo ---, Your Valentine”. So, we mix history and romance (and a bit of Latin with English) and get our Valentine’s Day. The world today surely needs more love -----all kinds of love –-- romantic (eros) -- the love of friends (Phileo), without whom, life would be savorless, and selfless love (Agape), which emits grace and appreciation/care for all ----- lacking which, our world has become a mess! Lack of respect/ compassion, and far too much apathy, greed, and actual evil are all reasons our world seems to be falling apart quite regularly. Another, possibly more fixable reason, could be lack of communication. People don’t listen well even when the conversation is agreeable; we are busy framing replies in our minds instead of hearing what is being said. We frequently fail to “hear” (or even contemplate) viewpoints that differ greatly from our own and --- in addition --- we are often inept at sharing our own opinions in a way that doesn’t put others down. A few years ago, a local foundation sponsored a seminar in listening skills. It was excellent three hours; learning how to clearly speak our thoughts, and how to immerse ourselves in another person’s thinking. This does not mean that in our new understanding, we agreed. But we were able to grasp what someone else saying, and often, why. We also discovered, in this process, that expressing intense feelings without being patronizing or insulting takes thoughtfulness and finesse. Tolstoy said: “Everybody thinks of changing humanity and nobody thinks of changing himself!”* If you or I feel very strongly about something, we may find that 1) discussion is uncomfortably threatening to that inner belief and 2) attempts to be understanding may fly out the window if someone disagrees with what we feel is a universal given. Surely if a concept is set in stone for me, it should be for everyone! Tolstoy is right about how we humans think, but perhaps, if understanding is our purpose, we could remember this thought from Henry Drummond**: “Life is full of opportunities for learning love…...The world is not a playground; it is a school room. Life is not a holiday but an education. And the one eternal lesson for all of us is how better we can love.” And no one said the lessons would be easy! (It would probably also be useful to not bristle like a porcupine, metaphorically covering our ears going: La -La La- La! I can’t hear you!”) Loving February can be almost as hard as hugging a porcupine. Most of us are unhappy when Punxsutawney Phil predicts six more weeks of winter; we are ready for SPSRING! There may be fewer days in February (Yes, even in Leap Year), but it seems like a too-long month. If there is a thaw and mild breezes (as this week), I cut forsythia branches, forcing them into early bloom inside. Forsythia tries to take over the world, so pruning it is a good deed. If one has access, a mixed bouquet of forsythia and pussy willows is lovely, but our pussy willow trees, unpruned by their lethargic owners, have grown far beyond our reach. Later in the spring, the fuzzy little gray nubbins will flare against the sky about 25 feet up. So, my early bouquet will feature only forsythia. There was a pussy willow tree on my brother’s farm, grown sturdy and tall, between a stone smoke house and a shed used as a play house. His children and I would climb that many-branched tree, sitting up amid the branches, viewing our “kingdom” o’er. At my home, I had two trees for my personal scaling. One was the cherry tree that met the roof outside my west bedroom window; perfect for up and down. Our cat thought so too; he would climb up to my window and meow to be let in. The other was an ironwood tree growing in a hedgerow in our back pasture. It had a horizontal limb, creating a seat, about five feet up, among the leaves. (And it was nicely far enough away from the house, that I couldn’t hear if anyone called.) Every child ought to have at least one tree to climb; a sylvan sanctuary! A few years ago, the larch trees in our front yard were at the right height for our granddaughters. Now they have shed lower branches, as larches do, so climbing them wouldn’t be safe but the girls have probably mostly out-grown the desire anyway. Jungle gyms may be good on a playground, but there’s nothing like an actual tree for pure, tactile satisfaction. February is still winter, but that vase of golden forsythia will remind us that spring isn’t far off. My seed and plant orders will be in this week ---- early for me. Last year I missed some plants I really wanted because I was so late in ordering, so this year, I have pushed myself to order 2 months earlier. I also am trying to restrain my overly-optimistic view of what I can do in the garden. SIGH! Plant catalogs are SO convincing and so tempting with their marvelous photographs. My imagination immediately envisions beds of roses backed by clouds of delphinium, rows of peonies, and lilies. We are supposed to be cutting back, so, expanding my gardens is not acceptable. However ------ fine-tuning what we have is surely a good idea ----- right? I remember (and repeat to my husband and children) this truism: “Gardening is cheaper than therapy ---- and you get tomatoes!” Whatever the weather outside your window, try to have a little love for February. Right now, at this very moment, it is all we have. Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Leo Tolstoy – Russian novelist; considered one of the greatest classic writers. 1828-1910 **Henry Drummond ---Scottish writer, lecturer and evangelist. 1851-1897.

"It's so beautiful out here.” That's a statement I used to hear a lot, usually from someone who was lost and needed help finding their way back to Elmira, Horseheads, I86, etc. I'd point them in the right direction, and after a quick “thank you” they'd usually say how pretty our area is, then drive off to their destination. And it's true. Chemung County is blessed with a beautiful rural landscape. But unfortunately I don’t hear that a lot these days. That’s because there's far too many in this county who don't see it as a beautiful thing to be enjoyed and respected. They look at it as a place to dump their garbage and other unwanted items. This is nothing new of course, there's always been those areas that people confuse for the county landfill. ( For the record folks, it's in Lowman. Like Toucan Sam, just follow your nose, it's easier to smell from miles away these days. ) There's always been the beer cans, fast food wrappers, and so on that it's apparently too difficult for some to dispose of properly. But more and more it's larger household items. For example, just in the four to five mile stretch of Jerusalem Hill Road I drive each day, I can see: random couch cushions, a small recliner, a microwave and other assorted stuff over an embankment. Garbage bags in the trees. There's a couch on the edge of another embankment ( so that's where the cushions came from ) and if you stop and take a look over the bank, there's years of stuff piled up there. Bags of household garbage, just tossed along the roadside without a care. This isn't just happening here in our part of the county, it's everywhere. On nearly any given rural road in Chemung County, you’ll find broken televisions, computer monitors, construction debris and more. It's not only disgusting, it's infuriating, it's... it's sad. And it's got to stop. And I can already hear the keyboard commandos out there, "So if you don't like it, why don't you clean it up?" How do you know people aren’t? Look, it’s one thing to walk up and down the road picking up trash the local slobs toss our their car window. But how many stoves, televisions, etc can one person pick up? How many times can one person haul someone else's garbage to the proper locations and pay to properly dispose of? It's one thing to pay for a couple extra bags of garbage to be hauled away. Local officials and law enforcement know it's a problem, but it doesn’t seem to be much of a priority. I’ve brought it up over the years, and would love to help find a solution. But to be honest, I don’t have a lot of answers. Are people doing this because of the expense of taking it to the dump? Then maybe there’s a way municipalities can make it both easier and more affordable to dispose of an old couch, or a 55 inch tv that no longer works. Make it free somehow, hell, it’s got to be better than having dozens of mini landfills across the county. Maybe the local road crews could clean this stuff up as it’s found, pile it up somewhere. Then, let’s find a way to catch the dirtbags doing it. Perhaps invest in some cameras ( Elmira just bought fifty for God’s sake ) and install them in places known to be a common problem area. I’d happily kick in for some up here in our section of the county. Then as a punishment the ones caught can pay for its disposal, even the stuff they didn’t illegally dump. I don’t know folks, part of me thinks it’d still continue. Maybe there’s no cure for the slobbish behavior, the lack of respect for our hometowns. I don’t know… To the slobs doing this, knock it off. If you want to live in filth, that's your prerogative I suppose but do it in your own hovel. These hills are our home, and we're tired of it. “It’s so beautiful out here.” Well, it used to be.

I cannot even begin to say “thank you” enough for all the kindness in the many caring words in cards and in person, the shared tears, meals, memories and laughter, and thoughts and prayers family and friends have showered upon me and my family in the loss of our Ed – husband, Pop, Gramps, brother, cousin, uncle, and friend. Thank you to everyone who came to the calling hours and memorial service yesterday, you deeply touched our hearts - including the surprise to see my niece and her family who traveled from Tennessee, and our friends, our late Jenn’s dear in-laws, who drove down from Maine – we shall never forget their kindness in being here with us. Thanks to my daughter for finding the direct contact person at the newspaper headquarters who so kindly amended Ed’s online obituaries to include our Jenn’s name as having predeceased him, because… in all the upheaval, I forgot to include my own daughter. All the offers of help in so many ways are greatly appreciated. I’m still looking around to find Ed, wondering why he’s not holding onto my arm, but I’ll be ok and know Ed is rejoicing in heaven’s glory with perfect vision! Each one of us encounters failures and losses in life. Each one of us encounters disabilities in ourselves or those around us. But it’s what we do with, and how we react to, all that comes our way that makes a difference... in our lives and in the lives of others. We can carry on with selfish pride in what we can do, we can roll over in defeat at failure... or we can face the challenge in humility, asking God to guide us along a broken and difficult path. For 27 years (from 1982 to 2009), we burned wood to heat our house. When my husband, Ed, farmed with his dad, he cut his own firewood with a chainsaw despite very limited vision. Came the day, though, that Ed lost the balance of his limited vision and was completely blind. He could no longer use a chainsaw after just a few years, later had to stop using an axe to split wood, and it remained to be seen how he would handle the other obstacles that faced him after becoming totally blind. Initially, he went through a difficult transition and grieving process, common to all with any serious loss. None of us knew how best to handle the change. It was a learn-as-you-go process until we found professional guidance specifically for the blind at A.V.R.E. in Binghamton, NY and The Carroll Center for the Blind in Newton, MA. And then, his old self rose up to meet the challenges, determined to do whatever he could to face whatever came his way… with a catch. As he stacked firewood one day without any remaining fragments of light and color to guide him, the rows kept collapsing. He simply could not get the pieces of wood to fit together well enough to stay in neat upright rows. In utter frustration, he sat down and put his head in his hands, feeling like an utter failure. All of his life he’d had to struggle with limited vision, being classified legally blind from infancy on. He struggled in the classroom, not being able to see the board, often refusing to ask for help. He wanted to be just like everyone else. Most of us can tackle any activity, job or hobby with ease. But Ed was denied what he longed to do… he couldn’t play football or basketball with his 6’7” height. He could swim like a pro, but wasn’t allowed on the team for fear he’d hurt himself or others if he strayed from his lane. Instead, the coach made him manager of their state division championship team from Warwick, NY. But, at other times, peers mocked and belittled him. Why couldn’t he be accepted just for who he was? Why did everything have to be so hard? Why couldn’t life be easier and simpler… like it was for everyone else? It wasn’t fair, he thought. Yet, he had accomplished so much with so little for so many years! He could milk the cows, climb the silos, drive tractor and do all the field work except plant corn, and that was only because he couldn’t see where the last row left off. With his limitations, he knew to be extra cautious and it always paid off. But, now it seemed that even this last bit of enjoyment in stacking firewood was being taken from him, too. Except, while sitting there, with the wood he’d stacked falling down, he decided to pray and ask God for help in this seemingly simple, but now very challenging task. He prayed that God would guide each piece of wood he picked up so it would fit and the rows wouldn’t fall down… so that he could stack the wood himself without having to ask yet again for more help. As he stood up and once again picked up the firewood, he soon realized that every piece he stacked fit… well, actually, fit perfectly! When he was done, his rows stood straight and tall without collapsing! And then he began hearing comments from neighbors who marveled at how great his stacked firewood looked. By a man who couldn’t see, no less! As Ed told anyone who commented, “It wasn’t me; it was God.” It was only after he prayed each time before he picked up the first piece of wood that he was able to manage this seemingly impossible task. But, if he forgot and just delved right in to stacking, the wood invariably collapsed… until he sat down and had a little talk with God. My poem below is reminiscent of a story floating around the internet of violinist Itzhak Perlman performing with a broken violin string. Though that feat was unable to be confirmed by reliable sources, the concept is worthy of illustrating our brokenness in disability. Another young man, Niccolo` Paganini, was an Italian child prodigy who played mandolin and violin from ages 5 and 7 respectively. Supposedly, he once played with three broken strings, refusing to allow the handicap to end his serenade. Paganini excelled in part because of Marfan’s Syndrome which gave him his height and extra long fingers, a genetic syndrome also found in both of our families. The elasticity of joints and tissues allowed Paganini the flexibility to bend and extend his fingers beyond the norm as he used the disability to his benefit. Like Ed and others with disabilities, we can either resent our situation or we can have a little talk with God, asking Him to guide us through whatever we face. The Broken String Linda A. Roorda Four strings create beautiful music Perfection in pitch, magnificent tone All they expect, not asking for more Performing with pride just as it should be. Pulling the bow across the taut strings Gently at first, then faster I stroke The symphonic sound brings tears to their eyes This is my gift to their list’ning ears. Closing my eyes to the beauty of sound Caressing the strings, deep feelings evoked From graceful and light to dramatic and rich Till one string popped, now what shall I do? Adversity gives a chance to prove worth As now I’ve lost a string that flails free. In silence all eyes are riveted on me; Would I be angry or would I accede? Silently I prayed, God give me the strength I’ve been disabled, humbled before all. Help me I pray to carry on well Let them now see You working through me. Adjusting my bow and fingers for sound Quickly I learned to amend my strokes, As to my ears a beautiful tune Emanates yet while focused on God. When the finale at last had arrived With a soft sigh I played my last note, And as it faded they rose to their feet With wild applause from their hearts to mine. Perhaps it was all intended to reach This attitude of pride within myself. A lesson was learned in how to react, Adversity’s gift to sink or to soar. For without You what does my life mean? What value is placed on my outward skills? Do You not, Lord, see deep in my heart Where my soul reflects my pride or Your grace? My attitude then a choice I must make Embrace gratitude or sink in despair. For I cannot change what happens to me Instead, I’ll play while focused on You. Humility grows by resigning pride As a broken string reflects trials of life. Others I’ll serve as You did for me For in You is found the selfless way of life. ~~ 05/31/14 ~ An abridged version of the following reflection was published in “Breaking Barriers” in March 2016, a publication of the Christian Reformed and Reformed Church in America Disability Concerns Ministries.

by Jeff Minick On a recent trip from Virginia to Indiana, the friend who was driving me commented on the trash alongside the expressways. With the exception of Route 30’s lightly traveled parts, he was right. Plastic bags, fast-food wrappers, beer bottles, and other debris uglified the roadways. The motel where we stayed that weekend wasn’t much better. Cigarette butts littered the grounds and the parking lot, likely because the motel offered neither outdoor trash cans nor cigarette disposal receptacles. Back home, I’ve now noticed that the roads around here are also awash in garbage. The middle-class neighborhood where I live is litter-free, but as soon as I turn onto Rivermont Drive and head to town, the roadside ditches and patches of grass become a dumping ground for trash. Drivers either toss their refuse out the window or fail to secure it in their pickup trucks as they carry it to the county dump. Similarly, a friend of mine reports that at his older, working-class complex of apartments in Richmond, Virginia, some neighbors frequently open their car doors and dump trash into the parking lot. Others throw their MacDonald’s boxes and wrappers to the ground after eating, too lazy or too ignorant to carry them inside to a waste can. It seems it’s time to bring back the “Crying Indian.” The Crying Indian advertisement, one of the most effective ads ever to appear on television, depicted a Native American canoeing in polluted waters. Landing his canoe and stepping to the bank, he stands surrounded by trash, and turning his face to the camera, he sheds a single tear. “Some people have a deep, abiding respect for the natural beauty that was once this country. And some people don’t,” the ad said. “People start pollution. People can stop it.” Such a lesson is now forgotten, judging from Elizabeth Cogar’s Rappahannock Record article on the mounting litter problem. While government workers and volunteers do clean up roadside messes from time to time, picking up trash is only a temporary solution. Within days, the litter reappears. Many places impose stiff fines for those caught littering, but catching these offenders, as one sheriff told Cogar, is virtually impossible. “That is a tough thing to do because most people are not going to toss anything out the window if they know a patrol car is close by.” Cogar also spoke with Ben Lewis, a government official who supervises people convicted of misdemeanors and sentenced to perform community service by picking up trash. “The behavior [of the litterers] has to change,” Lewis said. “It’s a cultural thing. If you grow up seeing your parents throw trash out of the car and that’s what your family does, then you’re going to do it and your children will, too.” I think Lewis just nailed the problem. So here’s a possible solution. Suppose instead of teaching our students critical race theory—which divides them—we unite them behind an anti-litter campaign. School officials could put up anti-littering posters in the hallways. Teachers could offer reminders throughout the school year that pitching your trash into the streets and parks makes America ugly. Even better, once or twice a year, kids might spend an afternoon cleaning up the trash around their schools or in nearby parks. Once they understand the consequences of tossing that fast-food rubbish out the car window, they might bring that lesson home to their parents. Here's a program—inexpensive, simple, and with little burden on academics—that everyone could get behind. In the early 1960s, television featured the “Susan Spotless” ads, in which an elementary-aged girl reminded those watching, that littering was shameful. She sang, “Please, please don’t be a litter bug, 'cause every litter bit hurts.” Like the Crying Indian, the Susan Spotless ads were effective, at least in my case, for that song has stayed in the storage unit of my head for over 50 years. Years ago, New York City took to fighting crime by instituting the broken windows theory, the idea that visible signs of decay and junky neighborhoods increase crime. Ridding our streets of trash may not decrease crime, but it will boost the morale of citizens, restore our pride of place, and help make America beautiful again. Jeff Minick lives in Front Royal, Virginia, and may be found online at jeffminick.com. He is the author of two novels, Amanda Bell and Dust on Their Wings, and two works of non-fiction, Learning as I Go and Movies Make the Man. This article was republished with permission from IntellectualTakeout.com

My kitchen throw-rug stinks of pickle juice and “squishes” when I walk on it. Got that way because I tried to do one of the most difficult tasks of modern life: open a jar with my bare hands. I tried both hands. No luck. Got miffed. Ran it under hot water. Nada. Got pissed. Pried it with a spoon handle. Still stuck. Got furious. Got my pliers, clamped them around the lid, clasped the far ends of the handles for max leverage, took a sturdy feet-apart stance and twisted with all my might (I even used my grimacing, “I’m not playin’” face for effect). The lid gave way. And gave me a fright. The pliers flew from my grip and slid under the fridge, pickle juice sloshed from the jar and a pair of pickles ejected and tumbled across the dog-hair-covered floor There is nothing more disgusting than a dirty, hairy gherkin. Why is it everything is so difficult to open? Are jars, cans, bags, boxes, bottles, capsules, pods and pouches sealed with nuclear forces, 1,000-ton presses and NASA-strength adhesives? You need power tools and improvised explosive devices to open a jar of peanut butter. You need an engineering degree to open a prescription medicine bottle. Each one has its own unique entrance procedure. Push down while turning, pull up while pushing, squeeze the sides while turning or push, pull, squeeze and turn while swearing. Yes, there are instructions printed on the cap, but you can’t read the letters because they are quantum size and white on white. Thanks a lot. I worried that opening all these stubborn containers would cause me carpal tunnel syndrome. The problem has become so bad I now worry about getting Holland Tunnel syndrome. The no-open technology goes back to 1982 when someone laced Tylenol bottles with cyanide in Chicago. Seven people, who popped the pills, died. The killer was never found. That caused product manufacturers to do what they do best -- cover their butts from lawsuits. Their solution: “If you can’t open it, you can’t tamper with it.” Then they lie to us with phrases like “Easy to open,” “Peel here to open,” and “Pray here to open.” The side of my box of mac-and-cheese has a perforated tab telling me to “push here” to open. When I push, the box top collapses into itself and a product design engineer, somewhere, is laughing his ass off. Why do I have to get past a series of roadblocks to open an aspirin bottle? First is the layer of clear plastic that is spot-welded to the bottle cap and neck. I can’t get a fingernail or an incisor under it to start the rip. It teases me with a red dotted line indicating where it can allegedly be easily torn. (More engineer laughter). The line is put there to give you hope. In frustration, I grab a steak knife and hack away at it like a psycho at the Bates Motel, until it comes off. Now I must decipher the cap combination to remove the lid. Next, I face the dreaded foil seal, made of an alien spaceship material that can’t be pierced, peeled or pulled. I stab at it with a screwdriver and spit ugly epithets at the Bayer company until I get it half open. “Finally!” I exclaim. “I’m in.” Nope. Still have a wad of cotton to remove. The opening is too small to insert two fingers to pinch and pull the wad. I must use one finger to remove it piece by piece, and use it to blot-up the blood oozing from the knife and Phillips’ head cuts on my hands By the time I get in, I can’t take the aspirin because they are past their expiration date. Truth: There is an online site called “Opening Jars with Arthritis: 21 Tips,” including “start with the correct form,” “hold the jar close to your body” and “whatever you do, don’t ask that Pfiffer dude to do it.” Here are some other common “you can’t open me – nah, nah, nah-nah-nahhh” containers. Disposable plastic bags in a supermarket’s produce section. You can’t tell which end of the bag opens. It’s too thin and adheres to itself. I stand there rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger praying it will open, while the baby onions I want to put in it, grow into adult onions. The clear, thin ridged plastic (used for 2-liter soda bottles) that can only be cut with hydraulic shears, leaving razor sharp edges that can easily sever fingers. (Hint: soda bottle manufactures should include a tin of Band-Aids with each purchase.) Those friggin’ tiny oval-shaped stickers welded to individual pieces of fruit. You can’t remove them with a fingernail or knife edge without gouging out most of the fruit. Snack bags with tiny pre-cut slots where you are supposed to be able to start tearing open of the bag top. My dog loves these bags, because I always end up ripping them wide open and potato chips scatter across the floor for canine pickup. Roll of clear plastic packing tape: The tape is so transparent you can’t find it’s end and if you do you can’t pull it from the roll in one piece without it sticking to itself. I think we should make jar opening with bare hands a summer Olympics event. Better yet, we need legislation that forces manufacturers to give us easy-to-open products. We can call it the opening containers law. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, TwinTiersLife.com and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.

The Implications of Declining Population In the State of New York (and particularly upstate), over a million and a half residents migrated to other states in the last decade (8% of the state’s population – barely offset by birth and foreign immigration rates). In 2018, as NYS led the nation in this “population outflow”, Governor Andrew Cuomo denied claims that a failing economy due to poor government leadership could be responsible for the decline. Instead, he blamed the weather. “Somebody wants to move to Florida because they want to move to Florida. God bless them. They want to fish. They want warm weather." Pundits found that premise questionable at best. As many academics and analysts noted: Since we’ve seen net “population inflow” in several cold states like Washington, Maine, Montana, New Hampshire, and Minnesota.... “warm weather” can’t be the only reason Florida and Texas have seen “inflows”. There is a direct correlation between population growth and economic prosperity, and New York State has seen a decline in both over the last decade. Chemung County’s population drain has been longer and bigger than NYS’s exodus. From the peak of 101,000 residents in the 1970 census, we have lost over 17% of our county population. The History We’ve Heard About Like Cuomo pointing to Florida’s balmy temperatures, the weather has been unfairly scapegoated for local “population outflow”. It’s been repeatedly stated by local leaders over the years that the primary factor in Chemung County’s decline was the devastating flood that Hurricane Agnes hurled upon us in June of 1972. We’ve been told for nearly 50 years that Agnes’s destruction was simply too much to overcome. It’s unmistakable that Chemung County enjoyed over a century of growth prior to the 1972 flood and encountered a sharp downturn in population from that time forward. The economic prosperity that fosters population growth didn’t rebound after that event. With this timeline in mind, the theory that “Agnes was our downfall” seemed plausible and has been widely accepted by most people in the area. The Contrasts That Have Been Overlooked Similar to Cuomo’s “cold weather” excuse overlooking population growth in other cold climate states, the pretext that Agnes is to blame for all our woes neglects to explain why other counties devastated by Agnes managed to recover, but not Chemung County. Residents and businesses didn’t flee Steuben County after the destruction of Hurricane Agnes, and since 2010 Steuben’s population decreased by just 6% compared to Chemung County’s 17% plummet. Meanwhile, the populations in Schuyler and Tioga Counties (also struck hard by Agnes) have increased by 6% and 4% respectively. It’s worth mentioning that decades before Agnes, another record-breaking flood in 1946 laid waste to Chemung County, and the economy continued to boom afterward. Chemung County was able to recover and realize its sharpest population growth ever – with a 38% increase from 1940 to 1970. So, if Agnes isn’t at fault for our state of affairs....then what else occurred during the 1970s that could have hindered Chemung County’s growth? The Parallel Event That Shaped Chemung County’s Circumstances There is one change to Chemung County’s circumstances that the county did not face during its recovery from the 1946 flood: abolishing the established government structure that had resolved county issues for over a century (Board of Supervisors) and replacing it with a “new” and more politically motivated governing body in a 1973 Charter proposal. That change didn’t have much voter support at all. It was defeated by public vote in 1972 and when four different reapportionment and charter proposals were placed on the ballot in November 1973, the current 15-member Legislature and elected Executive options was finally approved by just over 8,000 votes (less than 20% of voters – with a margin of under 1,000 votes). As we approach the 50th anniversary of Hurricane Agnes.....it’s worth considering whether the transformation of local government may have done harm to Chemung County’s fate that has lingered decades after the flooding. The Value of The Board of Supervisors What impact did the (largely unpopular) shift in County Government have on the “Efficiency of County Government Operations”? As the people charged with everyday issues and challenges of their individual municipalities, members of the Board of Supervisors had solid roots and commitment to their individual communities. They had the qualification of understanding what services and needs their Town spends its resources on.....and where those resources come from. Whether it was one of our communities with a local police department or public water and streetlights or a community that’s home to retail, agriculture, or industrial enterprises. The people tasked with (and have the most understanding of) weighing the priorities of each municipality within the county are those who comprised the Board of Supervisors. The adopted County Charter that abolished the Board of Supervisors and established a separate Legislature created a new layer of bureaucracy, disconnected from the Supervisors who fully realize the needs of their communities. The adopted Charter goes so far as to prohibit municipal officials from the “new” bureaucratic arrangement. “No mayors of cities or villages, supervisors of towns, or members of the legislative body of cities, towns or villages who reside in the County shall be eligible to be elected as members of the County Legislative body.” Legislators can only grasp the needs of individual municipalities by getting second-hand input. Aside from being time-consuming and inefficient...that information is usually degraded as it passes through multiple channels. In order to examine the impact County actions have on various city, town and village concerns, legislators can either consult the very Supervisors who are excluded from serving on the body....or (as is increasingly common) commission a “study” from a third party. The latter option adds expense to taxpayers (as if the $1 million added expenses of legislature pay and benefits isn’t punitive enough)....for information that the Supervisors already manage and fully comprehend. Whether it’s New York State or Chemung County, it’s dishonest to blame the weather for the steady departure of residents. There’s a high probability that if Chemung County had kept its Board of Supervisors, it would have recovered (like other counties did) from the damage Agnes caused. And it’s fair to ask if returning to that structure (or otherwise modifying the current legislative structure) could finally right the ship Opportunities To Remedy Ineffective Government Operations So....how does a change back to a more efficient county government happen? In recent years, the Legislature has reviewed the “merit” of several of (its own) policies that benefit its members. Not surprisingly....the body (often steered by committees with members vocally opposing changes) has a pattern of concluding that “self-preservation” of the Legislature is best for their constituents. 2019 “Legislature Compensation & Benefits Review Committee”: Over some objections, the decision was made to continue their 16k+ per year salaries and full health plan participation for their parttime (well under 20 hours/wk) duties 2020 “Term Limit Advisory Committee”: a panel (chosen by a Chair who is a career politician, serving his third term and vocally opposed to term limits) determined that the county is best served by allowing legislators to have an unlimited number of terms. 2021/22 “Legislative Redistricting & Efficiency of County Government Operations Advisory Committee”: From the beginning, this committee has pointedly avoided the question (cited as one of their points to consider) of balancing the number of legislative districts to the declining population (which would result in some number of “their” legislative seats being removed). Action That Citizens Can Take So if self-interest and preservation are clearly prevalent when these matters are left to the Legislative body....how can the electorate compel the Legislature to address transformational propositions that the body is averse to confronting on its own? Petition for a referendum on amending the Charter. We have seen pleas from dozens of citizens speak on these topics, often fall on deaf ears. Regardless of whether any members are inclined to support the reforms, it’s clear that the Legislature (at the behest of the Chair) is under no compulsion to comply with requests received from constituents, either by letter or public comment. However, the body is required to take action when properly petitioned. As outlined by the Department of State “Adopting and Amending County Charters”, the New York State Municipal Home Rule Law does provide a process for voters to bring about reform. “A proposed charter or proposed revision of an existing charter may be prepared by or under the auspices of the county’s governing body directly or by a specifically appointed charter commission. The charter drafting process may be initiated by the governing body itself or by voter petition and referendum.” ***** Voter initiative. Under a procedure set forth in section 33 of the Municipal Home Rule Law, the voters of a county may petition the county legislative body to establish and appoint a charter commission. The petition calling for the creation of the charter commission must be signed by qualified voters equal in number to at least 10 percent of the votes cast in the county for Governor in the last gubernatorial election. In response to such a petition, the legislative body may create and appoint a charter commission on its own motion. Otherwise, the county legislative body is required by law to submit to a referendum the question of whether a charter commission should be established and appointed. If a majority of the votes cast on the question are in favor of the proposition, the legislative body must create a commission and appoint its members within two months following voter approval.” A petition signed by ten percent of the 30-40,000 Chemung County voters who typically participate in the general elections seems like a high bar but is by no means insurmountable. If voters want a choice in how the county government operates, initiating a Charter Amendment is an attainable prospect; it works out to roughly 200-300 signatures for each of our 15 legislative districts. This could be accomplished by three dozen advocates each gathering signatures from 100 registered voters and would require the Legislature to offer a public referendum to amend the charter....which the Legislature has been averse to presenting on their own accord. Kathleen Reed is a Town of Catlin resident.

by Jeff Minick “All aboard!” North Carolina writer Anna Raglan was delighted to find that Amtrak’s conductors still called out these words to passengers before departing the station. In her new travelogue The Train From Greenville, Raglan, a kind and wise friend of mine, describes a journey she made by rail from Greenville, South Carolina, to Seattle and back again. A wife, mother, and professional in her mid-50s, Raglan was apprehensive about the trip. She packed and repacked her luggage, had a friend help her make the reservation by phone, and nervously kept an eye on her luggage while onboard. Raglan takes her readers along with her on her way across the country and shows them the pleasures of train travel, which include the opportunity to see the American landscape and to meet people from all around the country. The Train From Greenville is a good book, wise in its observations of Raglan’s railway companions, accepting of their eccentricities, and gentle in tone, but that’s not why I am writing about it here. No—what deserves a deeper look is the sadness of this book, a sorrow entirely unintended by the author. You see, though The Train From Greenville is newly published, Raglan made her trip in 2011. That time, and the people she describes, seem to have lived not just a decade ago, but a century. It is startling looking back at who we once were. On that train were blacks and whites, Hispanics, Asians, and at least one Native American. Raglan spent a good bit of time with a tattooed man who loves drag racing and the music of Bruce Springsteen. Eventually, he told her a harrowing story about how he killed a man who had tried to assault him in self-defense. She conversed with a Native American hired by Amtrak to share stories of Indians and the West with the passengers. Her seat companions ranged from a female veteran of these trips to a quiet young man wearing dreadlocks. And though Raglan overheard a few political conversations, nowhere on her train do we encounter the acrimony so commonly found today in our mainstream media. Black Lives Matter, Critical Race Theory, the savage political assaults on presidents and politicians, and the laments over America’s faults: not a word. And of course, the COVID pandemic with its fearmongering, lockdowns, masks, and mandates were not even a whisper in the wind back in 2011. No, these trains, the beauty of the country they rolled through, and the Americans who rode them represent what America was about back then, a people united in purpose—in this case, getting to a destination—and helping one another along the way. Again and again we see these men and women offering assistance to their fellow travelers, helping a blind woman find a seat, sharing food and treats, and making certain not to crowd the person seated beside them. Other than a nervous, easily angered woman Raglan refers to as Birdie, and a man upset by a delay in the timetable, these people displayed those traits foreigners have long thought of as American: optimism, cheerfulness, and a can-do attitude with lots of smiles. Above I mentioned the miserable contrast between now and 10 years ago. But as I reflect on the matter, I also see The Train From Greenville as a sign of hope and rejuvenation, a reminder of who we were and who we are. Surely all of us know friends, family, and neighbors like those on the train, good-hearted people who looked out for one another and who have carried on through these last two miserable years. We are a people who were born in a revolution, fought a civil war, who helped to save the world from fascism and communism, and who, despite our flaws, have made enormous changes throughout our history, looking for justice and liberty for all. The fearmongering of the current pandemic, the heavy-handed efforts by government to order us about and so diminish our liberties, the insane spending by Congress, the foreign policy failures: these have damaged the American spirit, but they cannot kill it—unless we throw in the towel out of despair. One chapter of The Train From Greenville is titled “We Are Here Together.” Let’s make those words one of our banners. Let’s turn our backs on those contemptible people working so hard to divide us and remember we are all Americans. Jeff Minick lives in Front Royal, Virginia, and may be found online at jeffminick.com. He is the author of two novels, Amanda Bell and Dust on Their Wings, and two works of non-fiction, Learning as I Go and Movies Make the Man. This column was republished with permission from IntellectualTakeout.org

Oh goodie! We now have another number to add to our long and growing list of numbers and passwords needed to survive in our electronically connected world. As of October 24, when you make a local call in the 607-area code you must include the area code when dialing. The reason: officials don’t want people mistakenly dialing the newly created 988 national Suicide Prevention Lifeline. I’m all for reducing suicides, but I can’t deal with adding another number to my swirling sea of digits, passwords, pass codes, PINS, logons, WIFI, license plates, phone numbers, Social Security cards, DOBs, zip codes and the points spread in today’s St. Louis Rams game. For security reasons, we’re told to commit all these meaningless, random numbers, letters and special characters to memory. Sorry, but the average person – me being one of them - cannot do that. Hell, I can’t remember my cell phone number, because I rarely call myself. When I do, I don’t answer, because it’s probably another robocall. That’s why I wrote my number on the back of my phone. I try to use a simple, easy to remember password, but the website says “Nope.” It must be at least eight characters long and include numbers, punctuation, upper- and lower-case letters, Hieroglyphics, holograms, gang signs, pi to the 120th digit and that weird symbol used by the artist formerly known as Prince. There is simply no way a person can remember hundreds of unique long and complex passwords. I spend most of my online time clicking “forgot password” links. To make the impossible demand on human memory even more impossible, we’re told not to write down our passwords. Yeah, right. I never do what I’m told. I have more passwords and secret ID numbers than all the James Bonds, Maxwell Smarts and Austin Powers combined. I write them in notebooks, random slips of paper, envelopes, magazine margins, checkbook, the wall next to my computer, my dog’s flea collar, the back of my hand and the grocery list attached to the fridge with a magnet. I signed up for an online service that saves and retrieves all my passwords in a protected file. I can’t access the file, because (you guessed it) I forgot the password. I’m going to use this tip that I found on the Internet: change my password to “Incorrect.” Then when I erroneously enter it, my computer will tell me that my password is “incorrect.” When I forget my password and username, I get nervous while trying to logon because I have only three chances to get it right. Worse, I can’t see what I’m typing because the letters are converted into those silly little stars, in case a snoop is standing behind trying to steal my password. How about this security idea: I spin around, stand up and tell the idiot to “get the **** outta here or you’re going to be seeing stars!” On my first login attempt, I try one of my commonly used passwords and usernames. The computer flashes the dreaded red letter “incorrect” warning. I shake my head and cuss under my breath. I try a different password. It’s correct, buy my username isn’t. The computer slaps me a second time. I cuss out loud. By the third attempt, I carefully search my mind’s memory banks until I shout, “I got it! I remember the password.” I take a deep breath, wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and slowly and carefully type each character, one at a time, but miss the “shift” button on an uppercase letter and its three strikes and “yer out!” (Sometimes, I can actually hear the computer laughing at me). Now I have to reset my password and go through the hassle of checking my e-mail for the reset code, typing it in and creating a new password. By the time I do all that my laptop battery is dead. I get a new code and enter it just as my phone rings. I answer it and by the time I hang up, the pass code as expired. I get so angry that my blood pressure spikes, and I fear that I’m going to expire. I jump up screaming and leaping around like a lemur on crack. (Another snoop standing behind me flees in wide-eyed terror). When I do reset my password, the computer scolds me for not creating one complicated enough. (i.e., One that hackers can’t guess, and I can’t remember). If I do remember my username and password – and type them correctly – I have to answer a security question, like “What was your favorite food as a child?” “Oh shit,” I say. “I think I said ‘pizza.’ No, wait! It’s fried chicken or maybe pork chops? Oh God. Why did I choose that question?” Many times, when asked to create a password, I use one of my old passwords, but the computer tells me I can’t because “It’s been used.” “No shit, Sherlock!” I shout at my screen as I pound on the keyboard. “It’s used because it’s mine. Gimme the $@>+^* thing back!” This is usually followed by my wife shouting, from the other room, “What’s all the yelling about? Are you trying to logon again?” Look, we all agree that the password and ID number systems don’t work. There must be better means of authentication. Why can’t we use our fingerprints, the capillaries in our eyes or dental records as our universal passwords? I’m going to suggest that to Microsoft officials in an e-mail. As soon as I remember my Microsoft password, username and the name of my favorite pet. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Star-Gazette newspaper.

During a rare question-and-answer session with reporters at an event at Yankee Stadium last week to announce a new vaccination program, Governor Cuomo continued to defend his administration’s actions on the spread of COVID-19 in New York’s nursing homes, where the pandemic has already taken the lives of nearly 16,000 seniors. Some viewed the governor’s latest eye-popping comments as a victory lap – that the governor was pounding his chest and declaring himself absolved of any and all wrongdoing. Not so fast. In particular, the governor seemed to point to a recent decision by the federal Department of Justice (DOJ) to not undertake one specific investigation into the nursing homes crisis in New York and several other states as somehow proof that inquiries and investigations over the past year were all simply an “outrageous allegation,” “politically motivated,” “political hyperbole,” and “toxic politics” that “violated the basic concept of justice in this nation.” Cuomo also let loose with this doozy, “I am telling you as I sit here – I have told you the facts on COVID from day one. Whether they were easy, whether they were hard, I told you the truth.” As they say, sometimes you just can’t make it up. We also can’t just sit back and watch and listen to this governor try to keep selling his own version of history by fabricating his own facts, like he did with his now infamous book on New York’s “leadership” during the COVID-19 pandemic. Despite the governor’s suggestion that the recent DOJ decision somehow exonerates him on the nursing homes tragedy, that’s simply not true. The DOJ has refused to investigate possible violations of what’s known as the “Civil Rights of Institutionalized Persons Act” – a narrow scope of inquiry that would have only covered approximately 30 government-run nursing homes out of New York’s more than 600 facilities statewide. Let’s not forget that the governor and his inner circle remain under criminal investigation by the FBI and the United States Attorney’s Office in Brooklyn for an apparent cover-up of the COVID-19 death toll in nursing homes and its link to the governor’s $5.1-million book deal, a book in which he sought to portray New York’s handling of the crisis in a more favorable light than what we now know the reality to be. In other words, the 11th hour decision by the DOJ was limited in scope and did nothing to dissolve the clear and convincing evidence, in my opinion and in the view of many others, that the Cuomo administration engaged in an illegal cover-up of COVID-19 deaths in New York State’s nursing homes. Many of us will continue to fight for justice on this front. There are other, ongoing investigations at the state and federal levels that should and I believe will fully examine and expose this cover-up by Governor Cuomo and his inner circle, as well as other misconduct. Last week, Governor Cuomo said that when all is said and done on all of the ongoing investigations, that New Yorkers will be “shocked” by the facts that will come out. New Yorkers have already been shocked by the facts that have been exposed over the past year on the Cuomo administration’s mishandling, dishonesty, misinformation, lying, whitewashing, and abuses of power. No amount of desperate doublespeak by this governor or his top aides can ever do anything to change those facts now.

Hello everyone your friendly neighborhood fat guy bringing you another review with questionable grammar and little or no punctuation. So besides having some of the best wings in the area they have a heifer of a cheeseburger sub. Aptly named The Big Harry it was definitely a mouthful. I get it dressed mayo lettuce cheese and bacon. Burger was cooked all the way no pink which is how I like em. Bacon was good and crispy.Nice hoagie roll soft with a bit of crust. Overall a well made and tasty sandwich. There is something about a cheeseburger sub that in my opinion makes it better than your standard on a bun cheeseburger. I like to keep my reviews honest so it was a little light on the fries for a charged upgrade. However that wouldnt stop me from ordering it again. Honestly they probably did me a favor. Meal in total was around 13.00 with fries the added bacon and being dressed. Well worth the price in my book and yes id still order it with fries. So Harry's Inn The Big Harry is Fat Guy approved and pretty funny to order.

We’re quickly coming upon the time marking one year since the world was turned upside down thanks to a tiny little organism known as Covid-19 came into our lives. I remember very well the sense of foreboding, the heaviness we all felt in the beginning. I sat our teenage sons down, one of them a high school senior, and we talked about it. I told them in no uncertain terms, “This is going to suck.” No one had been through what we were about to experience in 100 years, so we'd be making this up as we go along. “We’re gonna have to roll with the punches,” I told them. Looking back, I think that helped them cope and kept everything in perspective. Yes, this was going to suck, but we’d get through it. I just didn’t know how right I was. The “suck factor” would be off the charts. We all experienced “the suck” in our own ways, no use in rehashing that. On the flip side however, there were small glimmers of positivity, at least here in my own little world. Probably yours as well. At the very outset, right around the time of the shutdown, I felt strongly compelled to reach out to friends to make sure they were doing okay. I later learned this was a common reaction, and really, how awesome is that when you stop to think about it? I got in contact with to someone I hadn’t talked to in nearly two years. Someone I really respect and admired, and I'm glad I listened to that little voice in my head that had been there all along, but had become much louder. Being relegated to staying home, I needed something to keep me from going crazy. So I resolved to finish the book I had been working on for the better part of four years, an “end of the world” story funny enough. I even set myself a deadline of June 1st. Three months to make it happen, and it did. And I gotta say, our lawn never looked better than it did last Summer thankyouverymuch. Our oldest son’s senior year of high school was decimated, but the resilience he and many of his classmates showed with each disappointment was remarkable. And in the end, while they didn’t have prom and all the other stuff, they did get a graduation ceremony. And I have to say it again, kudos to the staff and administration of the local schools for making it happen. Through all the ups and downs throughout 2020, I kept telling myself if we could just have a nice holiday season, things would be okay. Uh huh, sure. Like millions of others, I think we threw ourselves into it head first. Damn it, we were gonna be jolly no matter what. And you know what? I think it worked. I for one enjoyed the houses all lit up everywhere. Add to that an epic snowstorm, it was hard to feel down. This holiday season was different, but it wasn't all bad. Our family did things a little differently than usual this year. My wife, sons and I had Thanksgiving dinner here at home, just the four of us, for the first time ever. Same for Christmas, we visited family, briefly and masked, then came home to enjoy a nice dinner, the four of us. While I missed the parties, seeing family and all that, I have to admit folks, I didn’t miss the chaos. Interestingly enough, there was none of the usual “post-holiday letdown” I and perhaps millions of others feel. As I’ve said repeatedly, it wasn’t the holidays we wanted, but maybe it was the holidays we needed. And when 2020 finally came to an end, we all breathed a sigh of relief. Is 2021 going to say “hold my beer”? The jury is still out on that one I think. I guess my point to all this is, if we look hard enough, deep enough, we can find some silver lining to the black cloud that was the past year. Perhaps now is a good time for all of us to do a little reflection on the lessons we learned and what changes we can make going forward. For all the talk about the “new normal”, none of us knows what that’s going to look like. But maybe we have a chance to shape it for the better. Did you have any positive experiences the past year due in part to the pandemic you'd like to share? Let's hear them.

Our flight from Philadelphia was at around 11 in the morning on Saturday. My wife and I said goodbye to our daughter and to our dog and also to my sister and our niece. They had come up the night before to watch over our daughter and pup. Then we hit the road, knots in both of our stomachs. This was not a normal trip. This was not a vacation and this was not for a wedding. This was a mission; a mission to get our daughter, who was currently resting comfortably in the womb of our surrogate, who lived in southern Florida, about a half-hour north of Miami. It had been a long time coming, us getting to this point in making the trip in the middle of August. Before the drive to Philadelphia, there had been plenty of decisions and discussions, followed by more discussions and decisions. There had been two miscarriages and subsequently, more discussions and more decisions. There were doctors and nurses, waiting rooms, various procedures, lengthy calls with insurance, car rides, tiny cups, paperwork, lawyers, notary publics, and paralegals. And then there was a pandemic. But for the most part, that was all behind us. Well, not the pandemic. That was still very much surrounding us, hanging over us like a dark and ominous cloud. Everything else though was largely buttoned up with the important parts tucked neatly into a brown folder in my trusty red backpack. If the drive to the Philly airport was Step 1, then Step 2 was checking in; checking in specifically with Spirit, an airline I have trust issues with. A few years back, we learned the hard way that you can make a reservation with Spirit, but that reservation will only get you so far. You need to also reserve a seat. What’s the point of the initial reservation, then? I still don’t know and probably never will but we had a credit with them courtesy of a canceled family trip that had been planned for April, so for at least one leg of the journey, we would be using Spirit. As with any large-scale operation with a lot of moving parts, each step seemed to have its own unique hiccup or hurdle. With Step 2, there was some slight concern on my part that even though Spirit’s policy clearly stated that they would check car seats and strollers for free, the current absence of a baby in either might prove problematic. All good though, as the lady at the counter didn’t even bat an eye. Our two bags both came in under 40 pounds too (also a concern,) so it was onto Step 3. Step 3 was security. That was relatively painless. Then there was Step 4, killing time in the terminal before our flight left. In my past life, this would have been a no-brainer, most likely ending with me saddling up to a bar somewhere. Not the case this time though, despite me being so keyed up that a drink would have done me good. Instead, I settled for some deep-breathing because that’s what Darin on Zac Efron’s Netflix show had recommended and that show is fantastic. Step 5 was getting on the plane. And again, there was another potential bump in the road because we were looking to board early with families despite one part of our family not yet currently with us. We made our way to the gate and the gate attendant, who without looking up, asked how old the child with us was. “TBD,” I replied. She looked at us, looked down at the empty car seat. Then she got it and waved us along. It was a full flight. Only a week earlier, when we made our reservation (for both the plane and the seats,) it hadn’t been, and that made sense. Florida was a hot zone not just in terms of temperature but also in regard to the number of COVID-19 cases in the state. Why the hell would someone be traveling to Florida right now if not for the birth of their child via surrogate? I was confused. And frustrated. Shotty mask wearers were all over the place, about every third person who boarded the plane was guilty of wearing their mask incorrectly. It was amateur hour in the midst of a pandemic, which scientifically speaking, is not ideal. The plane finally took off and I again leaned on Darin’s breathing advice as well as a live version of Phish’s “NICU” to take the edge off. Both helped but I could feel a headache coming on. I chugged water, I breathed in and out, I listened to “NICU” again and eventually, the threat of the headache quieted down. A couple hours later we landed in Fort Lauderdale. Another step completed. We wanted to see the hospital where our daughter would be born before heading north to Kim’s parents’ place and after getting our rental car, we headed in that direction and as we did, the rain came. It was pouring, it had gotten dark and we slowly made our way to the hospital. Then we saw it. It was right there. Looked fine; looked like a hospital. With our older daughter, who was also born via surrogate, we had been able to go in and tour the hospital, check out the maternity ward. But not this time. This time the tour had been virtual, enough to get the idea, which was the same with our drive-by of the place – we got the idea. Now it was time to head north. The rain really hadn’t let up and every place we stopped at for coffee was closed. That was a sign. Let’s wrap this up and get back to base. Before that though, we needed to stop at the grocery store and as we did, I got a voicemail from a New Jersey number. I listened to it as we walked up to the store and my heart started to beat faster. A knot in my stomach came back. It was the Immediate Care that we had gone to a few days earlier for a COVID test and they were telling me that they had my results and to call them in the morning. We had taken two tests, one of which was rapid. It had come back negative. I thought everything was cool, but now, what if it wasn’t? That would be a hell of a hiccup. I tried calling them back then but no one answered and I had no choice but to wait until the next morning. We did our best to remain calm and I worked on convincing myself that it was probably just an insurance issue because it’s usually always an insurance issue, regardless of the situation. Nothing to worry about. Everything was fine. I was going to have a Mahi sandwich. In Florida, Mahi and dolphin are the same thing. That was incredibly disturbing to me for a while before I realized it wasn’t the cute kind of dolphin, but Mahi, for some reason calling itself dolphin. Now I can laugh about it and hopefully, by the time I got in touch with Immediate Care Sunday morning, I could laugh about that as well. That night we watched Jaws. Kim, myself, Kim’s mom, and Kim’s dad, all crowded next to each other on a couch watching it on my laptop. It was adorable. Sunday went as follows: Tried to sleep in, but was woken up by the cable guy Called Immediate Care, results were negative, which was nice but they really could have just left a message Confirmed that tomorrow our surrogate would be induced Kim made sure the hospital bag was ready to go I looked up the plots of the Jaws sequels and trust me, it’s not pretty As Sunday wound down, Kim and I went for a walk and braced ourselves for the week ahead and what that might bring. *** Our surrogate was to be at the hospital at 5am on Monday morning. We also wanted to be there then but were told to by the nurse to stand by as there was no sense in us being there then. So, we did as we were instructed but it didn’t last long. As we ate breakfast, we were told to head down and that Kim could come in whenever. As for me, I would still be standing by. The nurse said that she was hoping to talk to some people over at Mother/Baby and that once labor was underway, maybe I could be let in. She was going to try but she also wasn’t making any promises. This was not new information. A few weeks earlier, while speaking with the head of Labor and Delivery, we were informed that due to COVID-related restrictions that had been put in place since March, the hospital’s policy was that each patient was allowed only one guest. The surrogate was the patient until the baby was born and naturally, we wanted her husband to be with her, meaning that was her one guest. Given that our situation was unique, an exception could be made and Kim would be allowed in as kind of a plus one. Once the baby was born, Kim would become the baby’s guest. All I could do was wait the entire process out from outside the building. We had had some time to process this news, but that time didn’t make things any easier. That time gave us an opportunity to talk ourselves into believing that everything would be fine. But that was fool’s gold. It was a bummer and it would continue to be a bummer. I would be missing the birth of my daughter and wouldn’t see either her or my wife until they were discharged at least two days later. Yet while it would certainly be tough and it would definitely be hard, it would be the way things were to play out and there wasn’t much we could do about it. As long as our baby girl was delivered and was safe and healthy, nothing else mattered. So, with that in mind, we got in the car, picked up coffee, and drove south. When we were in a similar situation with our older daughter and were headed to the hospital, the soundtrack of the car ride was Pearl Jam. So it was only fitting that we again turned to Pearl Jam when headed to another hospital to get our other baby girl. At noon, we arrived at the hospital and I walked Kim to the entrance. We said goodbye and that was that. She walked in and I stayed outside. I stood there for a moment or two, not entirely sure what to do next. I had to do something though, so I decided to get gas. I needed an objective; a purpose. Having a plan made things a little easier and on the way, I saw an old dude chopping at a palm tree with a machete. I then made my way back to the hospital and the parking garage. I drove around looking for a spot with good cell reception, a notoriously hard thing to do in parking garages. I finally set up camp in a spot on the ramp leading up to the closed-off top level. It was the best I could do. And then I peed in my empty Starbucks cup. And then I watched Avengers: Endgame. And then I waited for text messages from Kim. And then my stomach nearly collapsed into itself and tears formed in my eyes each time I received one, most of which were updates about how not much was happening. This was going to take time. Our other daughter couldn’t be born quick enough. Not so much this go around. I would need to find a spot out of the sun because I was going to be there a while and the southern Florida sun was merciless. Over the next few hours, I finished Endgame, thought about time travel, wrote about the Foo Fighters, and then got out to stretch my legs. I walked around the top deck of the parking garage, taking pictures of the clouds. In one direction I saw a building that looked like a giant guitar and in another direction, I could see the ocean. I did some light stretching and I stared off into the distance. There’s a good chance that I most likely raised an eyebrow or two if anyone happened to be watching me, wondering A) what this dude was doing walking around aimlessly on the top deck of the parking garage and B) if it was the same guy who has so far dumped two Starbucks’ cups full of urine out of his car today. You bet, buddy. The day dragged on and it was getting close to dinner time. Our surrogate’s husband recommended a burger spot nearby and I got something there. They had outside seating and there wasn’t anyone around, so I felt comfortable staying there and eating. Some places in Florida allowed inside dining, which made absolutely no sense to me. You had to wear a mask when you entered, but not once you sat down. But the staff wore masks and I just think that nothing makes sense anymore and this pandemic might last forever. On the plus side though, I had a Mahi burger and it was amazing. Storm clouds were rolling in; things were getting dark again. But no really, this pandemic might never end. While the rains once again came down outside, back at the hospital, nothing much had changed. Our baby girl was still too high, but also a tad bit on the big side so while our surrogate was trying for a natural birth, a C-section seemed likely. Whatever the method though, Monday night looked like a quiet one. The move for me was to head north for the night and come back in the morning. But there was something keeping me from doing that, something making me unable to go through with the decision or even make a decision at all. I hated leaving Kim, but at the same time, it’s not like I was physically with her and I knew I could be just as supportive up north at her parents’ place as I could sitting in the parking garage. The rain started to let up and I pointed the rental car north. To the west, the sunset was really something, bursts of orange, yellow, and purple exploding from behind the heavy, dark clouds. It was an easy drive and I was in an easy state of mind. Tomorrow would be another day, but tonight the Bruins were on. I would just have to try and get some sleep, see what happens on Tuesday. *** Tuesday started the same way Monday ended, with not much having changed. Our baby girl was still too high and with each passing hour, a C-section was more and more likely. I hadn’t slept but I had nothing to complain about. Kim got about 20 minutes. Sleeping in a hospital is statistically impossible. By 10am, I had resumed my post in the parking garage, but feeling adventurous, I wandered around and found a couple of picnic tables with umbrellas. I asked the man sitting underneath one of the umbrellas if I could open a closed one. “They’re all broken,” he replied. So being outside was not meant to last. It was already 90 degrees and it felt like 100. Soon I was back in the car, queuing about an episode of The Wire. As someone who likes to have something of a plan in place, the uncertainty of the day was unsettling. I had no idea what the next hour would bring. Every text message was met with a rush of energy even though most of them said that again, not much had changed. Kim was able to come outside at noon and for the first time in 24 hours we got to see each other. We went for an aimless walk around the hospital grounds and with our surrogate sleeping, Kim felt she could stay outside for lunch. And it was nice. With a whirling dervish of uncertainty guiding our every move and our every decision, the sense of peace that came with just sharing a meal with Kim was perfect. We barely even talked about what would come next. I don’t think we even talked much at all. We just enjoyed being with each other. I brought her up to what we were now calling my office and she closed her eyes, lounging comfortably in the passenger seat as I continued to watch The Wire. As our time together crept closer to ending, we decided that our best course of action would be to book a hotel room close by for the night, that way I could be in the area and she could stay there if it looked like it would be another quiet night. The hotel room was then confirmed but everything else was far from certain. I walked Kim back to the entrance where she again went in while I again stayed outside. I stood there for a few moments, just like yesterday, not knowing exactly what I should do with myself. The doctor was supposed to come by around six and presumably, a decision would then be made about a course of action. I would wait until then and go from there. Six o’clock passed and so did quarter after six. At half-past, I needed to change things up and take a break from The Wire. I opened the windows, turned the car off and now on the passenger side, sat there with the door open as a light breeze made its way through the parking garage. Up on the fourth level, it was quiet. It was just me and the pigeons. Anyone else who parked on that level had left. It was almost peaceful. Like I did on the plane, I turned to Phish to help settle my nerves. The song “Everything’s Right” came on and as it played, I started wandering around level four. The song’s chorus spoke to me and I started singing along as I walked and I felt good, I felt okay. “Everything’s right, so just hold tight.” Our baby girl was going to be born, either tonight or tomorrow. Maybe even the day after. She would be safe and healthy and so would the surrogate. I couldn’t be there and would still be out here in this godforsaken parking garage peeing in cups, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she would be born. “Everything’s right, so just hold tight.” In the middle of listening to the song again, Kim texted saying that they had all talked to the doctor. Not only was it going to be a C-section and not only was it going to happen soon but some strings had been pulled and I was going to be able to be let in. I needed to get my act together. I needed to pack up my office. I needed to pee one more time. I did all these things and then waited, waited for the word from Kim as she waited for word from the doctor. Then the word came. I grabbed my trusty red backpack. I bid the parking garage adieu and hoofed it around the building to the emergency room entrance. I was sweaty. It was hot. There was a line to get in, people waiting to be screened because of COVID and I told the nurse at the door that I was going to Labor and Delivery, that my wife and I’s surrogate was about to give birth and he waved me in through a side door. I told the same thing to the security guard, who waved me on, giving me directions, which are always the same directions in a hospital. Go down that way, make a right and then a left, then look for these elevators and take them to this floor and when you get off make another right and go down the hallway past this area until you get to the double doors and the security guard waiting there. It doesn’t matter where you are going in a hospital, the directions are always the same. I got to the security guard outside of Labor & Delivery and she too waved me in and when passing the nurse’s station, a nurse called over to me, saying I must be Mr. O’Connell. She led me to the recovery room, telling me that they had a room for us tonight but we’re sure about tomorrow. Us. She kept saying “us.” I had initially thought I would miss the whole thing but now I was going to be able to stay over with Kim and the baby, just as I had with our other daughter. I didn’t need the hotel room, didn’t need to worry about when to leave. It was a good thing I had brought some extra shirts with me. “Everything’s right, so just hold tight.” With it being a C-section, Kim would be in the recovery room with me as only our surrogate’s husband could be in the operating room. So, we waited together. We waited and listened intently each time the door opened, waiting to hear a baby crying, our baby crying. I think we waited 20 or 30 minutes but it felt significantly longer than that. Our parents kept texting for updates and at some point, I stopped responding. We just kept waiting. Not even talking really. Just waiting. And then finally a nurse appeared, the same nurse as before and told us our daughter was here. I cut the umbilical cord and we watched as she was weighed and measured. Yes, she was big; the biggest baby one nurse said she had ever delivered, but she was here and she was perfect. “Everything’s right, so just hold tight.” A little while later, as the three of us sat peacefully in our area of the recovery room, that same nurse from before came by to congratulate us and say goodnight. We said goodnight and thanked her for making sure we had a room. It was her pleasure, she said and then, before turning to leave, she wanted to remind us that only Kim and the baby could stay overnight. When it was time for them to go up to the maternity ward, it was my time to leave. “But what about tomorrow?” I asked. “Would I be able to visit tomorrow? Or the next day.” Nope, not unless Kim wanted to leave and we wanted to swap out. If not, then the next time I would see them was when they were discharged and needed a lift home. We sat dumbfounded. Again, we had prepared for this, knew that it was going to go down this way but amidst the confusion of the C-section decision and it suddenly being go time, miscommunication had reared its ugly head and wires had been crossed. It had all been too good to be true because it was just that, too good to be true. I couldn’t complain, though. I had come down to Florida under the impression that I wouldn’t be able to be in the hospital at all but by sheer goodwill and kindness, had been allowed in for a few hours following the birth. I got to cut the cord, I got to hold my newborn baby girl and I got to sit beside my wife as she did the same. I couldn’t complain at all. Still, though, hope found its way into the conversation. When another nurse came to bring Kim and our baby girl upstairs, I said that I guess I should leave and she was surprised, asking why wouldn’t I also go upstairs? So, I did. I walked with them down the hallway, past the random patients who smiled seeing us and said congratulations. I went up with them in the elevator and walked with them to the room; was there as they got settled in. But it started to get awkward. I knew I had to leave, but maybe they didn’t know I had to leave. So now, who is to say I couldn’t just hang out until someone who did know caught wind of the situation and gave me the boot? That would probably happen at three in the morning, though. Would it be worth riding it out for a few hours or should I just leave? What kind of terrible decision is that? Do I be honest and leave my wife and newborn baby or do I be sneaky and stay with them, knowing I’ll have to leave at some point, no doubt at the worst possible time. I still had the hotel room, but I didn’t want to go, but I also did because I knew I had too. I just wanted to lie down on the bed with my baby girl. Let her fall asleep on my chest as I rubbed her back. I wanted to stand with my wife and look at our daughter as she slept in that clear bin they had her sleeping in. I just wanted to be there. But I had to leave. The nurse in charge came in to make it clear that it had to happen and also make it clear that she felt terrible about it. This wasn’t a situation exclusive to us. Since COVID, one parent getting the boot had become an ugly standard practice that no one was happy with. The nurse must have apologized a dozen times and told me I could stay for a little bit longer if I wanted. And so I did, but only for a few more minutes. Then I left. I left Kim and I left our new baby girl. I walked past the nurses’ station and none of them looked up. I don’t think that was intentional but it still made me feel like I didn’t exist. I walked slowly down the hallway and slouched against the elevator wall as it took me down to the first floor where I then slowly walked down more hallways, all of them quiet as it was now past one o’clock in the morning. Outside it was still hot but it was now incredibly still. Nothing doing here. Even the pigeons had left and I climbed into the rental car. I turned the A/C on but kept the windows down. The air from both felt good and as I pulled out of the garage and off the hospital premises, “Waiting On A Sunny Day” by Bruce Springsteen came on. I think Spotify knew it was what I needed because it’s been my happy song since it helped get me through my uncle’s death a few years back. It was a ten-minute drive to the hotel and I listened to the song twice. I thought about stopping at a gas station for a beer but I drove past the one next to the hotel without a second thought. I just wanted to lay down. Over the next few hours, I Facetimed with Kim a handful of times and slept briefly, keeping the light on the whole time. I didn’t feel right turning it off, making myself too comfortable. I wanted my experience to mirror hers as much as possible. Morning came and I felt weirdly refreshed. I felt good. I made some coffee and opened the curtains. I turned on the news and sat down, just trying to take stock of what had happened over the past 12 hours. It was a lot to make sense of but all that mattered was that our baby girl had been born and at least Kim could be there with her in the hospital. But for how long? A place for Kim to stay that night was far from a given. I had gotten a late check-out at the hotel, so we had until 2pm to make a decision. If Kim could stay in the hospital, I’d head north to her parents. If she couldn’t, our baby would go to the nursery and I’d get another hotel room for both of us. Once again, we were in wait-and-see mode. I busied myself getting things done, securing a local pediatrician for a follow-up visit later in the week, checking in with our lawyer, booking our flight home, extending the rental car, and outlining the next steps with insurance. I didn’t pee in a cup once. It was nice to feel so civilized. By the time it was 2pm, they had moved Kim and our baby to our surrogate’s room, which they would all share for the night. I checked out of the hotel and found some lunch and coffee, soon resuming my post in the parking garage with the pigeons. But I wasn’t sure why I was there. Kim was good, set up for another night in the hospital. It didn’t make sense for me to be either in the parking garage burning gas by running the car so the A/C would stay on and it didn’t make sense for me to get another hotel room for the night. The only thing that seemed to make sense was to head north even though at the same time, that didn’t seem to make any sense at all. Why would I put more distance between us? Why wouldn’t I stay close? Because it did make sense to leave even though it didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense thinking in traditional terms because this was not a traditional situation. I couldn’t think of it in traditional terms. I needed to look at the situation clear-eyed and almost emotionless. I was going to drive north and that was that. It rained again. It rained a lot. I drove through three or four different storms and watched lightning bolts touch down all around me. Then there was traffic and then there was more rain and then there was more lightning. A drive that should have taken a little less than an hour and a half stretched out longer than two hours but finally, I got to Kim’s parents and sat in the driveway for a few moments. Just quietly sat there. My brain just sat there; my heart just sat there. Everything just sat there for a few moments. Then I did some laundry and ate some dinner. I watched the Celtics and watched Obama speak at the Democratic National Convention. And that was that. I passed out just as he was finishing up. I wasn’t out for long though. All night I kept waking up and once again, I slept with the light on, still trying to recreate the experience Kim was having in the hospital. Relaxing was impossible. Letting myself go so I could fall asleep was tough sledding and while I did doze off a few times, every time was short-lived and by 5am I gave up. I just lied there, waiting. I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for exactly. I was just waiting. Once 6am came around, I turned on the news and stared at it blankly. I couldn’t really concentrate. All I could think about was Kim, our baby girl, and not being with them. *** After a while I got cleaned up and had a good Facetime with our oldest daughter. It went much better than the one the night before where she mistook me saying I was heading to Nana and Poppa’s as me saying I was heading home to get her. My folks said it was tough after that but like me, eventually, she just passed out. She was in good spirits this morning and around 11:30, I headed back down south again, back to the parking garage and the pigeons and the limited cell service. There was reason to be excited because my girls were supposed to be discharged at some point in the afternoon. All of this would be over and we’d be together again. It’s all I wanted; for us to be together again but it had proven to be such an elusive goal, so unattainable. Now it was so close, though. I just had to watch a few episodes of The Wire and wait for the word to pack things up and go scoop my gals. Afternoon came and went. At some point, maybe around 5 or so, Kim thought she was close to being discharged and I ran to get coffee and snacks for her. I set up shop in a new parking lot for a bit, taking some time to shore up the appointment with the pediatrician, make an appointment for some lab work and get our ducks in a row. The time kept ticking away and I still hadn’t gotten word about the girls being released. Once again not sure what to do with myself, I headed back to the friendly confines of the parking garage. I didn’t know where else to go and didn’t want to even think about figuring out where else to go. The parking garage had begrudgingly become my safe haven and at this point, all I wanted was a safe haven. I needed a light breeze, which is what I got by the upper deck and for the first time since I had become a part-time resident of the parking garage, the temperature wasn’t that bad. It was tolerable. I didn’t want to stay in that garage for a minute longer but if I had to, things could have been worse. And then I got the text: “pull up in front of the main lobby now.” It was 8:10pm. Kim had gone into the hospital at 12:15pm on Monday and now 80 hours later she was leaving. And she was leaving with our baby girl. It had all been worth it; it had all worked. If I could have safely driven straight off the edge of the parking garage roof onto the street below to speed things up I would have but instead, I circled my way down to the bottom, one last time going around and around and around, down from level 4 to level 3 to level 2 and finally to the gate at level 1. For the last time, I gave the attendant my ticket and the money I owed and pulled up to the main entrance. Two lanes had been created with cones and I assumed the closest lane was closed off because of COVID so I parked in the far lane and started looking. I just kept staring at the door, waiting to see my girls. It reminded me of our wedding, where I just kept my eyes on the church door, anxiously waiting to see her emerge from them. I couldn’t wait. Of course, that closer lane wasn’t closed due to COVID and a minivan pulled up, blocking my view of the door and damn it, man, did he NOT realize I was trying to have a moment? I pulled up some and resumed waiting, resumed looking. And then I saw Kim and if I could have exploded with a mixture of relief and happiness and joy and gratitude all rolled up into one. I jumped out of the car to meet them and that was it, it was everything I had wanted, everything we had worked so hard for. It was beautiful. Our baby girl was perfect and we buckled her into the car seat and soon she was fast asleep. I cautiously pulled out of the driveway and onto the road that led to the highway, passing houses, buildings and businesses that had become all too familiar to me over the past couple days. Kim and I talked a little bit but soon the car grew quiet as we watched as lightning once again shot down from the sky off in the distance. The Ghost of Paul Revere played loud enough for me to hear it and for the girls to sleep or in Kim’s case, relax some and close her eyes. We headed north and we headed north together. There was more to this mission; it was far from over, but the most important part had been completed. It didn’t matter if I was physically there or not. We had gotten what we came for and that was all that truly mattered. The parking garage is all yours, pigeons. Treat her well and yes, that is pee. I’m not going to apologize. Ryan harbors a constant fear of losing his keys, prefers flip flops and will always choose cereal if it's an option. He maintains his own blog, Giddy Up America and hasn't gotten a speeding ticket in over the year. He has previously contributed work to UPROXX & Heavy. Ryan is on Twitter: @ryanoconnell79

There is something truly special about the love of a friend… something to treasure and be thankful for! The bond that develops is hard to break… especially when tested by time and circumstances in all of life’s ups and downs. A friend shows empathy and genuine concern for another’s well being. A friend understands the other’s need of a quiet respite for a time when life comes hard against them. A friend reaches out in those difficult times to say, “I’m here… whenever you need me. I won’t interfere… just know that I’m here for you. I love you, and support you with my thoughts and my prayers.” A friend once told me when we were both going through extensive health issues, “Now you’ll learn who your true friends are,” and she was so right. A friend shares your joy, while you share a gladness of heart when they are blessed, even during times of your own hardship. Encouragement flows from one heart to another and back again for the endeavors you each pursue… strengthening the bond between both, sharing peace, joy and contentment. A friend speaks truth to settle disputes. A friend does not begrudge another their needs. A friend does not mock, lie, retaliate, or deceive for personal gain. A friend is willing to apologize, recognizing their own failings. A friend forgives, yet discerns with God’s wisdom when the relationship is abusive. And in forgiving, with or without apologies from the other, establishes boundaries of responsibility and accountability with honesty… for there are times when a relationship is detrimental and one must walk away, even when no one else understands, allowing God to work His healing. He will give you strength and courage… for trust and respect are earned and maintained within a healthy and stable relationship, bringing honor to God. A friend listens with a servant’s heart… not for what they can get or take, but for what they can offer from their heart… whether with contemplative quiet or words of wisdom... without expecting anything in return. Which all reminds me of a good marriage when you each give 100%. Needless to say, we all have times when we give less to our spouse, or to a friend. But we don’t stay there. We discuss and overcome what has upset us, knocked us down, and we apologize, forgive, and move forward with 100% once again. With accountability, and that kind of trust and giving, we exhibit God’s love as He intended. And dear are the friends who, on getting together even infrequently, love each other enough to pick right back up where they left off as if there had been no time or distance between their meetings. As Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.” Such a friend is a blessing from God… someone who understands your heart… who complements what you already have or perhaps are lacking… who is able to wisely point out where you may be in the wrong… who can share in your joy… who can simply and quietly be there when your heart is breaking… who can give loving support to help accomplish a task when your skills might be limited… who will gladly come alongside with no expectation of repayment or recognition in any manner for a good deed… being someone who simply loves the other just for who they are. And so, we give a heartfelt “Thank you” to each of our dear friends who have stood by us, and supported us, through the numerous life challenges we have faced over the years. Such a friend… a spouse… can be so like our Lord… the One who blesses our heart with abundant love… who comes alongside, gently calling us away from life’s harms… who loves at all times… and who lays down His life to cover our sins… as we seek Him for all of our needs. A friend like no other… A Friend Linda A. Roorda A friend reaches out to touch your soul As you share a love and a bond that twines From the time you meet you’re drawn in close You want to know more about this new friend. ~ A friend is one who will ever be near Ready with kind words and a caring heart A friend will share the depths of your soul Midst tears that flow and the days of joy. ~ A friend is waiting with arms held out To listen with care and understanding To hold you tight when life overwhelms To never let go no matter the trial. ~ A friend gently holds your heart with joy Like a rose in bloom with beauty fragile, Yet strongly stands to face stormy days That test the strength of ties that bind. ~ A friend is there to listen at length When anger erupts like a storm at sea And days arrive with hurts that steal joy To clear the heart of issues that strain. ~ A friend will wait no matter how long To regain the lapse when life interrupts As you pick back up where you both left off Not missing a beat with hearts in tune. ~ A friend’s precious words lift up your heart To heal the wounds and cover the scars With guiding wisdom extended in love To cheer the soul and renew the joy. ~ A friend brings peace for a troubled soul To share quiet time and ease tensions tight To calm the fears and carry the loss And help you walk a difficult path. ~ A friend shares the joy that floods your soul The blessings of life in showers rich Those unannounced and those from long hope As you give sweet praise for heaven’s ways. ~ A friend will give their life as a gift To sacrifice self for the gain of all A friend clings to hope that the best in you Will still shine bright when all else seems lost. ~ A friend there is no greater than this Than the Lord above with His love divine He holds out his hands, draws us to His side And blesses our hearts with joy from a friend. ~~

by Annie Holmquist With mass homeschooling becoming the new norm starting early last year, one might easily assume that parents have by now adjusted to their new roles as teachers and work-from-home employees, in addition to their parenting responsibilities. That may be true for some, but I tend to think those people are in the minority. A piece in the Irish Times confirms this notion. The article consists of several testimonials from parents trying to adjust to the faux homeschooling that their school districts have thrust upon them. While some found that they had smoothed out the bugs to function at a reasonable level, others were left unsatisfied. This includes one mother who said she only got four hours of sleep each night last week. Such short nights were the result of too many responsibilities, including juggling house chores and dealing with “frustrated and bored kids.” This mother’s new responsibilities are unlikely to be alleviated until the pandemic comes to an end. But her statement about chores and bored kids suggests there is one potentially stress-relieving solution right under her nose: combine the two. It’s easy for many parents to view their children as the small, helpless babies that they first met. The fact is, those children grow up, and if they are school age, then they’re probably well equipped to take on more responsibility than we generally give them. Having bored children pick up the slack around the house isn’t mean. Rather, it’s home education at its finest. Homeschooling veterans Harvey and Laurie Bluedorn elaborate on this fact in their book Teaching the Trivium when they say, “Do not do for yourself what your child can do for you.” Their rationale for such a statement all comes back to the idea of self-esteem: Lest parents fear they will become slave drivers by inflicting such a chore regimen upon their children, the Bluedorns have some heartening advice: Building self-esteem in a child is a high priority in our day. Yet, the way the Bluedorns describe self-esteem doesn’t make it sound all that desirable. Astute parents would rather build confidence and usefulness in their children, and they can do so by training them to take on many responsibilities around the home, which in turn helps relieve parents worn out by household chores and house-bound kids. So, if you feel you’re stuck at home, trying to hold down a job while also overseeing your child’s education, use this time to your advantage! Have your kids look through cookbooks, plan menus, write grocery lists, and help with or take full responsibility for preparing a certain meal. Make chores fun by pairing your children up and having contests to complete chores in record time, or suggesting they tell stories while washing the dishes, or even role-play while they vacuum or clean the bathroom. Turn chores into a privilege that can only be done by those who work hard and learn a job well. And offer surprises here and there, like a special kind of ice cream, a new book, or a unique outing—not as a bribe, but as a reward to those who do their jobs well. You may be surprised. Your load may be lightened, and your children may turn into confident, useful, young children who are ahead of the curve in their journey toward responsible adulthood. Annie Holmquist is the editor of Intellectual Takeout. When not writing or editing, she enjoys reading, gardening, and time with family and friends. This op-ed piece was republished with permission from IntellectualTakeout.org

Since the riots and attack on the U.S. Capitol Wednesday, I've been trying to think of what I would say to the world about this week's events if offered the chance. Truth is, there's a lot I'd like to say. However in many respects, words have failed me. Well, multiple four lettered words, woven in strings as colorful as the lights on our Christmas tree, didn't let me down at all. I should probably apologize for what the neighbors may have recently heard, but overall, I am still trying to process much of what happened in D.C. So this could well be a shorter column, we'll see, but there's one point I want to really focus on. Wednesday evening, President-elect Joe Biden called the act of insurrection "...an assault literally on the citadel of liberty..." and to me, those eight words sum it up perfectly. With a lot less profanity as well. I don't know if you've ever been to Washington D.C., but we've been a few times and I highly recommend everyone see it at least once in their lives. For all the jokes and memes about it being a "hive of scum and villainy," it truly is a marvel to behold. Everywhere you look is a monument to our nation's history and majesty. To me, it's literally a concrete testament to all that is the United States of America. I don't think one can truly grasp what it is until you're surrounded by it. None of these monuments or buildings are more majestic and more awe inspiring that the U.S. Capitol. Seriously, you have to see it to believe it. Just standing at street level at Capitol Hill, I defy anyone to not swell with pride. I've never seen the inside ( and thanks to this week's events, stand even less a chance than ever ) but I can only imagine the grandeur and the history that surrounds one in what is essentially the cradle of American freedom and all this country stands for. And yes, lest I be accused of waxing poetic, I understand and fully agree that a lot of what is wrong with our nation stems from there now. Our nation and its government are not perfect. However the ideals, represented by the U.S. Capitol, are. It's enraging ( God, what an understatement ) still to think a mob, under the guise of their Constitutional right to assemble, not only tried to ( and for a short time successfully ) halt the peaceful transfer of power. Which, by the way, is also clearly defined by the U.S. Constitution. This wasn't just a heinous attack on what I believe to be symbolic of Ronald Reagan's "shining city upon a hill." It was an assault on American values, ideals, and freedom by pretend patriots. The minutiae of what happened, what went wrong, will be scrutinized for days and weeks to come. Where we go from here? Is it the end or the beginning of dark times? I have no idea. What I do know is what happened in our nation's capitol January 6, 2021 will forever be a stain on our nation's history, and it didn't have to happen. Chris Sherwood writes from his home in Chemung County. His first novel, "In Times Of Trouble" was released in June 2020. He is currently working on the sequel.

“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold; When it is summer in the light and winter in the shade….” Charles Dickens TA-Da!!! It is just past the Vernal Equinox and in my part of the world, Spring is here -- on the calendar as well as in reality! Spring, in Zones 4 and 5 can be quite liberally seasoned with big snowflakes, and chilly March winds, as has happened this week. We have, in some years, even experienced a blizzard in mid-April and wet snow flurries in May. But there is always the surety that these slight discomforts will not linger very long; spring, with its many moods, is here. Snowdrops and winter aconite have been in bloom for two weeks now, and the crocuses are an amazing patch of purple by the front steps. Day Lily leaves are 4-6 inches above the ground. While we were gone last weekend, a bear came through and pulled a bird feeder apart. He must have been a fast-moving young bear, because he apparently didn’t remember where the bird seed cans were, and didn’t do any other damage. It is no wonder, with such mild weather, that bears have awakened and are traveling earlier than usual ---- and are hungry!! Who doesn’t know the familiar old song “Easter Parade”: “In your Easter bonnet with all the frills upon it, you’ll be the grandest lady in the Easter Parade””? There are no parades around here, but we are a week away from Easter bonnets and spring clothes, which, depending on temperatures and precipitation, may not be just the thing to wear. Easter’s date is determined by the lunar calendar, not our monthly one, and it is quite early this year. Fortunately, Easter bunnies are like the U.S. postal system’s “neither rain, sleet nor snow will keep them from their tasks” motto; rabbits don’t mind a fresh snowfall or brisk winds, and come hopping by (candy-filled baskets in paws,?) as scheduled. Garden flowers, however, can be iffy. Daffodils usually recover from a spring snow. But tulips are less hardy and often sulkily wilt, just to exhibit their resentment. There will be pots and pots of flowers for Easter Sunday’s service, so that no matter what the skies are doing outside, the sanctuary will be full of fragrance and color, and a few sneezes from those sensitive to lilies and hyacinths. The week between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday, is called, by many, Holy Week. In our community, for the past six weeks, there have been Lenten services on Wednesdays. This week, in addition, there is, a Maundy Thursday service, and three options for Good Friday. Then, early on Easter morn, there will be a sunrise service at an old Finnish church up in the hills, where the winds blow and mornings are a bit chilly due to altitude. Later, there are the usual Easter Day services in all the churches and then, perhaps, family dinners. It is a very “church-y” week for those who go. This quotation may not speak of Lent in a totally traditional way, but I would suggest it is one to consider, whether or not church is part of your life: “In case no one has told you lately, this is a reminder that you belong here. There is a you-shaped spot in the world that can only be filled by you. Don’t worry about why. Just know that it is there and it’s yours.” ** When we start thinking about this and what it means, we may find ourselves dwelling in our own 40 days of wilderness. And that time can be holy! It is nearly time for the snowbirds to return north, those humans who prefer to not use their shovels and plows, but who sit out winter where it is a gentler climate than NYS tends to be. Some come home for Easter, some wait until every possibility of snow is past (mid-May) and some meander about the country a bit; traveling before alighting. One couple I know plans to take a cruise to Amsterdam before heading back north. I hope it is tulip season there. I have never been a seasoned/enthusiastic traveler, though we have covered a bit of ground over the years. I find that I am even less open to traveling now, in my later years. Some of that is due to increased traffic and abysmally careless/stupid drivers on interstates, not to mention the hassles of flying. But much of it is that I really appreciate being at home with my just-fits-me chair, my own bed and my cup of good tea in the morning. I like greeting the same cardinals, blue jays and finches coming to the feeder., I like filling the cat’s water bowl, accompanied by his meows of what happened during the night (“just look at my dish; skunk footprints all around it!”). And I hate missing events in our own community. But, staying at home all the time can lead to being stuck-in-a-rut, and closed-minded, so a nice mix is probably good. Travel tends to banish prejudice and change perspective, as we actually meet and find common ground with people outside our usual sphere. We did just get back from a short trip to Vermont. One of our sons lives there, with his family, and it had been a while since we visited their home. Both the trip to Vermont and the trip home fell on nice days. We had clear roads and could enjoy the lovely scenery. During our time in Vermont, there was one day and night of snow. Depending on the altitude, the snow ranged from an inch to five or more. It turned the mountains into frosty snow-globes. Since we didn’t need to go anywhere in particular, we just enjoyed watching the snowfall while we were warm and cozy inside. Before the snow, we journeyed over “Terrible Mountain” to one of our favorite places – the Weston Priory. This is a Benedictine facility, and one of their ministries is choral and instrumental music. They also carve beautiful wooden crosses, throw pottery, and make wall hangings. We acquired a few more of their CDs (Yes, we still use CDs) and a couple of books by authors I enjoy. While we were in Weston, we also stopped by the Weston Country Store, and the more well-known Vermont Country Store, which is based there. After the snow, we went to Rutland, where we found some fine and fun shops, including a used-book store that took our breath away. So traveling, this time, made a very nice break from our daily routine here in Spencer, and it was a pleasure to spend some good times with family. Traveling anywhere else, though, must be put on hold for a bit, for the gardens already need our attention. This year, we are putting some beds into buckwheat, which will fertilize the soil and give it a rest from producing tomatoes and other crops. The rail fence needs a new post with which to hold the dropped rails, some shrubs and trees desperately need pruning, stone blocks around our vegetable garden beds need re-stacking due to winter heaving and,of course, there are the emerging weeds. And we probably should take down our “winter lights” that line the driveway and go across the front of our lawn. Usually, we have more of a breather in March. But with the unusually mild weather, chickweed is already growing profusely amid the flowers, undeterred by frosty nights. I know that chickweed can be used medicinally, but right now, I just want to give the little clumps of snowdrops, the buttery-yellow blossoms of winter aconite, room to breathe. So, when I can summon the determination to ignore my reluctant bones, I’ll be attacking those little green mats of flora, and removing them to the compost pile. This is such an exuberant, expectant time of the year. Green is emerging everywhere. Birds are singing in the morning. Peepers are making an increasingly loud clamor in the swamps across the road and in the stream behind the church. When the sky manages to be blue instead of Finger Lakes gray, it is the color of morning glories. Spring is a box of pastels, a sense of awakening and hope of the blossoms to come. And, according to Hal Borland***, an American naturalist, “March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.” Whatever these last days of March bring, I wish you a blessed Palm Sunday, a Joyous Easter, an inspiring spring and pleasure in each day. As one song says, “Every morning is Easter morning from now on….”!**** Carol Bossard writes from her home in Spencer. *Quotation is from Great Expectations. Charles Dickens was a British novelist and critic. Some of his characters are the best-known in the world. 1812-1870. **Sweatpants & Coffee LLC ***Hal Borland – American naturalist, writer, journalist from Connecticut. 1900-1978. ****Words and music by Donald Marsh & Richard Avery.

For a while now I’ve been thinking about a concept which compares our lives to the changing of the seasons. To be honest, I don’t know if it’s an original thought and I haven’t bothered to look. If someone has done this already, no plagiarism is intended. Think of it as one of those, “great minds think alike moments.” The idea is, assuming an average human lifespan of eighty years ( statistics say it’s 77.28 for the average American, so ever the optimist, I’m rounding up ) you can divide those years into four “seasons”, each lasting twenty years. Spring would be birth until age twenty. We’re born and grow into adulthood, our bodies and minds developing into adulthood. Summer, from age twenty to forty when we’re in our prime and our lives are robust. The blood runs hot in more ways than one. Some days are calm and breezy and others raging with storms. All of these must be not only weathered, but excepted as well. It’s not so easy at first, but with each passing year, we gain wisdom and experience. Around age forty, things begin to slow down and as tends to happen on a late September day, there’s a certain feeling of comfort that comes over us. We perhaps look back at our summer days, remembering fondly the fun of the cool breezy ones, and knowing now that the storms we endured tempered our minds, despite what it may have done to our bodies.We see the fruits of our labors in the comfort of our homes, the success of our children. If we haven’t already, we look ahead to the coming winter and prepare. Around sixty is what I consider to be the beginning of our winter years. Things slow down around us which is good, because perhaps we’re a little slower too. Like the snow settling on the ground, we too are a little more gray. The wind blows cold, but there’s still a warmth inside us and in our homes, where we take comfort and solace in the lives we built and created. The end of this season for some people could be considered death for some people I suppose. For those who believe in a higher power, death may just be that final step in this world and a first step into a new Spring elsewhere. I have no idea, and no one has come back to fill us in so I guess we have to find out for ourselves. For my part, I’ll wait a bit longer, thank you. In little more than a week, I’ll turn forty-nine, taking one last trip around the sun before hitting the halfway mark of my own autumn I suppose. Unlike the year or so leading up to my turning forty, I don’t feel a lot of anxiety or dread about turning fifty. As I came to realize, there’s no changing it, so may as well go along with it. Still there’s some things that are more difficult to accept than graying hair and aching joints. Perhaps the most painful part of getting older is having to watch the generation before you do the same, until the day comes they take that last/ first step into whatever comes next. I’m at that stage where all but one or two of my grandparents’ generation are still alive. I recognize of course that there are many who never knew, or knew well, their own grandparents and their peers. However growing up and spending a lot of time with my maternal grandparents, I had a lot of exposure to the great-aunts and great-uncles who frequently visited, especially on the weekends, for coffee and conversation. How many families can say they still do that on a regular basis these days? Yet that was normal back then, and I remember those visits and even some of the stories told over cigarettes and coffee well. Upon hearing of another of that generation passing away a while back, I commented to my wife, “I’m witnessing an entire segment of my family disappear, one by one.” And look, I know full well I am not unique in this, it’s something we all have to endure. We have to accept it, it doesn’t mean we have to like it. As one generation passes through that last phase of life’s winter, another steps up to take its place. In time they’ll pass on into that Eternal Spring and then it’s my turn. I don’t know what that will look like, and truth is, I’m in no hurry to find out. But as someone once said, “The days are long, the years short.” In the blink of an eye, the feeling of “that feels like just yesterday” looking back will be here soon. I won’t lie, that scares the shit out of me, but I also know there’s no use dwelling on it. To do so is to just waste the time we’re given, so it’s best to live in the now. Still, those thoughts and feelings of dread come from time to time and to offset them I think about what the generation behind us is doing, watching them build their lives and families just as we and the generations before us did. James Taylor sang, “The secret to life is enjoying the passage of time.” And while it’s not always easy to, the truth it, we have no choice. So like Sweet Baby James says, we may as well enjoy the ride. Chris Sherwood writes from his home in North Chemung. He is the author of In Times of Trouble, a post-apocalyptic novel set in Upstate New York, and is currently working on the sequel. To learn more, go to cmsherwood.com

by Annie Holmquist A few weeks ago, I came across a story in The Washington Post about a young woman, Rosie Grant, who scours graveyards across the country looking for recipes to make. Recipes in a graveyard? Yes, it does sound weird, but Grant was intrigued upon hearing the concept. The first gravestone recipe she came across was featured on Naomi Odessa Miller-Dawson’s grave and was for Spritz cookies. Grant whipped up a batch and shared the results on her TikTok account. Its success encouraged her to hunt down other gravestone recipes and try them as well. When I first read about Grant’s graveyard cooking ventures, I must admit that I thought it was a little sad. Making the recipe wasn’t sad—that was a very touching and honoring thing for Grant to do. What was sad, however, was the fact that some people seemed to think that a single recipe was the most important legacy they had to leave behind. Such a thought made me stop and ask myself what kind of legacy I will leave behind one day when I am dead and buried. Do I want my legacy to be as simple and small as a recipe on a gravestone, or do I want it to be much bigger—a legacy that touches people personally, makes them better individuals, and even encourages some to go on and impact the world at large? I think most of us would automatically choose the latter. Who doesn’t want his life to count and make a difference? “Forget that recipe on the gravestone, we’re setting our sights on something higher and more worthy!” we all say to ourselves. But then I read further in the article and my perspective began to change, for in some cases, there was more behind these recipes than meets the eye viewing the gravestone. Take Kay Andrews, for example, whose gravestone recipe for fudge was another one that Grant made for her TikTok account. Kay’s family described her as “the most joyful, loving person” who was always baking treats to give to others. Such food gifts, Kay’s granddaughter noted, were “really how she showed her love.” The fudge recipe gracing her gravestone may look like the only legacy Kay leaves behind, but in reality, her legacy was what she did with that fudge. She poured her time and energy into making something enjoyable, and then gave it away with her love. She made others feel special and wanted through simple actions and simple gifts. We only have her fudge recipe to look at on this side of eternity, but who knows what we will find on the other side? The fact is, those simple actions that she faithfully did may have made an enormous impact for good. Nineteenth century writer Elizabeth Rundle Charles captured how small, faithful actions can make a huge impact for good in her poem, “The Child on the Judgment Seat.” Go back to thy garden-plot, sweetheart! Go back till the evening falls, And bind thy lilies and train thy vines, Till for thee the Master calls. Go make thy garden fair as thou canst, Thou workest never alone; Perhaps he whose plot is next to thine Will see it and mend his own. And the next may copy his, sweetheart, Till all grows fair and sweet; And, when the Master comes at eve, Happy faces his coming will greet. Many of us look at our world today, sighing in discouragement and wondering what on earth we, the simple, average Americans can do to change the seemingly unstoppable train wreck that our country is headed for. We’re too ordinary to make a big difference, we murmur to ourselves. What we forget is that it is the simple, faithful, heartfelt acts of love and kindness that truly make a difference in this world. When we work and do our best in the areas in which we have been planted—our homes, our workplaces, our neighborhoods—being faithful in even the daily, mundane tasks we’ve been given, but taking time to be the listening ear, the helping hand, the caring friend, and the kind neighbor, then our legacy will be nothing to sneeze at once we’re dead and buried. Instead, it will grow and spread, from one little garden plot to another, fed by the love and care and faithfulness we bring to our everyday tasks. — Annie Holmquist served as the editor of Intellectual Takeout from 2018 to 2022. When not writing or editing, she enjoys reading, gardening, and time with family and friends. This article was originally published on Annie’s Substack. You can subscribe to it here.

It’s the slap felt ‘round the world and discussed ‘round the clock. Will Smith’s roundhouse smack of Chris Rock during the Oscars reveals one of the hazards of being a humorist. What Will did was wrong and inexcusable. Yes, Chris cracked a bad joke, but it didn’t deserve him being sucker smacked on live TV. I worry that this incident will encourage others to go slap-happy on comedians and humorists if they don’t like the words they say or write. I don’t want to have to wear a mouthguard and Everlast protective headgear when I’m out in public. Hell, I’m lookin’ over my shoulder enough, as it is. I’ve never been slapped, hit or otherwise assaulted for anything I’ve written. What comes out of my maw, is another story. I’ve been slapped, punched, kicked, hair-pulled and doused with assorted cocktails for many of the dumb and wise-ass words I’ve voiced. It taught me the number one hard rule of comedy: It’s ALWAYS at the expense of someone or something. Humor pokes fun. It insults. It harpoons life with lampoons. To do so ALWAYS requires a goat. That is the essence of the sense of humor. Even the simple groan-inducing pun has a goat, and that’s the listener. Humor is a complex phenomenon that can’t easily be explained. We laugh because we feel superior during humorous or unexpected situations. That’s why we laugh when we see someone trip and fall or get hit in the crotch with a baseball. We know it hurts and is embarrassing because we’ve probably experienced the same gaff. The laughter brings needed levity and stress relief to an otherwise serious situation. It's all based on one’s sense of humor. Unfortunately, not everyone has the same sense of humor. Some poor saps have none. They are easy to spot as they are forever proclaiming that they possess “a great sense of humor.” Your sense of humor is like your sense of taste. I don’t like garbanzo beans. You may love them. It doesn’t mean that you are or I am any less of a person because of it. We just have different tastes. But that doesn’t stop people from believing that there must be something terribly wrong, for example, with anyone who eats raw oysters. “How can you eat that crap?” they ask with such incredulous disdain that they infer that the mollusk lover eats shit. Will Smith has a sense of humor, how else could he have done the “Wild Wild West?” But his sense isn’t as expansive as Mr. Rock’s. It has limits. Its boundary, the line you don’t cross, ends with making fun of his wife, who lost her hair due to a medical condition. Those property lines are where humor runs into trouble and morphs into “I don’t get it,” “I don’t think that’s funny,” “I’m getting pissed” and “KER-SMACK!!!!” The joke goats will laugh as long as they see the humor in the joke. When they can’t, they headbutt. Surveying, understanding and respecting those boundaries affect your sense of humor. Upset readers have told me “You stepped over the line with that last column. You went too far.” I stepped over THEIR line. My comedic property lines extend way beyond those of most people. They’re cosmic in acreage. Those endless boundaries let me find humor endlessly, which is important, given all the dumb things I say and do. I laugh them off. It makes life more fun and protects my fragile and aging male ego. Unfortunately, political correctness, cancel culture and wokeness make it more difficult, and now, hazardous, for us to express our thoughts, ideas, slants on life and sense of humor. You have a right to criticize my writing and my humor and explain to me how and why it offends you. That’s freedom of speech. Most writers and comedians want public feedback, good and bad. But that feedback doesn’t include violence, or a punchline will become just that. If my writing ever makes you so angry that you want to strike me, at least give me a heads-up so I can don my mouthpiece and headgear. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, Twin Tiers Life.com, and Twin Tiers Living.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.

Is the aroma from my kitchen wending its way out? Do you smell cinnamon---- chocolate----orange? This is cookie-baking week ---- a variety of cookies for that family gathering I mentioned in the last essay. Pineapple cookies, ginger cookies, chocolate cookies and some melt-in-your-mouth buttery nut cookies. One thing I’ve noticed is that the cost of ingredients for cookies have risen a lot, and so desserts are actually as valuable as restaurants have been trying to make us believe all along. But home-made cookies are definitely worth it. Out of the kitchen and into the garden, tomatoes are beginning to ripen, which means that canning season will soon be upon us. Hurray for the modern kitchen stove. I can imagine just how hot a kitchen must have been with the old cook stoves that used wood or coal. That is why many homes in Pennsylvania and further south, had “summer kitchens” where they could keep the heat of preserving out of the house. Our home in central PA had a summer kitchen with an immense fireplace. We didn’t use it for canning, but for the occasional party. The first stove I recall from my childhood was a kitchen stove with kerosene burners across the front, like little lanterns of isinglass. I think that didn’t last too long before an electric stove came to the kitchen. I so appreciate my large gas burners and the stove’s capacity for more rapid heating for canning or baking, and less heat for the kitchen. Another appliance that I ---- sometimes ---- appreciate, is the computer. Emails are, of course a quick way to write a letter or even to decide committee business. Thanks to a friend, I often get materials from the Jungian Society --- followers of Carl Jung, the famous psychologist. A recent article talked about how to make life meaningful. I immediately thought --- my life has been chock-full of meaning; how can one’s life not be so? Then I considered further about a person who has been trapped by circumstances in work for which they do not especially care, simply to earn money for living. Or someone in a relationship that simply hasn’t worked out, but lingers on. People in those situations often find release in heading to the nearest bar after work to ease the boredom/troubles of the day. Often, they are not part of any social group or community that gives them inspiration and affirmation to know that life can be different. The daily grind/rut for people in such situations, seems to leave little chance for a whole, meaningful life------ although attitude makes a difference. There is the old story of the two workers. When asked what they were building, one replied that he was laying stone for a wall; the other said” I’m building a cathedral.” Creativity and good attitude = Meaning in life. Kerm and I were both fortunate in finding work to earn our bread and butter, work that we enjoyed doing. Occasionally it was sheer serendipity. After early years of working with kids, both as a professional and a volunteer, the coin flipped. My college degree was not in gerontology, but that is where I ended up for nearly 20 years, and it was a good fit. Kerm’s choice of careers was working with 4-H kids but he eventually administered the entire county Extension Service program. We were part of an army of “human services” workers, careers that didn’t accumulate wealth but did amass rewards for mind and spirit. So, there has been meaning in how I spent my days – both at home and away from home. Another plus in our lives, is our affiliation with a church. With each move, we’ve chosen where to go, not necessarily based on denomination, but on how much Life and Spirit there is in the congregation. We’ve been with Presbyterians, Methodists, United Church of Christ and a community congregation made up of those three. We’ve also attended Roman Catholic services and a Catholic charismatic fellowship, Lutheran services, Assembly of God services, a Unitarian service and Baptist services. For years, one of our favorite groups has been “Faith At Work” (now known as “Lumunos”). It was/is an interdenominational group offering relational spiritual growth. And for several years, we were part of a Marriage Encounter presenting team, working together with a Jewish couple, a Catholic couple and a clergy person. So --- we’ve been on several of the main avenues and some of the side streets of spiritual possibilities. And we have learned that God is in every one of those places we’ve been. I expect God is also to be found in a Buddhist retreat and a Native American sweat lodge, among other locations. God goes where God wishes to go and much as we might like to confine God in our own golden boxes, God won’t be restrained. I mention all this background to explain that our spiritual lives and being in the fellowship of those also growing, are a large part of what makes us mostly happy in the midst of a world full of turmoil and, sometimes, personal crises. Other choices have also made our lives exceptionally good --- and very few of them have to do with our bank account. Enough financial security to live is a very good thing; I am not extolling poverty. But the constant and growing need for more and more material things has not, thankfully, infected us too badly. We were fortunate to be born into families that valued education, hard and creative work, honesty and love, so that glamor, glitz and jet-setting just never seemed too desirable. Instead, we have friends who are amazing people, who have added depth, laughter, and a wider perspective to our being. I like what Heather Aardmem said: “You can either live by design or live by default.”* We can’t always control our situations, but we can choose the better of each path as it comes along if we know what we value in life. This not-always-easy process of choosing may be what helps us to develop courage for and have appreciation for each day we live. One of my nephews, for whom I babysat when an infant, has a birthday today. I don’t remember much about those days, so he must have been a pretty good kid. He is certainly a good adult. I think that with love and attention, most kids are good kids who then become good adults. Too often, it is parents with false values and self-centered needs making thoughtless/misguided demands on their kids, who send kids veering in damaging directions. Of course, that is a generalization; there are other factors and parents are not always to blame. I have liked working with kids --- especially those often-obnoxious but honest and eager twelve, thirteen and fourteen-year-olds. They are trying so hard to be adults but often still have the needs of a child. They are sometimes awkward and loud but they say what they think unless they’ve been habitually squelched. I think we all need to pay attention to the young people to whom we have access. They need more smiles from us, more listening ears; they need to feel affection, value and acceptance of who they are coming from adults around them. Yesterday and today, family members have been visiting from California and Connecticut. It was an absolute joy to have time (though never enough) to catch up and just be together around the breakfast table. When we all lived in the same vicinity, it was way easier and when I read about the families staying in the same communities for centuries, I’m a bit envious. But we also bring something to each other simply because we don’t all live together; we bring the diversity of what we’ve learned about other people and places. And any gifts we might have and what we know from our own genetics and our own family experiences has been shared in those places where we now live. One time some of us in the family, were fantasizing about buying one of the Thousand Islands (I believe one was for sale at that time) for us all to live upon. It wasn’t long before we were laughing uproariously. We love each other; we even like each other but ---- we don’t have the same social needs, spiritual visions or ways of living. If we were all put on one island, we’d have at least three people building boats in which to escape……and they’d undoubtedly be arguing about how to build the best boat. I do miss sitting around the large dining table at my brother’s, visiting with family; some would be beading jewelry, some would be knitting, we’d all be drinking tea and laughing as we tell and retell stories. I miss sitting with my mother at her kitchen table; the cookie box open, fragrant “Constant Comment” tea in the pot and a view of the wide lawn and gardens; frogs chunking in the pond below. Life changes and losing those we love leaves us with a permanent “sad room” in our brains. But instead of lingering too long therein, it is both cheering and strengthening to just allow ourselves to be grateful for these good memories of the past and, recognize how they have led us to our now, for which we are also grateful. We have come to the end of another golden summer month. August is only a few days away. Soon we may be watching the Perseid meteor showers, finding our mornings a bit foggy and noting that the nights are just a tad cooler (hopefully!). We’ll also see he sun setting a bit earlier. Life cycles go on as usual with summer heat and cleansing thunder showers. Let’s be open to the gifts of each day --- those “moments when the universal seems to wrap us around with friendliness.”** ********** Carol may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Heather Aardmene –Weigh loss coach and aspiring minimalist. **WilliamJames ---American philosopher, historian educator and psychologist. He was the first American educator to offer a course in psychology. 1842-1910.

Several months ago, my wife, Shelley, and I lost our best friend and soul mate. Her name was Sammy. She was our pet dog of a dozen years. She had cancer and we had to end her suffering. I’m still grieving the loss. I’ve had pet dogs all my life and I’ve had to decide when to end the lives of five of them. It never gets easier. I’m never sure if I’ve made the right decision. Did I end their lives too soon, when they still had many “good days” ahead of them; or did I wait too long, because I wasn’t ready to “goodbye,” and my pets suffered needlessly? It was more than a dozen years ago that Sammy came into our lives. She was a beautiful brindle-hued Heinz 57 mix that we adopted from the local SPCA. Before that, Sammy had been a stray that animal control officers caught while she was eating from a deer carcass in the grass median of Route 328 in Pine City. I became her adopted dad and she became my best friend, always eagerly and excitedly waiting to greet me at the door every time I returned home as if I had been away at war for years. She would meet me with a smile on her face and her tail wagging so rapidly it wiggled her rear end. Her tail wagged through her heart. Dogs instinctively know how to be kind and share unconditional love. It takes people years to do the same. That’s probably why dogs don’t live as long as we do. They are born with life’s lessons deep in their hearts. She shared those lessons with me. I learned so much from her. She was my constant companion and a respite of happiness and stress relief at the end of a difficult day. She loved to be loved and petted. She would lie next to me on the couch with her head on my lap, as I read or watched TV. If I stopped petting, she would gently nudge me with her paw or nose to get me back into petting gear. She was friendly to everyone she met. She taught me not to judge people and to not be too hard on myself when I made mistakes. She loved car rides, with her head out the window, ears flapping in the wind, and her nose savoring the countless fragrances that blew by her. Sammy didn’t chase sticks, play catch or do tricks. Instead, she fetched fun and love in everything she did. She showed me how to enjoy life’s little moments of glee and wonder. To love and be loved by a dog is one of life’s greatest pleasures. We spent hours hiking in the woods, cross-country skiing on nature trails or sitting in the grass next to the river on a sunny day. Often, while hiking, she would run ahead of me, and I would duck behind a tree and hide. When she would look back and see that I was gone, she would stop and perk up her ears, before darting back to find me. I would jump out from behind the tree to startle her and send her tail and butt into hyper-wag, as I laughed hysterically. She would tilt her head quizzically and look at me as if to say, “You’re so immature. What am I going to do with you?” Then she was off and running ahead again searching for more fun and adventure. Now, when I hike those trails, I envision her up ahead, glancing back to be sure I was still in pursuit. At times like those, her loss feels unbearable. She was the most lovable dog I’ve known. If I sat down and leaned forward, she would come up to me and rest her head against my forehead, and just sit there quietly, head-to-head, as I rubbed her belly. At night, she lie next to my wife and me in bed, slowly taking over more and more of the mattress as the evening progressed, until I would awaken precariously balanced on the edge, about to fall to the floor, while she comfortably hogged the rest of the bed, snoring, with legs outstretched and head tucked into her chest. Dogs, like all animals, are good a hiding their pain and infirmities, an evolutionary defense that keeps them from being preyed upon by predators looking for the weakest in the pack. After he cancer diagnosis I paid close attention to her behaviors, physical condition and her eating and sleeping habits, looking for signs that would tell me “It’s time, Jim. It’s time.” As her health grew worse and I struggled with making the heartbreaking final decision, I took her to one of our favorite outdoor spots, beneath a quiet stand of shady white pine trees in Big Flats. She laid next to me on a soft bed of pine needles as I petted her, prayed and asked the universe to give me a sure sign that it was time to bid her farewell. Tears filled my eyes, as they do as I write this column. She crawled closer to me and rested her head on my shoulder to tell me that it will be okay and that she would let me know when it was time to say farewell. I hugged her and wept like a baby. Sammy taught me that it was okay to cry. They say that losing a pet is one of the saddest and most difficult traumas we deal with in life. It’s true. Her death was a double whammy because she was my rock of strength and she always made it easier for me to deal with loss and sadness. Her death carved out a hard emptiness inside me that I’m still struggling to fill. Sammy was true to her word about telling me when it was time to say goodbye. One day, in a matter of hours, she started showing signs of a “vestibular disorder,” of balance. To her, the room was in a never-ending nauseous spin. She couldn’t stand up or walk without stumbling and falling over. I knew it was time. I called the veterinarian, who came to our home to help us end Sammy’s suffering. The farewell was painless for Sammy. She died softly and comfortably in our arms, amid our hugs and tears. I try to ease my sadness by telling myself that my deep grief shows that Sammy was loved and had a great life. Sammy, old girl, this one is for you in honor of your life, our wonderful times together and all the love and happiness you shared with us. You made my life more enjoyable, joyful and meaningful. Best of all you taught me to be a better man. And that is one damn good tail-waggin’-and-butt shakin’ Father’s Day gift. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and ElmiraTelegram.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.

by Rachel Dworkin Notice anything funny about this envelope? Letter for William Beers, 1862 Let me give you a clue: there’s no street address (and no zip code, but that’s another story). How then, you might ask, was the letter supposed to be delivered? It wasn’t. When the first Elmira post office opened in January 1801, there was no home delivery. People from all over Chemung County had to visit the small office located at the foot of Fox street in order to pick up their mail. This was actually a pretty big improvement. The village had been founded in 1790, but, until 1801, residents had to go all the way to the post office in Owego or pay someone to pick up their mail for them. Later, in April of that year, Elijah Buck opened the first post office in the Town of Chemung in his general store to serve the eastern half of the county. Since coming in from the hinterlands to check if you had mail could be quite a hassle, the Elmira post office notified recipients by posting an ad in the weekly paper. Even with the notices, letters could sit for weeks before it was picked up. By the 1830s, the volume of mail coming into Elmira was so great that the post master could no longer afford to post notices in the paper. By this point, each of the rural towns had their own post office which was good, considering the only way to know if you had a letter was to go and find out. List of letters, The Investigator, December 1, 1821 This lead to long lines at the post office and, in a roundabout way, the first instance of free home delivery. The story goes that in the winter of 1862, Cleveland postal employee Joseph William Briggs was so moved by the sight of women lining up in the cold rain, desperate for word from their husbands and sons fighting in the Civil War that he began delivering mail to their homes for free. Later that same year, Postmaster General Montgomery Blair composed a report to the president wherein he recommended free urban home delivery by salaried carriers as a way improve user convenience. In 1863, Congress acted to authorize home delivery in cities where income from local postage was more than sufficient to pay all expenses of the service. Thus, the inclusion of home addresses on envelopes was born! By 1864, 65 cities had free home delivery. By 1880, that number was up to 104, and, by 1900, 796. Elmira began free home delivery in 1873 or 1874. There were initially four carriers for the entire city: John King, John Y. Carpenter, Uriah Warner, and Judson Cornell. All were Civil War veterans. John Carpenter was missing an arm. The volume of mail proved too much for just four men to handle and two additional carriers, William P. Roosa and John R. Brockway, were added in March 1874. Letter for William Beers with street address, 1879 Special thanks to Alan Parsons whose research request inspired this post. Rachel Dworkin is the archivist at the Chemung County Historical Society. To see more of the museums blog, click here.

TV remotes are supposed to make life easier. Not mine. The remote in our home causes frustration, stress, marital strife and the throwing of things. The problems begin when we can’t find the remote. My wife, Shelley, and I frantically search for it beneath cushions, furniture, piles of magazines and newspapers on the coffee table and under the dog if she is in the room. You never know. (For the record: Shelley doesn’t actually “help” look for the remote. Instead, she offers helpful verbal support, like “I’m not the last one who used it, am I?”) Shelley: You should see him when he can’t find it. He’ll look under the same cushions several times, just in case he didn’t see it the first three times. The longer he looks the worse he gets, but he won’t use the buttons on the TV set to turn it on. He must possess and control the remote. It makes him feel like he’s in charge. One time he looked for it for 20 minutes. I found it on the top shelf of the fridge where he had absent-mindedly left it when he got a snack. Me: First of all, why is she interrupting my column? I didn’t ask for her “alleged” side of the story. Now I must boldface “Shelley” and “Me,” so you know who is talking. See what I must put up with? And yes, I need to have control of the remote because I watch TV like it is supposed to be watched – multiple channels at once, never spending more than a few minutes on each, and changing it as soon as it gets boring. I have a keen ability to multi-task and do it well. Get this: Shelley watches ONE PROGRAM AT A TIME, including commercials! So wrong. So terribly wrong. Shelley: Multi-tasking, my foot. He has ADD. Me: There is a universal unwritten rule of home TV viewing that states that you must be in the room with the TV to officially be considered “watching” it, like when Shelley yells from another room, “Jim. Why did you change the channel? I was watching that.” Baloney. You can’t claim viewing and remote rights from another room. If you’re not in the TV room, the remote and TV programming control automatically goes to the person closest to the TV. Gotta follow the rules, right? Shelley: We try to find programs or movies that we can watch together, but we have very different tastes in programming. Me: She’s right. We do have different tastes. Mine are good. Hers are bad. Shelley: He won’t watch anything unless it contains: sports, violence, car chases, explosions, John Wayne, people doing stupid stunts, nudity, or the possibility of nudity. Me: We have hundreds of channels and streaming services, and she watches the E Network, Lifetime, or educational and instructional programs. Can you believe it? She watches TV to learn! Shelley: Jim’s hearing is bad because he’s old and he spent his youth listening to loud music on his earphones. So, he must have captions and the volume turned up to “window-rattling.” He gets so frustrated when he pushes the wrong remote buttons. That’s when I usually leave the room because I know things are going to get ugly. Me: Sometimes when I’m switching channels, I hit the wrong buttons and turn off the TV, or worse, change it to the Lifetime channel. One time I hit three buttons at once and my garage door opened. I have all these extra buttons that I don’t need. What I do need is a “mute” button that I can use to make my wife stop dissing me in this column. Shelley: Ladies, I have a tip for you if your husband is being a jerk. The next time he has a day off or plans to watch the big game, get out of the house. Take a walk, go to the movies or visit a friend. And take the remote with you. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.

Well, we’re all hunkered down, preparing for the “big snow” tonight into tomorrow, with some to get more and some less depending on the temps and initial sleet/freezing rain. I gotta say, I’ve always loved a big snowstorm… just not the aftermath cleanup. And I also don’t have to drive 20 miles to work in it anymore! But the coming snow reminded me of this previously unpublished poem and reflection written several years ago. Within this peaceful blanketing of snow lies the image to me of stillness before God, and contemplation of His goodness, grace and mercy, and blessings to each of us. And my prayer is that you are blessed in pausing to contemplate just a bit on the love of God toward each of us on this path called life. With a big snowstorm predicted for later today, we know it can be mesmerizing to watch the snow fall. As you gaze out at those huge white flakes floating down, perhaps your eyes track one flake from high up until it settles on top of another, each one gradually adding to the depth. And then you stand transfixed at the shower of multitudinous beautiful and one-of-a-kind flakes fluttering down… gently, softly, quietly… It’s such a beautiful, peaceful scene, isn’t it? Contemplating the peace and quiet of a gentle snowfall reminds me of a Scripture verse I love, “Be still, and know that I am God...” (Psalm 46:10 NIV) In the stillness, we can see His majesty in creation all around us – in people and in nature. We can hear His still small voice speaking to our heart. In the stillness, we can consider how He would want us to handle a certain situation. And, as we take time to ponder, we begin to see how various aspects of life fit together to help us understand the overall picture. Be still… and know that God has it all under control. He loves each of us deeply and has our best interests at heart… even when we go through the storm and upheaval of some great difficulty. Just like Jesus’ disciples. After Jesus had taught the crowds in His “Sermon on the Mount,” He and the disciples went out in a boat on the Sea of Galilee to get away from the boisterous crowds looking for more. Suddenly, a storm came up, rocking their boat as waves washed over the sides, almost flooding them out. Even after having heard Jesus preach all day about faith and trusting God, His disciples promptly began to fret and worry in the midst of the storm… so like us, aren’t they?! On waking the sleeping Jesus, they asked, “Don’t you care if we drown?” Jesus simply got up and said, “Quiet! Be still!” The winds backed off and the big waves shrank right down to gentle calm ripples. Wouldn’t you have liked to have been there? Just like that, there was peace from His simple command! (Luke 4:35-41 NIV) Undoubtedly, it’s a challenge for us to “be still…” I know it’s hard for me to make quiet time to contemplate God’s goodness toward me… toward us. Life is so busy, so hectic, filled with so many demands on our time and energy. We need time to be still… time to stop and reflect… time to pause amidst the rush… time to get away from the challenges… time to just be still and listen to what God has to say within our heart… and time to quiet the fear and anxiety which so often grips our heart. I know I need to take time to be still… to read His word and pray… to ask for His guidance and wisdom amidst all that I face in this busy hectic world. Be still… enjoy the peace and quiet… know that He is God… and let Him be your refuge. Be Still and Know Linda A. Roorda Be still and know that He is my God. He is my rock, my firm foundation. Upon His word I stand secure Trusting the wisdom found only in Him. Be still and rest in mercy and grace. For humble Love from heaven above Dwelt among us to seek and to save Whose blood was shed for me on the cross. Be still and know He embodies Love He bought my soul with His precious gift That I’d find hope in His selfless act As He redeems with mercy and grace. Be still and pause to contemplate thanks With grateful heart as blessings abound Knowing their source is heavenly love As God above graciously bestows. Be still my soul within life’s tempests For He is my refuge, a shelter indeed He calms the storms, I rest in His arms To find His peace envelopes my heart. Be still and gaze with reverence and awe On One whose sovereign grandeur is revealed Bring joyful songs of worship and praise For He is God and He alone reigns. Be still and hear serenity’s voice Within my heart, throughout creation For in His will others we shall serve That we might honor and glorify Him. Be still and know our God is faithful He changes not though fickle we be His truth remains profound and secure That we may humbly His wisdom reflect. ~~

“Well, we tried.” As the dog and I returned from an abbreviated New Year’s Eve walk, ( for reasons I’ll get to in a minute ) that’s what I found myself thinking this evening. A couple strands of the Christmas lights on our porch burned out a couple weeks ago and frankly, I didn’t give a damn enough to try and fix them. We tried. Man if ever there was an illustration for 2021, particularly the holiday season, those lights would be labeled “Illustration A”. This time last year we were coming out of a collective Hell, or so we thought. And damnit we were going to have some well deserved joy in our lives. So we threw ourselves into the holidays head first. People were stringing up Christmas lights and decorating their houses sooner than ever. Even Nature got in on the act when, a couple days before Christmas she dumped a couple feet of snow to give us a white Christmas worthy of Bing and Co. Sure many of us still celebrated differently, but after the year we’d had, even different was good. I said last year, and I still believe it: It may not have been the holidays we wanted, but it was what we needed. This year however, man, I don’t know… Thanksgiving seemed fine, but from there things changed, at least for me. The following day we hung the outdoor lights and decoration as usual but the weather was bitter and brutal, and the whole thing felt like something to get through. Then as the weeks progressed everything turned to mud, plans got canceled, and so on. And all through it, at least in recent weeks, those friggin’ lights… a perfect metaphor for 2021 if ever there was one. I wasn’t completely miserable, don’t get me wrong. We got Winter break, the kids came home from college, we had some laughs. But for me there was a sense of Yuletide “meh” that lingered throughout. “It is what it is,” I figured. A mental health counselor I know ( she’s a dear friend, although I probably should be a client as well ) would probably say it’s okay to feel the way I feel. At least that’s what I told myself, and decided to move on and find a way to enjoy the time off between Christmas as New Year. This is an interactive post, by the way. You’ll need to click the button below to continue: That was the sound I heard Tuesday when, after waking up with a scratchy throat, I took a home Covid test. The pink line was faint, but like a home pregnancy test, there’s no half-way. You are or you aren’t, and I was positive. Later confirmed by official testing. I’ll spare you the complaints about my symptoms. I’ve felt like crud, but I’m upright and breathing on my own, albeit with a bit more effort depending on my activity level. Any and all plans of going on a day trip to browse through some junk at an antique mall, hitting Market St. for the olive oil I like to cook with, stopping to see a buddy at his store… sayonara to all that. Okay then. Well, we have a bunch of goodies I’d bought in advance for New Year's Eve. We’ll snack on those and then go to bed three hours ahead of the ball drop like usual, right? Go back and click that button up there again. Well, we had the snacks, but I couldn't really taste them. As I was preparing the snacks earlier that evening, I munched on a piece of pepperoni. Like Violet Beauregarde I tried to convince myself that, hey, I can taste the spicy goodness of the pepper, the paprika, the… whatever the hell else is in pepperoni. "This tastes like sh*t!" But the truth is, it was more like a mouthful of lumpy grease followed by a slight burn in my throat. And the cheese? Forget it, couldn’t taste a thing.I gave the rest of it to the dog. And if it gives him gas, hell, I won’t be able to smell it. “Silver lining” and all that. (I’m trying folks.) It aint always easy, but like so many I’m trying to keep on keeping on in these crazy times. But I’m not gonna feel any sense of sadness when those P.O.S. lights come down in the coming days. Some will make it to the attic, and the others the garbage. We’ll carry on and hope for things to improve as the new year begins And if ever I’m asked to sum up 2021 in three words, it’ll be: “Well, we tried.” Chris Sherwood writes from his home in North Chemung. He is the author of In Times of Trouble, a post-apocalyptic novel set in Upstate New York, and he is currently working on the sequel. To learn more, go to cmsherwood.com

The other day I was sitting in a coffee shop when a rap song began playing in the café. The F-word—you know, the one that rhymes with muck and yuck—featured prominently in the lyrics. I was happy there were no children present. After leaving the café, I went to our library to return some books. Next door to the library is a public park with two basketball courts and a playground for children. On my way back to the car, I could hear some kid yelling the F-bomb as he called on his teammate to pass him the ball. Arriving home, I was sitting on the front porch when a member of the construction crew working on the house across the street about 100 yards away began striding up and down the street, shouting the Big F into his phone. For almost 10 minutes, he used the word as an adjective, a noun, and a verb. I was tempted to approach him and ask him to tone it down, but was deterred by his rage. This crudity of language is only one symptom of our descent into barbarism. Our disheveled fashion sense is another. But one of the much darker signs of our drift toward barbarism is the Women’s Health Protection Act, a bill passed by Democrats in the House of Representatives on Friday, Sept. 24. The bill seeks to supersede state laws on abortion such as mandatory waiting periods and requirements involving ultrasounds and informed consent. Far worse, this act would allow abortions through nine months, a procedure that basically entails dismembering the unborn in the womb and extracting the remains piece by piece. Though some commentators argue that the Women’s Health Protection Act will have a tough time making its way through the Senate, that circumstance still doesn’t answer this question: What kind of hell are we creating in this country? What kind of people are willing to chop up an eight-month-old baby in the womb? To cheer the passage of such a bill, as some did, labels us a nation of barbaric pagans. Even if we don’t enact this monstrosity into law, the mere fact that it passed the House condemns us as a country, putting us in the company of the ancient city-state of Carthage, which practiced child sacrifice, modern-day China, and even Nazi Germany. We are fond today of condemning the past, tearing down monuments, revising our history books, and attacking the men and women who founded the United States and who sacrificed so much to make this a land of liberty. What will our children’s children, those of them fortunate enough to be born and see the light of day, think of a people who condoned such atrocities? Just 10 years ago, the House of Representatives voted overwhelmingly to reaffirm the motto of the United States, “In God we trust.” It’s a good motto, but how do we honor it when members of Congress vote for a bill that would put into law such horrific practices? Do we really expect the blessings of an almighty deity given policies like this one? We may hope and pray this legislation fails. We can vote in elections for candidates opposed to this turn toward barbarism. We can write to our representatives to protest such horrors. Some might even organize demonstrations. But the best thing we can do is to change ourselves, to return to a moral way of living, to act as if we actually believed in the truly liberal values and mores of our Western civilization. Supposedly the London Times long ago sent this brief inquiry to a number of well-known authors and intellectuals: “What is wrong with the world today?” Writer G. K. Chesterton responded with a two-word answer, “I am.” If those in our government, in our corporations, in our schools and universities, and the rest of us exercised this same sense of humility, perhaps we might turn away from the dark path we are walking. Jeff Minick lives in Front Royal, Virginia, and may be found online at jeffminick.com. This article was republished with permission from IntellectualTakeOut.org

by Jeff Minick In the movie Casablanca, Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) demands her brokenhearted former love, Rick (Humphrey Bogart), hand over some letters of transit that will allow her husband Victor to escape the Nazis. When he refuses, she pulls a gun and repeats her request, but Rick tells her, “Go ahead and shoot. You’ll be doing me a favor.” Ilsa then breaks into tears, confesses she still loves him, and the scene closes with the two of them embracing and then kissing. The next shot shows Rick standing at an open window, fully clothed, while Ilsa is behind him, also fully clothed. Did their passion end with that kiss? Or did they make love? Director Michael Curtiz took the old-fashioned approach, once a norm—and a requirement—for American movies. He left such questions to the imagination of his viewers. For the last 50 years, motion picture modesty has gone the way of the bobby socks. Nudity and explicit scenes of lovemaking on the big screen are now common. The Motion Picture Association’s film ratings system includes R, which stands for Restricted, meaning that the film contains adult material and those under 17 must be accompanied by a parent or adult guardian, and NC-17, meaning that only adults may see the film. These two categories may include extreme violence, cursing, or nudity, and sometimes all three. Yet in watching these movies we realize that these sexual scenes have little or nothing to do with the storyline and that they could easily have been nuanced rather than explicit. Such movies may stir sexual reactions in some viewers, but many other audience members are left scratching their heads, wondering why these tumbles into bed made it onto the screen at all. Worse, you may have seen such a movie on a date, as I have, and you and the person seated beside you stare fixedly at the screen, embarrassed at watching soft porn together. (Here’s another thought: Imagine sitting through such a scene with your mother or grandmother. In my case, I’d be heading to the lobby on the pretext of buying popcorn.) For the last decade or so, I’ve seen few movies in theaters, and to be honest, gave little thought to the actresses who appeared in these R-rated movies, who are almost always wearing less clothing than the actors who appear with them. I just assumed these women regarded sex and nudity as part of their job. I was wrong. The reactions of many actresses at having to appear nude or in sex scenes are revealed in Christa Stamper’s article “Sex (and Sobs) on the Set: Actresses Lay Bare Their Thoughts on Baring it All.” Kate Winslet, Reese Witherspoon, Nicole Kidman, and others report sobbing when they had to remove their clothing, taking tranquilizers or shots of vodka to reduce their anxiety, and yet being utterly traumatized. These women had my sympathy until I remembered that most movie contracts include nudity clauses, explicit requirements—very explicit—delineating what actors or actresses may need to undergo in the film. Did these women sign such documents? Were they somehow tricked or beguiled into participating in nude scenes they hadn’t expected? Sometimes these contracts include the use of “body doubles,” women hired to stand in for the actress during certain graphic shots. How do those doubles feel, I wonder? On the other hand, much of my sympathy for these women remains intact. Maybe they wanted a wonderful part and knew that if they didn’t take the offer, someone else would. Maybe they thought that exposing their breasts or faking a love scene naked in front of all sorts of other people—the director, other actors, the crew, and later on, the millions of people who watch the film—wouldn’t be as traumatic as they thought. Here’s an idea: Instead of Hollywood making these gratuitous torrid love scenes, which disgust many of the participating actresses, denigrate women in general, and exist to titillate men in the audience, let’s imagine a different approach. Let’s say we’re making a film about Special Agents Sam and Mary fighting terrorists intent on taking down the federal government. While battling the terrorists, the two agents fall in love with each other. At one point, they walk away side by side from the mayhem and violence, their hands brush together, they clasp fingers, pause, kiss, break away, and smile at each other. Will they become lovers that night? Do we really need a scene showing them naked and rolling wildly about in Mary’s bed? Or are some things best left to that greatest theater in the world: the human imagination? Jeff Minick lives in Front Royal, Virginia, and may be found online at jeffminick.com.

Rotund Man has been a little busy lately, but he'll be out there checking out the gastronomic delights again soon. In the meantime, enjoy this review from June 2020: I know seeing some of my recent food reviews and anyone that may have seen older reviews may think I got my fat guy stature by eating delicious fried foods and other gastronomic delights. While those are a minor contributor the real reason I can only see the tips of some toes when I look down is baked goods. So it is my absolute pleasure to finally review Desirae's Creations of Horseheads. I have sampled quite a few of her offerings and have not been disappointed. The only honest recommendation I can make is try everything because it's all delicious. The above picture is the Fathers day treat box. Sugar cookies, chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter, and chocolate brownies as well as a "PB cup." The original box had bourbon balls but I keep my drinkin' and my baked goods seperate. Besides various pop up treat boxes she also offers a menu to order from ( see their Facebook page for more information ) and plenty of gluten free goodies in the shop as well. I will add that its nice to have a bakery in Horseheads again. Desirae's Creations is most definitely fat guy approved.

There is today, a today where computers are not only everywhere, but borderline mandatory. And today, these computers are capable of amazing things. Things like Facebook and watching Netflix and designing Power Point presentations and watching YouTube. These computers I’m assuming have games on them, or the ability to have games loaded onto them. I only say assume because I don’t play computer games. I don’t consider taking a Buzzfeed quiz to determine which character from Dazed and Confused I am a game. I consider it informative and potentially life-changing. Although I got Slater. That seems outdated to me. Now speaking of outdated, back when I was youngster, parting my hair on the right, looking adorable, hiding my feet that were growing too fast, we had computers in school- tan and boxy. The screen was green. For the most part their main function seemed to be typing. That’s it. They were typewriters with screens. The cursor blinked. Did I mention the screen was green? It was. Didn’t matter what you were doing. The screen was green. Typing, doing math or even better, playing Oregon Trail, the screen was green. And yes, Oregon Trail. It was the computer game for a little while there. It was what you played as a treat because quite honestly, you didn’t know what else to do with the computer. Somehow this constituted computer training, but possibly even working on your life skills. Which I suppose made sense, even though I was living in Maine and wasn’t even 100% positive sure oxen were a real thing. I can’t stress this enough, Oregon Trail was a big deal. And then it was gone. Computers kept getting better, more prevalent, more functional and with these changes, Oregon Trail became more and more antiquated. It became something that was reminisced about, but never played. Just another childhood memory, like TGIF and Mountain Dew. It was something that you couldn’t imagine ever coming back into your life. Well that is until someone on the Internet brought Oregon Trail, as well as other games of that era, back into our lives. I couldn’t resist playing. Just once. Just for kicks. Just to get to Oregon with my family in tow. The first thing you do is pick where you’re from and what you do. You have three options: I chose banker from Boston because I wanted to make this as real as possible. And no, I have never once considered being a banker, but I’ve been to a bank and on more than one occasion considered moving to Boston. Would this hurt my chances of success, though? Wouldn’t a farmer or carpenter, either one from more rustic areas of the country, have a better chance of making it from one end of the trail to the other? Yeah probably. Definitely a better chance than some east coast, white collared liberal. But banker from Boston was a choice that came from the gut so banker from Boston it is. I imagine I’ll regret the choice, but it’ll probably be because I’ll have so much time to think about things while riding the trail. No second-guessing! Banker from Boston it is. Next up you load up your wagon with your family. I really thought about this; much more so than the banker from Boston thing. I really wanted a good crew, something that is always essential when planning a trip. Giddy Up America’s Oregon Trail Wagon Tom Brady Rihanna Dave Grohl Questlove Why those fine people? I’ll tell you. Tom Brady: steady, reliable, pancake master Rihanna: unpredictable, sassy, “relaxation expert” Dave Grohl: jokester, in charge of campfire singalongs, story teller Questlove: wagon DJ, lots of friends & connections (for trading purposes) We were ready to roll. And we were going to roll in April. They give you options of when to leave. April seemed to make sense. I think. I am a banker from Boston, so this might not be in my wheelhouse. I’d ask my crew but ol’ Tommy Blue Eyes is texting Gisele about God knows what, RiRi is already onto her second blunt, Quest is consumed with picking the right music for the trip and Dave is rambling on about the unheralded music scene in Independence, Missouri. So the decision is mine. The decision is April. Before leaving we stop at Matt’s General Store for supplies. We have $1,600 to spend. Matt recommends 3 Oxen yoke (2 oxen per yoke.) We get 4 yoke. Matt recommends 200 pounds of food per person. We get 1,000 pounds and pledge to ration properly, even RiRi, who you know…munchies. Matt recommends 2 set of clothes per person. We get 14 sets, giving us a few extra. Seems smart. Matt has no recommendation for ammo. We get 15 boxes. This makes sense to Dave. I’m sold. Matt recommends “a few spare parts,” which consists of wagon wheels, wagon axles, and whatever the hell a wagon tongue is. We get two of each and no proper explanation about what a wagon tongue is. Sadly Matt does not carry rolling papers, Afro picks, Jack Daniel’s or Uggs. Our crew is set, but not 100% satisfied. It’s March 1, 1848 and we’re off. Peace out Independence. Next stop Oregon. Actually, next stop is 19 miles in as one oxen is already injured. Damn it Matt! Never trust the only store in town! And then, only a few days later, seven exactly, we run into a blizzard and lose a day. Needless to say, we are not off to a good start. Crew is in good spirits, though. Questlove’s music choices are predictably on point and Dave is handling most of the driving with Brady on map duties. Ri Ri? Snoozing. But looking super fly while doing so. Rivers: Kansas River: we “attempt to ford” i.e. cross carefully and are successful. Big Blue River: we “caulk the wagon” i.e. float across and are successful. We got rivers down pat. Good feelings are fleeting, though. This is meant to be ominous. March 18: severe blizzard. March 21: Questlove gets cholera. Ri Ri wisely asks him to put together some playlists because you know, in case he…well…we don’t want to talk too much about it…but in case he dies. March 23: Which he does. Tom, the ultimate team player, vows to rock a hair pick for the rest of the trip as a tribute. God, if we lose Tom… March 26: Tom Brady has exhaustion. NOOOOOOOOO!!!! March 28: Tragedy. Two deaths in a week. Our crew is understandably rocked. We spend the night of the 28th mourning our fallen travelers with shots of whiskey, Ri Ri’s special “emergencies only” stash and tales of Questo’s and Brady’s greatness. It is a night interlaced with sadness and fond memories. We pledge to go on, we pledge to never forget our friends. On a happier note, I’m getting better at hunting. Unfortunately I could only carry 100 pounds back, which is kind of a bummer. Tom Brady’s loss is felt. He could carry back at least twice that. Damn it, Tom! Why did you have to die? The good ones always go too soon. Sleep well sweet prince and please beat the Ravens this weekend. It’s just Dave Grohl, Rihanna and me now. We must continue on. It’s what Questlove and Tommy Football would have wanted, what they dreamed about. For the next few weeks things are quiet. It gives us time to think. Why are we going to Oregon anyway? Jobs, food, family? If we’re going cross country, shouldn’t it be to some place like San Diego or L.A.? I’m not sure Oregon makes much sense. San Diego is sweet. I wonder if we really thought this through. We probably didn’t. That’s so like us. Then a rough two week stretch hits. We told her to be mindful of where she wanders off too. But you know, stoners. May 3: Good day for hunting, but bad day for navigating. We lose the trail. I mean, it’s not like there’s many other trails. There’s really only the one. But we still lost it. I’m not going to point fingers at anyone. But…when Dave Grohl assures that he knows how to read a map, you believe him. It’s Dave Grohl, the guy who wrote “Everlong.” That’s an awesome song. Dude who wrote that mustknow how to read a map. Right? Dave is off map duty. And on top of that, our food rations are running dangerously low because someone (no names, only initials: Rihanna) is constantly snacking for reasons that…well, you know (in a whisper: weed.) We are forced to make a shift in our rationing policy, changing from filling to meager. May 12: Ri Ri has the measles! No, not Ri Ri! She’s our heart & soul! May 13: She was our heart & soul. We take a day off. We need to. This latest death has really shaken us. Ri Ri was going to bring the people of Oregon wonderful recipes from Barbados. Now? Now there will be no Barbados-inspired restaurants in Oregon. It is a sad day in Independence Rock. Dave is inconsolable. Rumors about some late night hook ups with Ri Ri might have been true. I didn’t believe them, didn’t want too. But for how shaken up he is? Kind of, sort of seems like something was going on. Oh well. What happens on the Oregon Trail stays on the Oregon Trail. While Dave drowns his sorrows in more whiskey…how much did he bring?…I visit with my Aunt Rebecca and trade for some supplies. We need clothes. I have no idea where our clothes went, but we’re running low and Dave and I look ridiculous. He’s wearing one of Ri Ri’s shirts, I’m wearing most of Questlove’s old clothes and they are comically too large for me. Honestly, we look like assholes. This concern about appearances would be short-lived. May 16: Dave has measles. Which is you know, kind of weird because our girl Ri Ri had measles too. Are measles contagious? What are measles? Are they like chicken pox? Damn it. Questlove would totally know the answers to these questions. May 18 is a rough day. So that leaves just me. Everyone else is dead. Questlove is dead. Tom Brady is dead. Our beloved Rihanna is dead. Dave Grohl is dead. It feels like the dream of Oregon is almost dead. It’s on life-support. May 21: I have cholera. What the hell is cholera! Cholera: Cholera is an acute intestinal infection caused by ingestion of food or water contaminated with the bacterium Vibrio cholerae. It has a short incubation period, from less than one day to five days, and produces an enterotoxin that causes a copious, painless, watery diarrhoea that can quickly lead to severe dehydration and death if treatment is not promptly given. Vomiting also occurs in most patients. – World Health Organization Well that sucks. So does breaking an arm. And then having dysentery. I’m having a rough week. Perhaps I should have stayed in Boston doing that banker thing. Ever heard of a banker getting cholera? Getting dysentery? Burying his friend Questlove? I haven’t. It’s quite possible that I’ve made a huge mistake. June gets off to a rough start. Damn it, another effin’ wheel! I spend the day trying to trade for a wheel, having to surrender a set of clothes (Dave’s) to get the wheel. June 28: I have a fever. Yes, it’s called loneliness. July 10: Damn it, lost another wheel. I should have read reviews of Matt’s General Store! His wheels are shit. The bad luck doesn’t last all that long though. Two weeks later I come across an abandoned wagon. Finders keepers on the trail, bitches! My looting “salvaging” gets me some more bullets and clothes. Maybe this is a sign? Maybe things are starting to take a turn for the best and things are starting to look up and my luck is starting to change? Maybe I’ll make it to Oregon after all? August 3: I have a broken leg. August 11: I have (another) broken arm. August 12: I have measles. August 20: I’m dead. I made it a little over halfway to Oregon. And then the game made fun of me. See you in another twenty years Oregon Trail. Ryan O'Connell loves the Boston Red Sox, New England Patriots, the Black Keys, the Roots, his family, The Wire & the writing of Dave Eggers although his last couple books have been “meh” at best. He does not care for waiting, appreciates someone who maintains a nice front lawn, and harbors a constant fear of losing his keys. See more of his writing at his website, GiddyUpAmerica.com

As with much of the things I write, i lifted the title for this column from a song. Here's a rendition of it by local musician and friend, Pat Kane. We’re on our way out of March and with it, leaving behind that time of year sometimes referred to as “Fool’s Spring” with it. It’s safe to say I’m not alone being happy to say “goodbye” to Winter. Still, anyone who lives in this part of the country knows to enjoy the warmer temps, the snow melting away, and the grass getting greener, but that it could all change next week. The only good thing about six inches of snow in late March or early April is you know it won’t last long. If I’m not mistaken, the winter of 2020-2021 was the longest we’ve had continuous snow cover on the ground in recent history. I certainly can’t remember a time when we had snow arrive before Christmas and never see bare ground again until months later! It was nice to see all that white stuff for the holidays, no doubt, but man, I could have used a January thaw to get some manure shoveled out and make hauling firewood a little easier for a change. Speaking of manure, I still need to get the chicken coop scraped clean but since they’re all out happily scratching the ground for the first time in months, they haven’t complained. Maybe this weekend it’ll get done. I’m still traumatized by the mess I cleaned out of the goat’s shed. The snow and ice still on the hillside meant I had to handle everything multiple times: pitch it out the door, rake it to the fence, pitch it into the wagon and haul it across the road to dump it. With any luck it’ll be the last time I have to deal with it in this fashion again though, as plans are under way for them to get a new barn which should make life easier. Meanwhile the goats are shedding more now that the mercury is rising. Their wooly undercoat they’re losing gets on everything they rub against, especially the fence. Later as it will end up in bird nests all throughout the property keeping newly hatched birds warm. Nothing in Nature goes to waste. If you're not putting on your mud boots and grilling, you aint a real Upstate New Yorker. One of the best parts about this time of year is how the world around us suddenly comes alive. Last night the peepers started an early rendition of their annual chorus, joined occasionally by the raspy squeaking call of a wood duck nearby. The call of the robin in the pre-dawn hour takes over, followed by the Wren, the Chickadees and occasionally the distinctive call of the Phoebe. The loudest of all comes from our own trio of Narragansett Turkeys, a heritage breed we keep here. They’ve taken more notice of their wild cousins feeding in a nearby field and the hen calls to them seemingly non-stop, interrupted occasionally by the thunderous gobble of the tom. As I write this, it’s already 61 degrees out, with a high of 75 forecast. It seems a little much so soon, but no one in their right mind, or me, would complain. Combining yesterday’s rain with the warmth of today’s sun, I swear I can look out the window and see the ground turn greener by the minute. It occurs to me it won’t be long until it’ll need to be mowed in addition to all the other jobs I have been writing down for myself to do in the coming months. There’s a lot on the list, and more to come I’m sure. Thankfully a lot of them are minor jobs, and several could be checked off in a day. But for now there’s not much that can be done except wait for the mud to dry up a little more and simply enjoy the end of what felt like an extraordinarily long Winter.

New York State is home to the largest salt mines in the country. They’re in our backyard. Or, possibly even under it. 1000ft underground and 20,000+ acres. Are these massive underground mines safe? Livingston County, NY, just south of Rochester, is the location of the Retsof mine, which began operation in 1884. Mining 1000 feet below ground, they extracted salt from what was to become the largest mine in the USA. The mine remained in continuous operation until 1994 when it began to take on water. What started as a small leak in the Retsof Mine quickly became a big one. Water started to flow into the mine at a rate of 20,000 gallons an hour. They struggled to pump the water from the mines but were not able to keep up. Holes were drilled in the ground and cement injected in hopes to stop the leaks with no success. The company fought to save Retsof mine, but ultimately extracted what they could, and abandoned it. Water eroded the giant pillars of salt that held the roof of the mine up and led to the collapse. The ground above sank in as much as 12 feet. Natural gas began to vent from the land all around the county. And, wells went dry and have never come back. Geologists say that the mine will continue to collapse and the land will keep sinking over the next 100 years. Three years after the Retsof Mine collapsed a company called American Rock Salt began a new mine just six miles north of the old mine. That new mine is now the largest in the nation and second-largest in the world. Operated by 400 workers, the mine produces over 18,000 tons of rock salt daily. The mine is estimated to last another 80 years. Tompkins County, NY is the location of the Cargill salt mine. The mine covers over 18,000 acres and is a half-mile underneath Cayuga Lake. At 2400′, it’s the deepest salt mine in the world. Cargill purchased the mine in 1970 and it has been run continuously since. It employs over 200 workers and produces some 10,000 tons of salt a day. Cargill is the largest privately-owned company in the world. These two mega mines provide New York State and other states with the road salt used throughout the winter months. The salt is mined continuously 24/7 and 365 days a year to meet these demands. New York is one of the largest consumers of road salt in the nation. Since the collapse of the Retsof mine in 1994 scientists and activists have voiced understandable concern about the operations of the mines. The American Rock Salt mine is a massive estimated 20,000 plus acres. A collapse would mean the decimation of the local area. While the American Rock Salt mine is a concern, the real worries are with the Cargill mine in Lansing. Because the mine exists directly below the second largest of the Finger Lakes its environmental threat is far greater. A collapse of the Cargill mine could mean the salinification of the lake, killing everything in it, and ruining the drinking water for thousands of people. Some geologists theorize that the water level of the lake could drop as much as 25′. In 2017, Cargill sought permission from the state to drill a second shaft into the mine to expand the mine to the north. This fired up activists who rightfully pointed out that a second entrance to the mine increases the risk of flooding. Permission was granted and the tunnel was dug. The mine has operated since without incident. Activists pointed to the fact the mines are monitored by New York State who happens to be the largest customer, creating a conflict of interest. Whether or not the mines will have a long term environmental impact remains yet to be seen. The mines will continue to operate and grow. And, so will the demand for salt.

Thirty feet below Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, there’s a tomb of stone. Its story is of a steam locomotive suspended in time, a man with a vision, and a city that holds all the keys. The world’s first subway tunnel was nearly forgotten until an urban explorer located it 120 years after it was sealed. The question is, did he also find a locomotive buried under Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn? In 1844 the Long Island Rail Road chose to bury a section of the line under Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn to avoid accidents between the train and local pedestrians. Fifteen years later the Cobble Hill Tunnel was sealed, possibly with a locomotive inside, and its location was lost in history. Fast forward to 1980. A Brooklyn man named Bob Diamond hears a comment on a radio show about an unknown tunnel underneath the city. Using old maps, he digs his way from a defunct utility hole 30 feet under Atlantic Avenue. With the help of friends, Bob Diamond hauled off the dirt bucket by bucket from the hole in the middle of the street. All his digging paid off when he reached a concrete wall. He says that when he smashed through, a rush of cold air came out. Diamond found himself peering down into a vast, open space. He knew he had located the Cobble Hill Tunnel, and it was intact. The tunnel was half a mile long and massive, with enough room for two train tracks side by side, A 17′ arched stone ceiling, and limestone block walls 22′ apart. An absolute engineering marvel for the age. Wooden stairs had to be built to get Bob and friends down to the floor. The far end of the tunnel is capped by a very thick stone wall. Diamond spent the next 30 years leading tours in the tunnel. He started a trolley museum with plans of opening up and running trolleys through Cobble Hill’s famed tunnel. One thing remains a mystery. The tunnel is said to have been sealed with an 1836 wood-fired locomotive inside. It was noted in a historical book as being the place that John Wilkes Booth may have hid his diary. That locomotive has yet to be found. Diamond’s logical conclusion is that it, along with the tunnel’s lost marble station, existed on the other side of that stone wall at the other end of the tunnel. A private engineering firm was hired to scan the area from above ground with special equipment. They determined that there was a large steel object buried below at the end of Atlantic Street. The story caught the interest of the National Geographic Channel. They worked together with the city and Diamond to plan an excavation of the wall at the end of the tunnel and film a documentary about the process. In 2010 the whole thing came to a halt. The city and the executives at National Geographic are rumored to have had disagreements. The city canceled the documentary and sealed the tunnel once again, banning Diamond and everyone else from entering. The city is denying access to this day, and the story is fading into history once again. It seems we may have to wait another century before we know the truth. Why is it so important that we save this tunnel? So what if there’s a locomotive buried under Atlantic Avenue? A rich history makes for a prideful neighborhood. And a prideful neighborhood makes for a good neighborhood. If the tunnel were opened and the trolleys installed, it would increase business and tourism. Maybe Cobble Hill Tunnel will see the light of day again. Visit Bob Diamond’s website, www.BrooklynRail.net Born and raised in Upstate New York, Mathew lives in a wooded valley north of the Susquehanna River with his wife and kids. His first book "Simple Sutras" was published in 2014

Hasn’t our January weather been interesting?? Do crunchy snows underfoot, brisk breezes and wood fires make your heart sing? Snow-lovers can’t complain here; we’ve had snow since Christmas. TV weather people are much more animated when the weather is “bad”; life probably is a bit boring if no blizzards are in view and their radar shows that little is happening. I just personally wish that those fronts were less befuddled about their paths. Do we draw pails of water in case of power outage --- or not? Should we stock up on essentials like popcorn and hot chocolate? Our feral cats would agree. They have become quite comfortable with humans and being scratched behind the ears, to the point where they are now sitting expectantly on window sills and hanging on door handles when they see us coming. In nasty weather they also excel at looking pathetic. However, they aren’t domesticated enough to be inside, though they may think they are! I can just see them peering down from the high display shelves in the kitchen or peeking out of the bookcases. Along with most people, I probably recall childhood winters with a slightly skewed memory. I do think it is accurate to say that there was more constant snow-cover where I grew up near Rochester, although our snow right now is staying long enough. There were definitely times when we could dig out snow forts in the drifts piled up along the east side of the house and we made snowmen that lasted for weeks. Then there was the severe winter when milk trucks couldn’t get through for two or three days though that was a bit unusual! I wasn’t an enthusiastic outdoors child in the winter; I reluctantly suffered through the obligatory “would you please get outside for a while?” afternoons. During my teen years I did enjoy ice skating, coasting and occasional tobogganing. Those usually involved friends, which made the chilly out of doors much more endurable. Especially if there were moonlight parties with campfires! Even this winter, with no gatherings, there are good times to celebrate. Winter commemorations begin next Monday with Martin Luther King Day when we celebrate a person of determination and courage who spear-headed change. Then one granddaughter has a January birthday; she turns fourteen! In February there’s Presidents’ Day, Valentine’s Day, four family birthdays (another granddaughter turns 17!!) and Lent begins on Ash Wednesday, February 17th. The Tuesday before Lent is “Doughnut Day”, “Pancake Day” or “Fat Tuesday” depending on where you grew up; on the church calendar it is “Shrove Tuesday”. These celebratory times lighten the winter gloom a bit; they are happy spots on the calendar. In winter I am always reminded that I really should buy stock in moisturizer companies. I have a bottle of lotion or hand cream at each sink. Too much sun and working in the garden has made the skin on my hands and arms dry-dry-dry ---- especially in winter. So every time I use soap and water, (which these days, is often!) my skin requires a shot of something so that it won’t crinkle like paper mache. My mother used to mix her own hand lotion; glycerin and rose water. I haven’t been that ambitious but I do remember that it smelled wonderful. SIGH!! There are so many things to “treat” as we age; skin, stiff joints, sore muscles, organs that refuse to work properly and minds that stubbornly clutch at the comfortable rut of sameness. The functional medicine people insist that we don’t have to fall apart this way if we will only sleep well, eat properly, keep moving, take a few supplements, meditate and have a good attitude. Marvelous goals, and while I’ve done some of those things, so far good sleep eludes me, nor am I able to totally stifle the desire for the foods they insist are driving this aging process; cookies, artisan bread, and chocolate. Well actually, sugar! And I must admit too, that occasionally my attitude needs adjusting. There are so many food plans; the Paleo Diet, the Keto Diet, the Mediterranean Diet, the Dr. Atkins Diet, the Vegan Diet, etc. And there are contrary opinions about each. “Take a pro-biotic; it will help your digestion!” / “Pro-biotics are terrible for your stomach!” “Tomatoes are wonderful; full of lycopene!” / “If you have arthritis, avoid tomatoes!” Having worked in food and nutrition for many years, I know the various recommendations and the rebuttals although some have changed as more research is done. After perusing these studies my personal philosophy, which, I’ve already admitted needs adjusting around carbs, is to eat a variety of many foods in small amounts. I have begun eating more salads, so I am really looking forward to home-grown lettuce and more of that fresh broccoli. The thought of broccoli takes me to another injection of happiness in January that comes by way of the seed catalogs. There has been no time to seriously look at them until now. So I am in process, as is usual, making lists of “necessary” seeds and plants. This list will undoubtedly have to be pared, separating wants from needs, not only to cut costs, but also --- as my husband reminds me annually ---- because he is not digging any more garden beds; there is only so much room and we have only so much energy!! The Christmas season is over ---- actually was over as of Epiphany, January 6th. But we all recognize the need for the spirit of the season to linger. In truth, just lingering isn’t enough considering all that is going on today. The spirit that is Christmas needs to flourish and flood all of us; it is the only antidote to the off-the-wall hatred and violence. Howard Thurman* penned these verses. Kerm and I liked them so much when we saw them that we used them in our Christmas card one year. “When the song of the angels is stilled, when the star in the sky is gone, when the kings and princes are home, when the shepherds are back with their flocks, then the work of Christmas begins ---- to find the lost, to heal the broken, to feed the hungry, to release the prisoner, to rebuild the nations, to bring peace among brothers, to make music in the heart.” Now is when we move from six weeks of celebration to a little more industry ---- getting busy with what needs doing. It is often difficult to know where to start. In the face of so much need it is easy to feel overwhelmed. Some people seem destined to do large, extraordinary things --- who make the Six O’clock News, at the very end, to give us something good to remember; the knights in shining armor who lead groups, give huge donations and administer big programs. They are the wealthy businessman who pays people’s bills, the small elementary school entrepreneur who designs bow ties and organizes large toy drives for other kids. They are the Mother Teresas, the Bill and Melinda Gates, the Billy Grahams of the world. And all communities have stellar people who fit this description on a slightly smaller scale. But for most of us, our good deeds seem small and not at all notable, leading us to feel that we aren’t doing all that much. Perhaps we should remember the elementary-school couplet: “Little drops of water; little grains of sand make the mighty ocean and the pleasant land.”** Often making a difference takes not so much skill or money on our parts as awareness. It is noticing that a friend is sad --- and listening. It is calling someone you know who is alone and probably lonely. It is a kid, noticing that another child is isolated on the playground and needs a friend. It is inviting the new neighbor in for pancakes (our neighbor does this). It is expressing appreciation to people who are out there doing. Maybe we need to forego dragon-slaying and just be ready to do what we can to make music in one or two hearts, whereever we can, with no expectation of fame. Perhaps Mr. Thurman’s verses could be, for all of us, a kind of a mantra for 2021. We humans have often, in expressive slang, “done a number” on this earth. From ignorance or selfishness, we have messed up relationships with our fellowmen; those we know and those we may generalize as alien. We have used our lakes, rivers and oceans as dumping stations, casually flung cartons and bags out of car windows, made the air dangerous to breathe for profit’s sake and filled our minds with the garbage of coarse entertainment and even worse ideologies. If we simply try to live out those things as mentioned by Mr. Thurman, maybe we’ll shed some of our dubious behaviors and become unobtrusive angels on earth ---- quietly being there for those who need friends; spreading kindness and wisdom. Little things add up. If enough nearly weightless snowflakes get together, they can break the limb of a tree, clog a very large snowplow and create fine material for snowmen and fort-making. And then there’s the sand --- and water ---- all tiny particles but all formidable in large quantities. We can become formidable in a good way. It is mid-January but spring is not that far away. Owls on our hill are nesting right now. In all this snow and cold they are keeping eggs warm. Bulbs six inches down are stirring inside, contemplating putting out little green shoots. COVID shots will be coming along for more and more people. So in this year ahead of us -----may we be courageous and determined to live in a way that builds rather than tearing down. And may all be well with you in a way that makes your heart sing. Carol may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Howard Thurman----- American theologian, educator and civil rights leader. 1899-1981. **”Little Things” by Julia Abigail Fletcher Carney. 1823-1908. See rest of poem for more.

Here is my review of Cocino Del Gordo located in Jubilee plaza Horseheads. First let me tell you the place smelled amazing when I walked in. Turns out it was the Puerto Rican hot bar and the days meal. It Comes with beans and rice and your choice of 2 meats. I went with the pepper steak and the porkchop. The steak and peppers were very tender no need for a knife. Very flavorful and my favorite of the meal. The porkchop was in a delicious "bbq" sauce with peppers and onions. I ended up mixing all the extra sauce into the beans and rice it was so good. The beans and rice were on point I would have eaten just a container of them. At 10.99 it was a heavy container of food and my lunch and dinner. They threw in two of the fried plantains sprinkled with garlic. Ive never had them this way and I am now a fan unfortunately I only ate one and shared I need more for a proper review. Also pictured complimentary churros. I apologize they did have whip cream on them but it melted and its kind of a crappy picture. Never had them before kinda like a cinnamon doughnut. The meal was great definitely one of a kind in the area. Since writing this review I've been there three times. So Cocino Del Gordo you are Fat Guy approved. You can find them on Facebook or https://cocinadelgordo.com/

How about this? This year’s last essay on the last day of the year! It is a transition time! Betwixt and Between! Transitioning reminds me of the Star Trek method of travel. Teleporting, however, provides rapid transit from one place to another while this year has required mental and emotional transitions at a slightly slower pace. As a comment for 2020 ---- I’ll just quote Charlie Brown: “ARRRRGGGGGHHH”! And 2021 -----will hopefully be a TA-DA as we land on our feet! Actually “new years” occur at different times (depending on the cultures) around the world. The Jewish New Year begins in the fall, usually September I believe. Then Samhain, our Halloween, was the Celtic New Year --- harvest time. The general new year around the world is January 1st . Tet is the Asian new year in February, with a different symbol for each year --- a kind of Zodiac ---- the Year of the Horse or the Year of the Rat. The Christian Calendar puts the new church year at the beginning of Advent; four weeks before Christmas. We all crave new beginnings and carve them into our calendars whether of stone, paper or IPhone. The Roman calendar depicted the god Janus – a two-faced deity who looked back to the old year while also looking ahead into the new, as we humans tend to do. Tonight is New Year’s Eve and that old song is running through my head ----- “What are you doin’ New Years? New Years Eve?” Actually we are doing very little as is appropriate right now. We plan a comfortable evening with hot chocolate or eggnog, shrimp cocktail, maybe a little conversation and a bit of TV until we get too sleepy to stay up. Forty years ago this would have sounded pretty dull. Now it sounds perfect. My brother, Ken, would be amused. I was always a bit miffed because I was considered too young for Ken’s and Lois’s New Year’s Eve parties. Then when I was of an age to go, they stopped having them! I can’t say that I’ve really been deprived though; Kerm and I have been through 56 New Year’s Eves. We’ve attended parties and we’ve given parties. One gala event that sticks in my mind was early in our marriage. We invited a young singles group, all in their twenties and not much younger than we were to join us on New Year’s Eve. Our wonderful old rented farm house, had a “summer kitchen”, attached to the main kitchen by an enclosed porch. Originally used for summer cooking and canning, during our tenure, it was a play room for our toddlers and, on occasion, a party room. It had a huge walk-in fireplace for heat. The weather was unusually mild that year, and the room was quite usable with doors open into the house. We did charades, made balloon animals, chatted and laughed a lot. My feelings cup, as a novice party-giver, was overflowing when one guest told us he had been in Paris for New Year’s Eve the year before ---- but had more fun at our party. Maybe it was the cookies. Many years later, our sons were college-age; old enough to have their own party ---- at our house. Kerm and I decided we’d go out for a while; games of Risk or D&D could get pretty vociferous. Do you know that, without prior planning, nothing much is open on New Year’s Eve? Most places offer a package for the evening or weekend and are not welcoming people who just wish to drop in. We drove around Ithaca for awhile and finally ended up at Purity Ice Cream, had milkshakes --- and went home to join in the celebratory din of college kids. Then perhaps you remember the turn-of-the-century (1999 into 2000) when everyone feared the collapse of life as we know it? People were sure that computer systems would crash and that many things including utilities would come to a grinding halt. There were anxiety-driven groups who tried to prepare as though humanity would need to begin all over again. One of our sons now lives in a house that was part of a rural enclave designed for that very time with all sorts of back-to-the-earth plans. Most of the original residents have now moved elsewhere; hopefully wiser, if a bit chagrined. That stellar year, we opted for a quiet and fearless (though we were a bit curious) evening at home. I managed to stay awake long enough to watch the fireworks displays from New Zealand to NYC; from the Sydney Opera House to the Eiffel Tower. Instead of apprehension, there was a feeling of a world celebration ----with perhaps a bit of relief that not a single network or facility fell apart as expected by the doom-mongers. One year flowed smoothly into the next year without more than normal fanfare. Moving into a new year doesn’t necessarily change life a whole lot. However, it is human nature to like clear endings and fresh beginnings even if they are mostly imaginary. So --- we celebrate the end of 2020, with perhaps, a sigh of relief ---- and have high hopes for 2021. Hope is a good thing! We should take every opportunity to enjoy the wonderful, good, fun things in life; friends, art, nature, music, dancing……! Appreciation and gratitude strengthen us for the down times that are also a part of life. In this household, we believe in planning for the future and in maintaining our hope that the future will be one in which we can thrive gladly and be of use. Of course, this year, parties are definitely not encouraged. But that is OK; I have come to appreciate quiet and the space in which to think: What can we take with us from this unusual year? What would we like to find in the year to come? Do we have relationships that need repair? Are we living according to our own standards? I hope we wish for more than a return to “normal”. What have we learned that will make life better in 2021? A few things pop into my mind: 1) how much I’ve enjoyed not running hither and yon, even if the running is for very good reasons. I have appreciated less of the stressful getting ready for something. 2) I have found I need fewer new clothes; somehow what I wear has become less important. And I’ve been wearing all my odd socks. Who is going to notice??? 3) We’ve all discovered that we can use technology for meetings, saving both time and gasoline. I think many people will continue to work remotely. We have learned a new way of accomplishing things. I have also noted that with this year’s distancing, we are all more concerned with how the people around us are coping. “How are you” is something we now ask with sincerity and real interest in the answer. If we have managed to maintain contact and become more aware of each other, this lesson needs to remain with us. At the same time, we miss and crave the closeness of our small groups whether they are Bible studies or pinochle friends or just Sunday brunchers. We need friends with whom we can be open, honest and share where we are and what we need. Perhaps we will now be better at balancing. As I’ve gotten older I have noticed an annoying need to make several small transitions/day. I can no longer come home from shopping and leap into baking or cleaning. I have a need to sit down and allow my mind to adjust from the shopping mode to whatever I wish to do next. I need some time to move my focus and restore my energies; sort of like changing from reading glasses to those that let us see at a distance. If I try to accomplish something without this interval, my efforts may well illustrate Murphy’s Law ---- If anything can go wrong, it will! So along with the major transitions, like a new year, I experience mini-transitions as part of every day. We are now transitioning into more light and probably more winter. The Solstice is past and the light will slowly begin to increase in another week or so. Tomorrow, we step into January with all its potential for snow and cold (even as it rains tonight). It will be boots and mittens weather for the next two or three months. And when the Christmas tree goes down, plugging in my “Happy Light” again will be a priority. Even in this traumatic year just past though, the months have seemingly flown by, so I am sure that spring and planting season will be coming sooner than we can imagine. I like this thought about each new year from poet, Ranier Maria Rilke*: “And now let us welcome a new year, full of things that have never been.” Happy New Year to you with wishes that it may be a year with fewer troubles and a multitude of blessings! Carol may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Rainer Maria Rilke ---an Austrian poet and novelist with a very long name: Rene Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke but better known by Rainer. 1875-1926.

Pictured above we have soft and hard shell beef tacos. Some rice on the plate and beans off to the side also Jarritos mexican soda. Not pictured is plain cheese nachos and steak quesadilla. The soda was good reminds me of Squirt soda. I was told the quesadilla was good and the shell itself was good enough to eat alone. There was a good portion of nachos and plenty of cheese not spicey of you're worried about that and not the fake orange cheese. Both styles of taco were great. I did prefer the hard shell though. I am also a fan of the texture and consistency of the beef. I am just a lettuce and cheese type of guy but they have the fowl tomato by request. My idea of rice is fried or white. I have now added whatever this rice was to that list. I like refried beans and some people don't. Face it they fail the eye appeal test but they add a nice texture to a taco. I found the best way to deal with them is just slop em in the taco with some hot sauce. Overall the food was delicious the prices and portions are good. Friendly service which is always important. They do move around so follow them on Facebook for their locations. My Eva is fat guy approved.