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Americans are arguing right now. And believe me, I get it. There is a lot going on. Everyone has differences of opinion. But I wondered if we Americans couldn’t put aside our disagreements for a moment, and agree on a few things we love. I’ll start. I love quilting. Quilting bees, quilting circles, quilting parties. Americans didn’t invent quilting, but it’s an American artform nonetheless. I used to watch my mother quilt with dogged persistence. Day after day. Month after month. She used birch-wood quilting hoops, and pieced recycled fabric together. She could take seemingly unrelated scraps and make art. My mother always said, “When life gives you scraps, you make a quilt.” Also, I love jazz. American fiddle tunes. And the way New Orleans smells on a summer morning, after tourists have spent all night urinating in the streets. Stetson hats worn non-ironically. Case knives, butter yellow, dual blades. Moe Howard, Larry Fine, and Curly. Shemp is okay. The old men in cafes who still drink coffee in groups. And the young men who still idolize them. Boys who still ask Santa Claus for BB guns. And their little sisters, who steal their GI Joes because Barbie needs a viable love interest. Kids who still ride bikes. Children who play tag in their backyards, screaming and laughing, without ever once checking their phones. I love Waffle House. An American institution. Yes, I realize eggs are expensive right now, raising the cost of an ordinary omelette to about the same price as a Range Rover Autograph. But I will continue to eat Waffle House fare until my end. Namely, because I have eaten at Waffle House to benchmark the most important moments in my life. I ate at Waffle House the morning after my own wedding. After the funerals of friends and family. God willing, I will eat at Waffle House the day after my own funeral. I love baseball. Not just the game itself. I love the culture. I love how baseball terminology has crept into everyday vocabulary. “Just touching base.” “I’ll go to bat for you.” “He’s out in left field.” “You knocked it out of the park.” I miss the grungy AAA ballparks of youth. The smells of flat beer, cigar smoke, and meat-like rubber served on a hotdog bun. Back when the game was slow, and pitchers still batted. Davy Crockett. Louis Armstrong. Helen Keller. Dorothea Lange. Aretha Franklin. Andy Griffith. Groucho Marx. Lucille Ball. Laura Ingalls Wilder. Dolly Parton. Willie Hugh Nelson. And I love you. Whoever you are. In fact you’re what I like most about America. You’re a great person. No matter how different we might be. No matter how we might disagree. No matter how dissimilar our backgrounds. Maybe I am foolish enough to believe that, even though we appear differently, think differently, and believe differently, it is contrast that makes the scraps of a quilt truly beautiful. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

He was a good kid. You could just tell. He was maybe 11. Twelve at the most. He was in the supermarket. He had his little sister balanced on his hip. You don’t often see boys carrying toddlers out in public. The kid was filling a shopping buggy. He was reaching for a bag of tortilla chips on the top shelf. I saw one of the older ladies in our aisle reach upward and remove a bag of Tostitos for him. They were Tostitos Scoops. The greatest invention by the chip industry, and perhaps the finest human achievement of the last century with the possible exception of penicillin. “Thanks,” the boy said. His buggy was nearly full. He had lots of adultish items in his basket. Coffee. Vegetables. Diapers. The older lady asked where the boy’s mother was. She asked this in a concerned, parental tone. Her concern, of course, is understandable in our modern day. You don’t often see kids wandering around by themselves anymore. During my youth, however, shortly after the close of World War I, kids almost never had parental supervision. We walked to school. Our mothers sent us to the store on errands. We hung out at the mall without supervision. We rode bikes into the woods, built campfires, constructed deathtrap treehouses, and made serious attempts at discovering new ways to break our own legs. We were feral. “Where are your parents?” said the older woman. “My mom’s waiting in the car,” he said. The woman’s brow furrowed. “She let you come in here by YOURSELF?” He nodded, then readjusted Little Sister on his hip. Little Sister had a snot bubble the size of a Canadian territory. “You’re GROCERY shopping?” the woman said. Nod. The lady was aghast. She wore the patented look of disapproval. “You shouldn’t be in here without an adult.” The kid didn’t reply. “Your mother should be with you,” she said in a half-scolding voice. “It’s dangerous. You’re too young to be by yourself.” “But,” the boy explained kindly, “shopping’s not that hard.” “That’s not what I meant. Your mother could get into a lot of trouble for leaving you unsupervised. This is unacceptable. Someone should tell the manager.” Little Sister’s snot bubble reached critical mass. The kid apologized. He looked embarrassed. He left the aisle and pushed his buggy to the cashier lane, often glancing behind him. Like he now realized he was doing something wrong. I watched him load items on a conveyor belt. I saw him use a credit card to pay. Later, I saw him in the parking lot. I saw the idling Honda that contained his mother. I saw Mom sleeping in the front seat. Then, I saw the middle-aged mother crawl from the vehicle. She was a skeleton. I saw her pale skin. The bandanna over her balding head. The hospital bracelet on her wrist. The bandage on the bend of her elbow. She was trying to help her son load groceries, but she struggled to lift a single bag. When they finished, the boy gave her a hug. And they held each other for a long time. Longer than a normal hug. Because, as I say, he was a good kid. You could just tell. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

by Jeff Minick Actress, mother of two, and school activist Sophie Winkleman began her recent address on children at the 2025 Alliance for Responsible Citizenship Conference in London by describing a recent scene from a packed London bus. Standing over a young man and a young woman, both intent on their smartphones, Winkleman noticed that each was on a dating site, “reading profiles of men and women who presented as extremely similar to the two of them.” She concluded: "Our bus reached Piccadilly Circus and both happened to alight at this stop. I watched the two of them as they walked away from each other, one towards Shaftesbury Avenue and the other towards St. James’s. I don’t need to labour the point of what I witnessed with this couple never to be. They were side by side, both seeking companionship or love, but they didn’t even register each other’s existence." In the brilliant and passionate address that followed – I don’t use those adjectives lightly – Winkleman turned to the effects of smartphones and classroom technology on adolescents, which she called “the digital destruction of childhood.” She continued: "We left the doors to our children’s classrooms, their bedrooms and their minds wide open to the world. Perhaps we thought we were giving children the right to access everything which might be good out there, but instead we’ve given everyone else – the good and the bad, access to our children." Winkleman spends part of her talk examining data familiar to many parents: the horrifying rise in teen suicides and self-harm incidents, the massive increase of anxiety and depression among the young, the fact that 97% of Britain’s 12-year-olds now possess a smartphone, and that children ages eight to 18 now spend an average of over seven hours every day on one screen or another. She further notes, “Hospital admissions for children with eating disorders in the UK have risen sixfold in a decade, the ‘contagious influence’ of social media cited as a major factor.” Winkleman also cites mountains of evidence demonstrating that digital classrooms offer inferior education to those centered on teachers, books, paper, and pencils. “The Karolinska Institute in Sweden,” she told the audience, “recently published research concluding that, ‘there’s clear scientific evidence that tools impair rather than enhance learning.’ Sweden has taken note and been the first country to kick tech out of the classroom, reinvesting in books, paper and pens. They had the courage to admit that EdTech was a ‘failed experiment’.” So why, given this abundance of data and the visible harm screens bring to so many of the young – and to many adults as well – do parents and schools continue to pair the young with screens and smartphones? For parents, the social pressures felt by their children are a factor. “My friends all have iPhones, why can’t I?” Many parents also fail to understand that screens are addictive, electronic drugs in a plastic case designed to stimulate dopamine in the brain. As for classroom use, screens can reduce the duties of teachers while often better capturing the attention of students. Winkleman reminds her audience that childhood itself is at stake here. The playing fields of the imagination – books, backyard games, the engagement with others in face-to-face encounters, and so much more – are being rapidly replaced by digitalized games, social media, and the artifice of screens. Regarding education, she offers wise observations such as this one: "Reading books and handwriting work is a deeper, not to mention a calmer, way to learn. Screens manage to be both caffeinating and numbing – where books are decompressing and absorbing." Reading and handwriting are also harder in a good way. Friction and struggle are a necessary part of the learning process. Make everything too easy and it’s like feeding ten-year-olds puree when they need to chew. Jonathan Haidt is the author of the extraordinary bestseller, “The Anxious Generation: How the Great Rewiring of Childhood Is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness.” Haidt praises Winkleman’s address as “the best talk I’ve ever seen on what computers and tablets on the desktops of children do to the child’s education.” His article includes the full video of the talk and a transcript. At the end of her talk, Winkleman says: f we want to produce a generation of responsible citizens, we must flip the current argument on its head. "Rather than constantly having to prove that screen use is blighting childhood, we should ask simply: where is the evidence to prove that it’s safe?" I would up that question a notch and ask, “Where is the evidence to prove that it’s beneficial?” 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.

Welcome to Small Potatoes, a new column designed to help those who believe their income level prevents them from participating in the stock market to growing their savings. Investing using “Small Potatoes” is an idea that came to me one day when I visited a Wendy's in Owego, NY. While waiting for my order, I had the opportunity to speak with one of the employees there and was surprised to learn he was unaware that Wendy's was a listed stock that he, and anyone else can own. I thought about it for a while, wondering how many people were working in similar entry-level, minimum wage jobs, believing investing was beyond their reach. I’m here to tell you it isn't beyond your reach, that owning stock is achievable for you. All you need is about twenty-five dollars, access to a computer, and the willingness to take the steps listed here. (If you do not have a computer, you can use one at your local library.) Step 1. Find a brokerage firm that will allow you to open an account without a cash balance. CharlesSchwab.com is one, and they are available to answer questions 24/7. Step 2. If you are without a checking account, open one now so that you can transfer money to your brokerage account online. Brokerage firms are very willing to assist you in every step of the process. Step 3. Determine what type of investment account you can use. Two of the most used are the Roth IRA or a Traditional IRA. Roth IRA’s use money on which you have already been taxed and therefore earn “Non-taxable” income when withdrawn later. The traditional IRA allows you to invest earnings before being taxed, but at the time of retirement, you will be taxed. I personally do not want the government to share in the growth of my investment, so I lean towards the Roth IRA. Stock Selection: You may be wondering how to pick stocks to invest in. I have made picking stocks easier by finding the names of the companies that make the products I put in my shopping cart each week. For example: do you use Tylenol? What breakfast cereals do you eat? What is your favorite brand of coffee? Etc. Make a list of these products, including the manufacturer, so that you can find out what stock market name and symbol the product(s) are listed under. For instance, the symbol for AT&T is “T”. Using Google Search, you can find just about any stock in which you have an interest. In some instances, you may have to search "Who owns this product", as it may be only a distributor listed on the package and not the name of the company who is listed on the stock exchange. Google search will also provide you with the stock symbol, and price per share of the company stocks you are considering investing in. I am ending this article here, as those of you who are interested in following the above steps have a good-sized assignment. If you have any questions, you can contact me by email at investsmallpotatoes@gmail.com. Otherwise, be sure to check this site again for more Investing with Small Potatoes. Raymond Maratea is a retired small business owner who has had some experience investing in the stock market (not a financial advisor or broker/dealer). Having started investing with small amounts, on individual investor platforms, Raymond is offering his experience to individuals who would like to invest, but who feel that because of their income level the stock market is out of their reach. Disclaimer: The author of “Small Potatoes” is not a registered investment, legal or tax advisor, or a stockbroker/dealer. All investment/financial opinions expressed in the “Small Potatoes” articles are from the personal research and experience of the author of the articles and are intended solely as educational material. Although best efforts are made to ensure that all information is accurate and up to date, occasionally unintended errors and misprints may occur. The information given in these articles must not be understood as “risk free” investing. The user must be careful about the quality of stocks being selected.

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

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

Yes, it is still February! February has the fewest days, making it the shortest month, but it doesn’t feel so. Most of us are so tired of heavy coats and boots that February seems to take much longer than necessary; sort of like adding insult to injury. Our attitudes tend to “drag us through the month”! Of course, winter won’t last forever but as another front comes through, we do wonder. This week is COLD!! I have said (probably too often) “This too shall pass,” when something truly annoying or dire comes into life. And of course, it will, but knowing that, often doesn’t help in the moment. Charles Dickens must have agreed, though, when he wrote, in A Tale of Two Cities, this observation: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” We are in those times----- temporarily, in February ----- longer-lasting with our country and the world! My guess is that no one born on earth, escapes this puzzling situation of wonderful mixed with dreadful. And despite good intentions, it is no easy thing to switch our perspectives into hope and joy when in the midst of negatives. Late February weather does little to help us in this dilemma. Remember the old adage, “As days lengthen, cold strengthens.” We have just celebrated Valentine’s Day, which may have brightened last week. And President’s Day is also just past, a day off for many. There are available activities that might add zest to our February days; we have people ice-fishing on the village pond and there are pancake breakfasts offered by the Fire Company and the Masonic Lodge. Ithaca and Elmira (25 miles away) offer concerts and a variety of other options. Locally, the schools give concerts and plays, and maple syrup festivals (depending on the weather) are beginning. Attending some of these may help with our winter attitudes ----- for one’s attitude and perception are all-important in whether we meet mornings with a smile, or spend the day in grumbling. I do a bit of both, usually immediately upon rising! What a wonderful wood-fire in the stove. 😊 WHAT??? Two degrees below ZRO??! ☹ Grumbling comes so easily. There’s the weather, the news, the flu, the odd noise from the furnace, the rattling in the dishwasher. In addition, then there are so many issues today that both irritate and appall me. It would be so easy to fix them if I were just granted a magic wand for a few days. Wars would cease, food would be more equitably distributed so that no one went hungry, animals would be cared for with compassion and good sense, schools would take individual needs into consideration and education would be fun, nursing homes would have ample care-givers who were well-trained and kind, diversity would suddenly become acceptable to all, and kindness would be the “in” way to live. Health care would actually be healing and not atrociously expensive. And there would be a French bakery in every village. Life would be ideal ---- my ideal! Of course, that it is exactly what potential dictator’s say: You give me that scepter and crown, and I’ll make everything wonderful.” However, my ideal and your ideal (and their ideal) may be miles apart, and good-looking, glib-tongued fairy- godfathers or godmothers, too often, morph into goblin-tyrants. Looking back at history, there may have been one or two kindly and benevolent dictators, but not many. And even those rare individuals who intended to be good rulers, eventually succumbed to a lust for power, or those who surrounded them did, and they were assassinated. Since I’m very human, I probably couldn’t be trusted with that magic wand either. No one can! Which is why we must put up with the arguing and tediousness of a democratic republic; it seems to be fairer than any other form of government, frustrating though it might be for those who want what they want - yesterday! Even though we cannot always control the world around us, we can decide whether we wish to face life kindly and generously; carrying our own inner happiness or not. Situations may occur that affect our happiness, making it necessary for us to adapt ---- divorce, theft, fires, mudslides, unpleasant attitudes, deaths of people we love. All of these certainly require a time of healing and adjustment, and they may change us in some ways. Certainly, other people can contribute bonus happiness to our happiness with their love and thoughtfulness. But no one, other than ourselves, can be responsible for seeking that inner joy that becomes part of us. We decide how we will meet what life brings. No one ever said it would be easy but it does bring growth and wisdom. Gratitude helps with that inner joy. When life around us is discouraging, or even calamitous, we probably should remember that quote: “There is nothing new on earth.” (I think that might be from Ecclesiastes.). All of the emotions we feel, all of the dire happenings, all of the losses and the unfairness, have happened to someone before. So, we are not being singled out. Even amid hard times, when we think of all the things we have, both material things and wonderful, usable qualities, we should have no trouble being grateful. Gratitude transforms our emotional state. If we focus on all the things we think we lack, we immediately become unhappy. Some people spend their entire lives gathering more and more and are never satisfied. I’m guessing that their happiness is short-lived and dependent on what money/possessions they can get into their hands. There is a good book called “If You Give A Moose A Muffin.” It is an amusing, well-written book for kids, on greed. I once made a gift of that book to Amo Houghton, to share in Congress. He thought it was good too, and we laughed over it, but I doubt that he ever read it to his colleagues. Those people who have made the decision to live happily with whatever it is that they have, become joyous spirits who are shining lights to the rest of us. We all have a choice! Naturally the world being what it is, there will be days when it is quite impossible to summon a good attitude.Those are the days to curl up in a corner of the couch and read a comforting or inspirational book while listening to good music and sipping a cup of whatever seems good. We also have a choice about February. We can be despondent because winter is taking so long to depart, or we can make every day a scavenger hunt; looking for signs of spring. In addition to checking often for swollen buds on trees, for a bit of green grass in the boggy places, skunk cabbage showing its tips, and red-winged blackbirds, there are some fun things that may brighten up this late winter month. On a relatively warm day, cut some forsythia branches and put them in tepid water. In a week or so, yellow blossoms will bud and soon you will have a vase-full of spring right in your kitchen. Other shrubs can be forced to bloom early too, but I’m not sure which ones. I do know that lilacs are reluctant. You might find experimenting with this a fun project. While thinking about this, I relived a February memory of fun I had back when I was more agile and resilient. I was a freshman in college at SUNY Plattsburg, on the shore of Lake Champlain. My roommate, Barbara, and I, thought it would be fun to skate on that lovely, large lake, and we did. And had a great time, though the ice was a little rough since no one had cleaned it off. We discovered later why it wasn’t cleaned off; that no way should we have been skating there, especially by ourselves. Apparently, the lakes have huge air bubbles and fractures in the ice, that could give way and plunge us into icy water. Our guardian angels must have been alert, and thankfully, that didn’t happen. As February’s days come to an end, we can look forward to winds, mud, and a few more snow squalls. But also, we’ll have starry, frosty nights and sunny, melting-snow days. So perhaps this poem, “February Twilight,” by Sara Teasdale* will inspire us to enjoy what comes: “I stood beside a hill smooth with new-laid snow, A single star looked out from the cold evening glow. There was no other creature that saw what I could see --- I stood and watched the evening star as long as it watched me.” May you find magic moments in the rest of February. Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Sara Teasdale ---American writer and poet. 1884-1933.

by Walker Larson Recently, I was in search of trout, but my search resulted in more than just fish. I’ve been a fly fisherman for over a decade, but when I moved to Wisconsin a few years back, I lost easy access to my favorite haunts. So I was searching for a new stretch of untouched waters to fish near my home, a journey that led me through the winding backroads of the coulees in my area, as the evening summer sun soaked the little fields in liquid bronze and made the tree line glisten. I headed to a stream a few valleys over from my own. I’d been through the quiet recesses of this valley before, seen many of the farmsteads from the road as I drove past, but I didn’t know who lived in them. I didn’t know many people in my area, apart from those living on the dead-end road I call home. The decision to talk to the natives was partly one of self-preservation. In Wisconsin, you can legally fish any navigable waterway as long as you enter at a public access point and keep your feet wet. Still, I’m reticent to assume that all my neighbors know this law. I’d hate to end up on the wrong end of a shotgun of some backwoodser with hair sprouting from his nose and ears, faded baseball cap cocked atop his ragged hair, glaring with wild eyes at the presence of an intruder on his land. I thought I’d better get permission from the landowners before venturing into the creek to avoid such an encounter. In reality, of course, everyone I spoke to was nothing like my imaginary backwoodsman. They were all well-shaven, friendly, remarkably helpful, and deeply interested in identifying our mutual acquaintances (of which there turned out to be more than I expected). Somehow, the fact that most of them knew the people on my road better than I did made me feel more at home. In a flash, my own lane and the people on it was not some isolated rural outpost, but rather a place and a people familiar to a wide network of families living in the area. And, conversely, this new valley I was exploring suddenly took on a little of the flavor of home, for there were old bonds of friendship and shared history between my immediate neighbors and my new acquaintances, some of whom seemed as permanent as the hills themselves. The folks I talked to knew the exact house I lived in, which they referred to affectionately as “Robinsons’ place.” Of course, my home does not belong to the Robinsons and hasn’t for some time. But in those valleys, memory and tradition hold strong, and my presence of two years hardly amounts to more than a pit stop in the eyes of the locals. Somehow, I know that the acreage I call home won’t truly be “the Larsons’ place” for many years to come, not until generations of us have lived and died here. We haven’t earned that designation yet. One of the men I talked to–a thin, leathery fellow with a weather-worn face–drew me a verbal map of the valley and the interwoven streams and tributaries that flow through and around it, like veins on the back of a hand. “I used to trap mink and rats all up through there,” he said, eyes fastened on the distant ridges, or maybe on the distant past. I had a confused image flash through my mind of enormous mousetraps out in the marshes and woods. Who would go to the trouble of trapping a rat? Can there really be that much skin on a rat? And who would buy a rat pelt? Gross. Then it dawned on me. “Muskrats?” I asked, innocently. “Muskrats, yeah,” he said, turning to me with a puzzled look, as though there were no other kinds of rats in existence. “I’d get 30 or 40 rats through the valley, but they’re all gone now. I don’t know what happened.” Another woman I spoke with told me how she’d lived in the same house for 33 years, there beside the creek. I looked at the house–an old white one, a little dirty and worn, but solid-looking–and thought of how many scenes of one family’s joys and sorrows its walls had witnessed. The woman (we’ll call her Harriet) had spoken a little briskly to me at first, when she wasn’t yet sure who I was or what I wanted, but she soon softened, and her warmth was as palpable as that of the muggy, summer evening. She had an odd habit of ending almost every sentence with, “And that,” or sometimes, “and that. So.” (“We’ve lived here for 33 years, and that. So.”) It was as if every item of conversation were added to some imaginary list of all the things that are. It made each remark somehow homey and also more significant. This quirk in her speech made the next thing she said more poignant than it otherwise would have been: “You know Dane? On your road?” Harriet asked. “Yeah, I’ve met him.” “He passed away.” I hadn’t known this until a half hour before, when the muskrat trapper told me. “I just heard that.” “He was one of our best friends. A groomsman in our wedding, and that.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t know him well. He seemed like a really good guy.” He had plowed my driveway once in the winter, refusing any payment except my promise to visit him sometime. “Yeah, he was an amazing guy.” “Cancer, wasn’t it?” “Yeah, cancer, and that. So.” Half an hour later, as I stood in the shimmering water, cold as a Wisconsin winter, staring at the bejeweled back of a brook trout, I knew that in my fishing trip I had caught something more than the shadowy, elusive fish who own these little pools and little riffles under the canopied banks, where the drowsy summer flies buzz and the many-voiced water sings an endless song–I’d snatched a little scrap of human connection, of old stories and relationships, of history unique to the valleys where I live, that I didn’t have before, that I didn’t even know existed. It had been there long before my arrival and, no doubt, will continue long after I’m gone. Of course, the pressures of modern technology, transportation, economics, political divides, and the general fragmentation of society threaten this scrap of old-fashioned human community. But I was gratified to know it still exists in some places. The realization didn’t come without regret, however. If I had been more integrated into the local community, if I’d met more of my neighbors sooner, I might have known the ordeal my next-door neighbor was undergoing. I didn’t even know he was sick, let alone that he had died, until I talked to other people in my area. What breakdown of local culture must have occurred so that a man living right next to me had gone through his final days, died, and been buried, and I’d known nothing of it, driven past his house every day none the wiser? If I had known, perhaps I could have done something for him. At the very least, I could have fulfilled my promise to visit him in payment for his plowing my driveway. Walker Larson holds a BA in writing and an MA in English literature. Prior to becoming a writer, he taught literature and history at a private academy in Wisconsin. He is the author of two novels, Hologram and Song of Spheres. When not working on his acreage or spending time with family and friends, he blogs about literature and education on his Substack, The Hazelnut. This article appeared on IntellectualTakeout.org and is shared under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

For the past several years I’ve considered writing an open letter to the graduating class of each June, but never got around to it. As graduation loomed closer for our oldest son I thought about it more. That was in 2020, and we know too well what a shit show that year ended up being. The last thing a bunch of kids needed at that time was me writing something that could be summed up in this pic: Not that I think anyone should be mollycoddled, but it was a difficult time for everyone, and there was no sense in adding to it with something unhelpful as a meme. Same for the Class of 2021, which still saw major disruptions to what we knew as “normal.” When it came time for the Class of 2022, well, I was busy releasing a second book and plumb forgot all about it. So here we are now. Perhaps it’s my age or perhaps it’s because I’ve spent more time with the younger generation here at home and overhear some of the conversation. But the admittedly unsolicited advice I would have delivered a couple years ago isn’t the one I hope to deliver now, it’s a kinder, gentler message I think. And hopefully more helpful. If I’ve learned anything in the thirty two years since I graduated it’s this: Your education isn’t over, it’s just begun. Certainly you’ve been given some tools to take with you into the world ( and missing some you should have been given ) but keep in mind going forward, now is the time when your education truly begins. Until now you’ve had people there to support you, to pick you up when you fall. You still will going forward, but it’s a little different now. The world is gonna knock you on your ass from time to time and the best thing for you now and then will be to pick yourself up whenever you can. It will make you stronger, harder to knock down. One of my favorite quotes along these lines comes from the show Deadwood ( NSFW - Language ) A little extreme maybe, but there’s some truth there. Please don’t mistake this as me being overly pessimistic, it’s just the way life is sometimes. But there’s an upside to all of this going forward as well. At your commencement there were sure to be speeches, and someone may have referred to high school as “…the best years of our lives.” What a crock. The best years of your life are just beginning, trust me. Ahead of you is the time to explore and find your place in the world. You will not only establish yourself in the world professionally, but more importantly as the person you were born to be. This is a time for change and growth that, hopefully, will end only when you’re dead. Trust me, decades from now when you think of “the good old days”, it most likely won’t be high school that comes to mind. At least I hope not. Along with the change I mention above will be the change in your relationships. You may be feeling some anxiety about you and your high school friends going your separate ways. Of course social media has changed this somewhat in the past few years, but it will happen nonetheless. There’s a good chance you won’t see each other again even. And it’s okay. More than that, it’s perfectly normal. Sometimes personal growth, as well as life in general, draws you apart. However at the same time it’s pushing you towards someone else. By all means, keep those ties if you choose to and able but don’t give way to anxiety about drifting apart either. It’s just one of those things that happen. They have their own journey, their own path to walk. It might not run parallel to your own. Remember then fondly, wish them well on their own growth and should a time come when your paths cross again, by all means, celebrate! As this happened, you may well find that your circle of friends ( meaning in real life, not social media )gets smaller, but that circle becomes stronger as you find people who share your values and interests. Be a fiercely loyal friend, but not blindly loyal, there’s a difference. Be sure to have one or two friends that challenge you, to keep in in check along the way as well. Sitting here, three decades past where you are now, I feel like there’s so many things I could tell you. However I think it’s best to close with what I think to be a great piece of advice, disguised as a poem, by Rudyard Kipling: “If” If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise. If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools. If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’ If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! Chris Sherwood writes from his home in North Chemung. He is the author of the In Times of Trouble and In Times Of Trouble: Aftermath, a post-apocalyptic series set in Upstate New York, and is currently working on the third book in the trilogy. To learn more, go to cmsherwood.com This column originally appeared on Chris's website in 2023

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

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

by Annie Holmquist Gallup just released its World Happiness Report and found – for the second year in a row – that the U.S. did not make the list of the top 20 happiest nations. Not many of us will be surprised by that result. In fact, we may even raise our hands and admit, “Yes, that’s me, I’m part of the unhappiness problem in America.” Discontentment and unhappiness hit even the most cheerful of us occasionally. We look at our jobs, our marriages, our houses, our social lives, our material possessions, and frankly, they aren’t what we hoped for or expected. Life gets monotonous, we begin looking at the greener grass on the other side of the fence, convincing ourselves that if we just move on and find something else, we’ll be satisfied. How do we fight this discontentment, this unhappiness that seems to plague every one of us at some time or another? One unexpected answer that recently came across my path is craftsmanship. Craftsmanship is something that I often think of in the realm of carpenters or others who create beautiful, high-quality products – something that we rarely see anymore. But in simplest terms, craftsmanship is defined as production – the quality of the labor that we put forth. In that sense, every one of us has the ability to be a craftsman, whether we’re in a high-end job or a menial one. Whether or not we are craftsmen in our jobs, however, depends on the effort and skill we put into our daily tasks. Author Bernard Iddings Bell recognized this in his mid-20th century work, “Crisis in Education: A Challenge to American Complacency.” “Man exists to do creatively, in the most craftsmanlike manner possible, all things that must be done,” Bell wrote, “great things like government, or mothering, or the healing of minds and bodies; small things like making beds, or hoeing corn, or driving a truck; things in the public eye like making speeches, or unleashing atomic energy, or making peace; obscure things like selling groceries, or running a bus, or teaching school.” In other words, even the lowliest jobs and tasks – the ones we feel are unimportant or unnoticeable – are ones at which we can each be a craftsman, excelling in our execution of them. And when we approach each task like a craftsman, that happiness – so lost and unattainable today – bubbles up within, Bell says. "He finds inner peace who works at whatever is in front of him, not for the pay he gets or for what he can buy with that pay, not for applause or gratitude, but for sheer joy in creativity. There are a vast number of tasks to be performed in this world, most of them not romantic. They may be done in one of two ways: just to get them over with as quickly and as painlessly as possible, in which case they become a monotonous burden hard to bear; or each as beautifully and thoroughly as possible, in which case life is good to the taste." And therein lies at least one secret to happiness. Inevitably, each of us will come to some point in time where the tasks in front of us are not what we envisioned ourselves doing, nor are they what we really want to do. We become, as Bell says, “restless, unreliable, combative, caught in a web of doubt and dismay.” When that happens, we have the choice to give into that dismay and despair, joining the ranks of the unhappy Americans, or we have the chance to be faithful, craftsmen determined to do our jobs – no matter how menial – to the best of our abilities. And we must do this not only for ourselves, but for our children as well, as an example of how to approach life when it doesn’t work out like we want. “There will be no recovery of serenity, no mutual patience sufficient for fraternity,” Bell explains, “until we learn ourselves and teach our boys and girls that unless human beings become creative artists [those craftsmen, doing their work wholeheartedly] they remain petulant children, dangerous, predatory.” The wisest man whoever lived once wrote: “Seest thou a man diligent in his business? He shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean [average] men.” Faithful craftsmanship has its eventual reward – and that is something which can bring joy to the heart of every American. 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 originally appeared on IntellectualTakeout.org and is is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

An old highway. Somewhere in America. Two lanes. No shoulder. Faded yellow lines. Oh, the things you see while driving old American highways will enchant you. I pass a young woman walking the side of the highway, carrying supermarket bags. She is young. Ponytail. Sunday dress. There is a little boy on a bicycle following her. This makes me smile. Because I am glad to know children still ride bikes. When I was a kid, an estimated 69 percent of American children between ages five and 14 rode bikes. Today, it’s down to nine percent. The percentage drops every year. Growing up, bicycles were our religion. A kid and his bike were invincible. Your bike carried you far from home, into new realms, introducing you to the world at large. We kids had no technology. We had no social media. No smartphones. The bike was our internet, our phone, and our Instagram. Used to, our entire neighborhood would be littered with tiny bicycles, scattered in random front yards. And if you wanted to know where your friends were, you just looked for the bikes. I pass a Baptist Church, tucked in the trees. Big gravel parking lot. Cars parked everywhere. Mostly trucks or economy cars with muddy tires. No Land Rovers. The cemetery backs up to a cattle pasture. On the church lawn, I see a couple kids in dress clothes, roughhousing in the grass. If I were a betting man, I’d say one of those kids is about to get his butt reddened. I pass a baseball park off the highway. And although it’s Sunday, the stands are full. There are players on the field. White polyester uniforms. Parents cheering. Which is unusual to me. Because it’s Sunday. When I was a kid, we were not allowed to play baseball on Sundays. For crying out loud, we weren’t even allowed to clip our toenails on Sundays. Also prohibited was Sunday fishing. Namely, because fishing was considered “work.” And you did not work on the Lord’s day. Which was sort of ironic inasmuch as all the women would toil, sweat, and labor for six hours in the kitchen, each Sunday, cooking a dinner large enough to feed the People’s Liberation Army of China. Whereupon they would spend another nine hours doing dishes. I pass a house in the woods. Nestled in a copse of pines. White clapboards. Wrap-around porch. Both screen doors open—front and kitchen. A cross breeze works its way through the home. Also, I see an old man, seated on a swing, he’s reading—wait—can it be? Yes it can! He is reading a physical newspaper. More churches. Shady Grove Baptist. Pleasant Ridge Baptist. Pleasant View Baptist. First Baptist. Peachtree Baptist. Trinity Baptist. Wallace Farm Supply. Your classic small-town feed and seed. Red-and-white checkered Purina logo on the sign. Seminole Feed products. Get your Bengal roach spray here. I’ll bet they sell real cowboy hats inside. Up ahead are Cedartown, Bremen, and it’s only nine miles to Buchanan. I wish I could keep riding the old American highway. Because this is what I love about our country. The little towns. And the people in them. But, I’m turning onto the interstate now. I’m due back home in a few hours. I’m an adult now. I have commitments. Things to do. Bills to pay. People to see. But sometimes I still miss my bike. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

“Camelot* opens with singing about the merry month of May. Knights are brave, their ladies dance around May Poles, and life is beautiful. Northern hemisphere residents are glad to see May come too. Boots alpaca hats, and mittens are put away and light jackets emerge from storage. Today, we are not only welcoming the delightful, new month, but today ( May 1st ) is May Day. Before certain nations began using it to celebrate military prowess, May Day was for children, for whirling around May Poles, for carrying flowery May baskets to neighbors. I prefer to think of it in that way still; as the light-hearted time of bluebirds, hummingbirds, garden parties, and, oh yes, bears! A cute 1-year-old came by last week and sampled our cracked corn. May can bring us some very warm and very cold days. While I was at Cornell, one early May weekend came with snow. Several of us had planned a picnic and awoke that morning to find lawns had turned white. Being intrepid Cornellians, we went ahead with the picnic dressed in boots and jackets. Perhaps that streak of intrepidness is why now we push the limits of garden planting. We know we shouldn’t put tender plants out before May 31st, but we simply can’t resist working the soil on a good day in May when everything smells like spring. Speaking of Cornell, the Botanic gardens on campus are a wonderland of flowers, shrubbery, and herbs. Spending some time there is refreshing and idea-inspiring. It is a foil for the too-many buildings; offices, classrooms, dorms, libraries, and labs. My years at Cornell (after I recovered from being home-sick) were good ones; much to learn and do, a fine group of friends, and extra-curricular activities that taught me as much as classes. There were dances on the third floor of Warren Hall (where I met Kerm), parties at Cayuga Lodge, birding field trips with Ornithology, singing in the University chorus, discussions of spiritual nature in Annabel Taylor with the chaplain, and a variety of chats with friends in the dorm – especially my roommate, Pat. She was a bio-chem major, and she was the only reason I got through inorganic chemistry. Perhaps my favorite and most memorable activity was the Cornell Recreation Team, where we learned about leadership, square calling and folk dancing, and program organization-- a mix of skills I’ve used frequently. Right now, many high school juniors and seniors are facing finals, and looking at colleges. I’d tell them to look carefully at what the college stands for, not its prestige. Does it fit you? Are you more comfortable in a small school or a large one? How much debt do you want to have to pay back? How far away will you be for traveling home? Are you doing what you want to do, or what you think people expect? There is, right now, a threat to all colleges receiving Federal monies. The recently appointed president of Cornell spoke firmly about the traditions of free thinking, scientific research and Ezra Cornell’s vision and he stood strong for those values. His speech made the NY Times, and Cornell received almost immediate notice that its funds were being cut! Harvard also responded bravely and even more explicitly. It obviously has become uncomfortable, and even hazardous to think and speak honestly, so it is important for colleges to remain places where integrity stands firm against pressures from those who would turn the education into a travesty of the truth. College education costs oodles and oodles of money, and so, the learning one receives should be based in truth, have breadth, depth and should stimulate curiosity. We will need administrators who are creative in finding ways to cope in difficult times. However, spinning straw into gold is only a fairy tale! I expect that other universities will be trying to maintain their standards, as well; hopefully they will cooperate with each other. We should do whatever we can to cheer them on. While we are considering education, colleges are not the only path to living a good life. College is beneficial for giving you information and experiences it might take you years to learn by yourself. And some careers do demand a 4 or 5-year degree, whether or not one actually needs it for able performance in that career. As an alternative, tech schools and apprentice-ships for trades, are good places to acquire hands-on careers. We are currently short of adequate electricians, plumbers, mechanics, builders, nurses, medical technologists, etc. I’ve heard, though I have no statistics, that many college graduates are tossing their tassels in vain; that there are too few jobs for them. Think fully about what you choose to spend your days doing; what will bring you satisfaction and happiness? Warning: Caution: Small rant ahead! No matter what form of higher education one chooses, it will only be useful if one spends more time in learning than in partying. I am not against having a good time, but considering college costs, and rising health costs, it is the height of foolishness and selfishness to waste money in continuous revelry that distracts and clouds the mind. Too much alcohol or using “recreational” drugs, are both dangerous and unhealthy, not to mention, STUPID! That is blunt, but true! We have each been given a fine mind and body, and to deliberately mess it up is the height of ingratitude. And this from a person who loves parties! Rant over! May and June are traditionally full of more good times and increased parental worrying; proms, parties, alcohol, exams, looming higher education, money, and spring fever itself. There is often a wide gap in communications; kids having no understanding of why their parents are so nervous and picky, and parents having no memory of their own over-the-top confidence in taking care of themselves at the same age. Kids think they are indestructible; Parents know very well that they are not; there are all sorts of dangers out there, and they loom large in a parent’s mind. In one of his books, Louis L’Amour** said: When you are young, you never think of y our parents as much more than parents. It isn’t until you are older yourself that you begin to realize they had their hopes, dreams, and secret thoughts. You sort of take them for granted, and sometimes you are startled to know they were in love a time or two…..You never stop to think about what they were like until it is too late.” I actually do remember that far back; I was so focused on my plans, that my parents’ worries didn’t penetrate my rather (at the time!!) ditzy brain. Mothers’ Day is May 11th, and, for me, it is a whole lot nostalgic. Both my mother and Kerm’s mom have passed on. I think probably that none of us totally appreciate our mothers (or fathers either) while they are with us, but we never stop missing them when they are gone. There are several things for which I’d like to apologize to mine; things I now understand way better. We had a good relationship, though, so I will happily remember the fine times, and the many cups of tea my mother and I shared. That is also true for Kerm’s mother. Of course, she and I hadn’t known each other as long, but, after walking on a few eggshells, thankfully, we soon felt quite comfortable together and, as her first daughter-in-law, our relationship kind of paved the way for when she acquired two more. I am also grateful for being a mother. Except for a few occasions, our sons have added interest, humor, creativity, and love to our lives. Those few occasions when terror or exasperation followed them, we prayed a lot, and stifled the desire to put them through a wall (my frequent threat). Those times must have, in some weird way, contributed to their, or our, growth. Now that they are adults, whose minds have matured (doesn’t happen for boys until they are 30 or so) we enjoy them, are grateful for them and are mostly glad we didn’t create Shawn and Matt shaped holes in our walls. Back to the garden, and the “Merry Month of month of May”, where things are growing and blooming. Pansies spread their little velvet faces around. Violets have popped into bloom all over the lawn, just this week. Many varieties of daffodils are dancing in the constant winds, and shadblow trees are blossoming into white canopies. The very best thing in May, is to be outside. As a child, I hunted for pollywogs in our small stream. Such fun! Now I wait for primroses to emerge. Soon tulips will bloom and marsh marigolds will turn the swamps golden. I think fresh air, watching the wild life and gardens, keeps us healthy, de-stresses us, and allows us to maybe even live longer. So, Happy May Day! And Happy May! Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Camelot ----written and composed by Lowe and Lerner. Based on the tales of King Arthur’s court. **Louis L’Amour – Wrote novels, short stories, and non-fiction, most focusing on the frontier of the west. Several were made into movies. He died in 1988.

Note - Sean and his wife Jamie are currently on a pilgrimage in Spain, walking the El Camino de Santiago. You can keep up with their travels on Sean's Facebook page and website. In the meantime, here's a post from January 2025: Dear Lynn, It’s weird. Weird knowing that you won’t be reading this today. You always read my stuff. It’s how we met. Which only raises questions about your taste in literature. Directly after you’d read my stuff, you’d email me. You did this nearly every day. For many years. Your emails were updates on your life. You told me about places you visited. Foods you ate. Ideas you had. About the thousands of medical appointments you endured. About the throngs of doctors in your life. About your hospital stays. Those emails became part of my daily routine. Jamie and I both read them. Daily. We’d get a little worried whenever we didn’t hear from you for a few days. The first time you and I actually hung out, we went to see George “Goober” Lindsey’s grave. You, me, and Jamie. It was a big roadtrip. Jamie drove the van. You sat in the passenger seat, navigating. I was in the back seat, providing the helpful service of eating Chili Cheese Fritos. The next time we hung out, we went to the ACTUAL Mayberry. We visited Mount Airy, North Carolina, for an Andy Griffith Rerun Watcher’s Club reunion. We spent the weekend together, watching reruns, at the Mayberry Motor Inn, along with hundreds of fellow Andy fans from around the US, who are all—and I mean this with all sincerity—clinically insane. One time, you went to Waffle House with Jamie. The waitress thought Jamie was your date. You blushed like a schoolkid. You invited us to Thanksgiving. You were always checking up on us. You came to many of my shows. You heard my jokes over and again. I don’t know how you weren’t sick of me. I’m sick of me. You sat front and center the first time I played the Grand Ole Opry. I took the stage, and I could see you in the audience. You had just gotten out of the hospital. I remember you were walking with a cane. But you were there. And when we hugged after the show you whispered in my ear, “You done good, Ope.” After you came out of your coma last month, several people said they were getting up a caroling troop to surprise you. The troop was a full band, with singers, guitars, banjos, and one accordion. We showed up on your lawn. There must have been fifteen or twenty of us. And we caroled hard. They wheeled your wheelchair outside into the icy cold. And there we were. Caroling our butts off. And this wasn’t easy inasmuch as none of us knew the lyrics to any actual carols, and none of us were singing, technically, at the same time. And then you invited us inside for hot cocoa and cookies. Within seconds, your house was alight with all us wackos, running around your halls, laughing, and hanging out, intoxicated purely on refined white sugar and fun. Before we left, you and I embraced. And you said to me, “Man, I think this is what heaven will feel like.” Someone laughed and told you that they thought you needed to raise your expectations regarding heaven. And yesterday, you finally did. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

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

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

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

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

Spring is here; the Vernal Equinox has come. Now if we could only adjust spring weather-makers like the Santa Anna winds, the high or low systems layering in the clouds, and turbulence churning out in the open seas and off the Great Lakes. Our fragile and lovely little blue planet is enduring some violent and damaging storms. An eon or two of calm would be welcome. However, the snowdrops are just pushing through the cold ground; signaling spring. Yesterday it was 72 degrees and they are speaking of snow on Monday. We may be wearing winter coats for a while yet, but we know it’s not for long! New England (especially Vermont) is famous for “Mud Season.” It is the “non-tourist season” when residents can relax, when ski season is over and the summer hasn’t begun; traffic ebbs, and a good thing it does. After all, unwary drivers could be trapped in muddy, rutted roads for days! Up-state New York can be similar, with considerable goo underfoot and under tires. Those with large dogs know well about spring mud. New York has back roads that are equally as muddy those of Vermont, that really shouldn’t be traveled until June, or maybe, at all. How do I know this? My husband’s idea of a good time is checking out back roads, wild roads, precipitous roads. In years past, we have been in some potentially hazardous situations due to: “I wonder where this road goes…”. His tendency toward adventure has diminished slightly. It may be wisdom that comes with age, but more probably it is the memory of my shrieks as we careen from one muddy rut to the other and slither in semi-circles toward deep ditches. Sadly, both of our sons have inherited this obviously genetic, and certainly unwise, tendency for dirt roads, seasonal roads, and corkscrew road explorations. We are hearing the stories now of driving over a chain link fence that had been knocked down to escape the 2nd “Woodstock” traffic, of running a snowmobile over Greek Peak at night, of driving past a dead end onto a seasonal road who knows what time of the year? If only we had possessed one of those trackers that are now available to any parent!! One for each of the boys, and definitely one for Kerm. Mud season is made bearable by spending time with friends over lunch, or perhaps around a nice fire. Conversations are always interesting, and sometimes run in rather strange directions. We chat about everything from bird-feeding to geothermic heating, to education, to the best gardening techniques for clay, and to less useful subjects, like whether girls or boys were harder to raise. I think they all exhibit some unique growing pains. Kerm and I had sons, but I grew up with only-slightly younger nieces (my eldest brother was 20 years older than I). And we have granddaughters, who though exemplary 😊, are girls. In my experience,-boys are unnecessarily loud, and they rough-house ---- often knocking over furniture or breaking glassware, leave large, muddy shoes around, and can be quite obnoxious and crass on occasion. They go into rages, but are quickly over them. Their excuses for their misdemeanors are often exceedingly lame. Girls tend to be deceptively delightful, but they pout, cry more, have a variety of moods, and hold grudges longer than most boys. After age 12 or 13, they have a monopoly on the bathroom while getting ready to go anywhere. Their excuses for questionable behavior are slightly more believable, having better imaginations. However, a common malady for both boys and girls, is whining. The “poor me” syndrome seems to be gender-neutral. I had a sign on my office wall right near the entrance. It was a large red circle with a diagonal line across the word “WHINE.” Most people didn’t, but a couple of individuals refused to take a hint. Whining is quite understandable in a child or adolescent. Their emotions and their psyches are still maturing. Coming from the mouth of an adult, however, generally means that person still believes they are the center of the universe, and that time, temperature, and the state of the world should be adjusted to meet their needs. Whining is really an unsaid: “Alas,” “Oh Woe,” “Poor, Poor Me!” There were two people with whom I worked, both men, who whined regularly, often about each other. It became ridiculous enough that I thought of telling All Wet Productions (a local Spencer & Van Etten occasionally creative group) to devise a skit, though I doubt that the guys who inspired it would have been amused. Those two individuals unfortunately, weren’t then, and aren’t now, all that rare. I see a lot of world-wide whining, don’t you? Here in America, we whine about airport delays, the weather, about potholes in the roads, about inflation, about traffic jams, about inconveniences of all sorts. Perhaps we, as a culture, are discontented with life? Perhaps we need to focus more on what is right in our lives. Currently, I have been complaining (Oh all right; basically whining!) about Macy’s and Joann’s closings. Yes, they were fine stores. Yes, I really liked them but there probably are other resources. My whiney self should be thinking about the many people who lost their jobs in the closings and the buildings that will now stand vacant and crumbling. One would think, after seeing the dreadful situations all around the world, that I, and that we, all might be more content, and less complaining, realizing how small, comparatively, our inconveniences are. But, not so. Too many of us have been spoiled by prosperity and the smooth-workings of most systems around us. If we could realize how unimportant some of our issues are, if we stopped thinking about how each inconvenience impacts us personally, we might do less whining. Perhaps each annoying change or inconvenience is the Universe, reminding us that we are not the center of the solar system! Or perhaps that same universe is telling us to be more aware; to pay attention and to take part in our communities, helping those who do not have the conveniences we have. Perhaps we need to retrieve my little sign; the red circle with a slash, make copies and post them everywhere. Late March, in addition to annoying weather, brings us that much closer to daffodils and hyacinths. William Wordsworth* seemed to be partial to daffodils, as I am. He wrote: “I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils. Beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze……for oft when on my couch I lie, in vacant or pensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude, and then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.” All that golden yellow just shouts --- spring. I expect that you all have your favorite signs of spring, depending on the climate where you live. However, life can make us very busy and when we move too fast, suddenly spring has passed us by and, it is summer. May I suggest that we all slow down just a trifle and take the time to notice spring moving in. There are wonders to behold, from the first snowdrops to pussy willows, to the violets, daffodils, hyacinths and tulips. There are baby woodchucks poking their noses toward the roads, ignoring mama’s instructions to stay put! Baby rabbits are just coming out into a dangerous world full of hawks, owls, and coyotes. Foxes are sending out harsh, throaty mating calls. And birds are singing with gusto as they attract mates and build nests. Even if we have more snow flakes, we can take heart and know that: “For lo, the winter is past, the {snow} is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing birds has come, and the voice of the turtle dove is heard in our land.”** Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *William Wordsworth –English Romantic poet who helped to launch the English Romantic period along with Samuel Coleridge. 1770-1850. **The Bible – Song of Solomon 2:11.

Don’t shoot the messenger. But in America, one third of children have never handwritten a letter. And it’s not just kids. Nearly 40 percent of adult Americans haven’t written a letter in the last five years, while 43 percent of Millenials have never sent one in their lifetime. Whereas recent studies show that Generation Z can’t read cursive and has no idea what the heck Grandma’s letters say. The New York Times says that “The age of proper correspondence writing has ended…” “Letter writing is an endangered art,” The Atlantic said. “The death knell of written correspondence has been sounding for years,” said the Chicago Tribune. This is not new information, of course, unless you’ve been living underneath a slab of granite. Letters have been replaced by emails and texts. But texts and emails are not letters. An email has no charm. A text message does not not feel private. You cannot smell the paper. You cannot feel the weight of stationary in your hands. An email is temporary. An email will only last as long as your device is charged. Fact: Around 92 percent of working Americans feel anxiety when they see an unread email in their inbox. But a letter. A letter is real. A letter exists in physical space. A letter will not disappear unless you burn it. There are letters that still exist from 500 BC. Letters from early Romans. Letters from kings and queens. Letters from soldiers in the American Revolution. A letter is artwork. It is culture. It is language. A letter represents years of handwriting practice in Mrs. Burns penmanship class, as she peered over her cat eye glasses at you, barbarically swatting a ruler in her open palm. A letter is a moment of time. It is rewrites, spelling corrections, merciless editing, and the act of keeping one’s lines straight. You can tack a letter to your refrigerator. You can place a letter into a shoebox and have it for years to come. Letters are personal. You can hear a letter’s personal voice as you read. You see ink on a personal page, intended for your personal eyes. The letter’s postage stamp has been licked with someone’s personal sputum. So how did we get here? Every single minute, 208,000 pictures are posted to Facebook and 65,000 images are posted on Instagram. TikTok sees an influx of 34 million uploaded videos each day. Each day in the world, 18.7 billion texts are sent. The average American will send 40 to 90 texts per day. Most Americans will receive one to two text messages every minute. I have received eight texts since I sat down to write this. But I bring all this up because although letter writing is not efficient; although it is time consuming; although I can think of more important things I ought to be doing, I still remember the impact handwritten letters have had on my life. The letter my mother sent me when she was out of town in Saint Louis. The love letter my wife sent when we first started dating. The letter my father sent only days before he died. I still have them all. I still read them. I still love them. Which is why I still write letters. And I hope I always will. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

“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* ‘Tis the month of shamrocks, aquamarines, and the vernal equinox. I’ll soon pull out my recipe for Irish tea cake to go along with a hearty stew, in lieu of corned beef and cabbage. I’ve just never been thrilled with cooked cabbage. My family (except for one sister-in-law and her daughters) has no Irish background that we know of. However, since my father’s heritage is Scottish, I’m sure there could have been some cultural mixing and marriage. We do have a granddaughter in Dublin right now, and I expect she will be seeing all sorts of festive times this month. Having read all the “Sister Fidelma” books by Peter Tremayne, set in Ireland around 7th century AD, we have an appreciation for Irish culture and their impact on our own culture. These books are fiction, but meticulously-researched fiction. Their laws protecting women’s independence were far more impressive than ours. I especially like their long-ago criminal justice system; those individuals who broke the law seldom sat in prison for a long incarceration. It was a system of recompence. Instead of idling in prison, criminals had to work out their crimes’ paying those who they had hurt. If the crime was dire and the criminal unrepentant and considered unredeemable, he/she was put in an open boat with one oar, food and water for a day and towed out to sea. This was considered leaving them to God’s judgment. I’m not sure about that one! Of course, people ignored the laws, just as they do today, so Ireland wasn’t Paradise, and when the Saxons and Britons began filtering into lands around Ireland, and becoming part of the culture, and when the Church’s Roman influence spread to Ireland, more severe punishments began to be common. They emphasized suffering for punishment rather than paying back and redeeming one’s self. St. Patrick’s history is equally interesting. He was an actual person, who grew up in Roman-controlled Britain. He was captured by slavers, and ended up in Ireland. Interestingly, the Irish did not, by law, buy or sell slaves, BUT those individuals captured in battles, or convicted of some kinds of crimes, basically had no rights until they had earned their freedom through work. Technically, however, they weren’t slaves. Patrick eventually was freed and journeyed to Rome. After some time there, he chose to return to Ireland to spread God’s word, where he had been a slave. There are many legends around his missionary work, including driving out all snakes, and he is certainly venerated by the Irish and celebrated every March 17th. St. Patrick’s Day is a good reason for partying, Irish or not. One of our sons met his future wife at a St. Patrick’s Day party. Some years ago, Beebe Lake, on Cornell’s campus, miraculously turned an amazing green every March 17th. That was before everyone reluctantly agreed that it is ecologically improper to tamper with Mother Nature’s water. However, a magnificent dragon, created by the architecture students still makes its creaky way across campus on March 17th. March has many other things going for it besides this one popular holiday. This past week was Ash Wednesday; the beginning of the Lenten season. This marks the 40 Days (plus Sundays) until Easter. March also holds the vernal Equinox, when the day and night are equal. Early March is when enthusiastic gardeners begin putting seeds into peat pots and keep checking to see if the ground is thawing at all. Three members of my family and one good friend, celebrate their birthdays in March. Owls are hunting to feed babies, skunks are mating or may have already done so, chipmunks are running around on fine days, and there is a certain feeling in the air. March was (in my time with 4-H) when 4-H kids began sewing for Dress Revue. As our sewing skills grew, modeling in the Dress Revue was something to anticipate. My very first sewing project was an apron made from a pink-flowered feed sack. Feed sacks were great for beginning sewers; both for their cheerful prints and for the price ---zero. Next came a gathered skirt. Then I was brave enough to try a whole dress --- yellow polished cotton with cap sleeves, and later, a green wool suit. Those were successes in Dress Revue, a heady experience, for one was judged on both sewing expertise and poise in modeling the garment. The event was held in some elegant place, like the Granger Homestead in Canandaigua and was covered by local papers. On the strength of 4-H experiences, I chose Clothing and Textiles as my major at Cornell, a decision that needed more deliberation than I gave it. I enjoyed all of my classes: Draping, Tailoring, Pattern-making, so it was a while before the realization penetrated that if I were to make this my career, I needed to live in or near a large city. The rural areas that I prefer do not have many calls for fashion designers or buyers for non-existent dress shops. Fortunately, I had two minors, food & nutrition and journalism. I did use some of all that textiles information though. My first full-time job was a 4-H and Youth Educator in Maryland and I helped 4-Hers with sewing projects. Later, in both private and public schools, in Pennsylvania, I helped teach sewing skills again. I made my own wedding gown, a satin and lace confection with a flowing train, for $100 instead of $1000. And because I made it, it had a unique touch of pennies sewed into the hem of the train so it would flow smoothly and stay down nicely, my very own invention. 😊 Mostly, my sewing skills were used for family and home, which is not a bad thing. Observing the high cost of ready-made draperies and pillow shams, I was glad I could make them for only a fraction of that cost. In addition to sewing, I remember March for baby chicks. My mother, for fifteen years or so, sold DeKalb seed corn. All the farmers knew her, from membership in Farm & Home Bureau and Grange, and respected her for her integrity. This was something she could do from home, when I was small. For a few years, DeKalb sold chicks as well. The chicks came in large square boxes (ventilated, of course) and on delivery day, when I came home from school, our dining room had boxes and boxes, stacked shoulder-high, full of peeping chicks. Talk about too much noise!! I could stick my fingers in the vent holes and pet fuzzy little birds ---- also getting a few minor pecks. I can almost hear the peeping chorus even now. As we come into March, whether it entered as a lion or a lamb (and actually, it was a little of both this past weekend), we have a few messy, muddy weeks ahead of us. But what can we expect from a month named for the Roman god of war “Mars”? If you took Latin in school, you will not have forgotten the Ides of March (15th), in 44 BC, the day on which Julius Caesar was assassinated. “Et tu, Brute?” After last week’s warmer temperatures, and today’s 57 degrees, it is finally possible to anticipate Spring. No daffodils are poking little green shoots through the soil yet, and snow drops are still shivering beneath a pile of snow. But, a whole flock of red-winged blackbirds flew into our bird feeders on Saturday and there were starlings on the suet. And who guessed that we might get a thunder storm in March (last night)? Those who observe Lent are in the midst of deciding on a Lenten practice; will it be giving up something for the season? Chocolate? Desserts? Meat? Judging others? Or perhaps this year it will be adding something to their lives: thinking through biases? Reading Scripture more faithfully? Planning to do an act of kindness each day? Spending more time in prayer? Paying forward for someone? A yearly six weeks of thoughtfulness is probably a very good practice. Meanwhile, March is here, and it has much to offer. That very familiar Irish song, “When Irish Eyes are Smiling”, could cheer us on as we sing of brightness, gaiety, and laughter. Singing always makes me happier, so I can recommend it highly. Life can be good, whether the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold or it is summer in the sun and winter in the shade. If the snow ever melts, search for a shamrock or two. Carol Bossard writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Charles Dickens **Peter Tremayne

by Mollie Engelhart As a vegan chef turned regenerative cattle rancher, I’ve traversed the narrow divides between two worlds: the health-conscious, progressive enclaves of Los Angeles and the rugged, often misunderstood landscapes of rural Texas. For years, I lived and breathed the principles of organic farming and plant-based eating, firmly rooted in the belief that our food systems should be safe, resilient, and free from harmful chemicals. My community was predominantly left-leaning, passionate about clean water, food safety, and the dangers of over-medication. It felt like common sense. Yet, a seismic shift occurred during the COVID-19 pandemic. Suddenly, the very people who once railed against chemicals in our food were now clamoring for more. They went from advocating for natural and holistic approaches to a new cult-like devotion to any and every product produced by big pharma, big ag and big food - seemingly forgetting the principles they once held dear. It left me bewildered and questioning the values of a movement I had long identified with. I am a lifelong liberal. I married someone who is undocumented, and I’ve spent years passionately advocating for organic farming and holistic health. But as the pandemic unfolded, I began to realize that I had more in common with those I once considered my ideological opposites. In seeking a deeper understanding of the debate over the COVID-19 vaccines, I found myself listening to voices I had previously dismissed, including those of the right. It was a disorienting journey, yet it opened my eyes to a broader narrative. One voice that stood out was Tucker Carlson. Initially, I viewed him through the lens of my biases, assuming he was a racist and a bigot. But as I listened more closely, I realized that he, too, was a father concerned for his children’s health and future. He shared my values around environmentalism, clean water, and the importance of preserving our natural world. This was a turning point for me. I recognized that we were not enemies; we were parents trying to protect our families in a world fraught with uncertainty. This brings me to Robert F. Kennedy Jr. His candidacy for Secretary of Health and Human Services (HHS) resonates deeply with my journey. Many in my community dismiss him as a “whack job” with no medical background, but this kind of labeling is all too reminiscent of how I once viewed Carlson. RFK Jr. is not a threat; he is a champion for informed consent and transparency in our food and pharmaceutical systems. His vision for HHS aligns perfectly with the values I hold dear. He advocates for reducing chemicals in our food supply and ensuring that parents have the right to understand what goes into their children’s bodies. As a mother, I believe it is our right to know the ingredients in the vaccines our children receive, just as it is our right to demand food that nourishes rather than harms. We cannot ignore the fact that cheap, chemically laden food is a privilege that comes at a grave cost to farmworkers’ health. I was reminded of this every time I spoke to Cynthia, a house cleaner in California, who was part of a team that harvested strawberries—each of them diagnosed with cancer before age 40. The recent leftward shift towards accepting more chemicals in our food and water is disheartening. This is not merely a partisan issue; it’s a human issue. It’s about our children’s future and the environment we leave behind. We should be prioritizing clean air and water, not pushing for more fluoride or pesticides. True environmentalism is about ensuring that our food is safe, our air is breathable, and our water is drinkable. This has long been a cornerstone of progressive ideology, and it feels like we’ve lost our way. It pains me to see my friends on the left resist RFK Jr.’s candidacy. He is an accomplished environmental advocate with a proven track record of holding powerful corporations accountable for their actions. He cleaned up the Hudson River and has been a steadfast voice for mothers who have often been ignored. His understanding of the intersection between corporate interests and government regulation is precisely what we need in this critical role. I understand that the political landscape is fraught with emotion and disappointment, especially with the current administration. However, we must recognize that this is an opportunity for real, transformative change in our food systems—an opportunity to reshape the relationship between corporate interests and government oversight in a way that prioritizes public health and environmental responsibility. As a mother, a farmer, a chef, and a concerned citizen, it would be a grave mistake to overlook the potential for substantial reform that RFK Jr. could bring to the Department of Health and Human Services. We have the chance to make significant strides toward a healthier food system and a more just society. I urge the members of the United States Senate to move quickly to confirm Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. as the next Secretary of Health and Human Services so that we can begin the critical work of making our nation’s food supply and its people healthy again. Mollie Engelhart is an accomplished restauranteur, organic chef and regenerative farmer. This article was originally published by RealClearHealth and made available via RealClearWire.

“The snow had begun in the gloaming, and busily all the night had been heaping field and highway with a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock wore ermine too dear for an earl, and the poorest twig in the elm tree was ridged inch-deep with pearl.”* And so, the cycle begins again. Winter has arrived, and will undoubtedly outstay its welcome, before our portion of the earth slowly finds spring. Just as we are enjoying spring, summer will suddenly pounce upon us, with all its heat and greenness. Eventually, golden fall will enchant us once more before we find ourselves back into winter again, a year from now. I am finally, in my older years, beginning to look at the “big picture” instead of always focusing on the close-up of often-worrisome details, though I still do the latter too often. This movement through twelve months seemingly took more time, thirty years ago, than it takes now. Of course that is a matter of perspective. If I could do anything with my writing, I’d etch in fiery words, the idea that: every moment is precious; that even in negative moments, we are full of life, and because of that, are able to find shining gleams of gold amid the darkness. January has always been a hopeful month, for me. It begins a new year, and there might be great possibilities ahead. The calendar pages are mostly empty of obligations. But, Oh. woe! January has suddenly filled up with doctors’ appointments which is not a really good omen. But isn’t it fine to have those skilled medical people available when needed? Our son came by the other day, having back issues, and growled: “Just who decided these were the golden years?” He has a long way to go before he can consider himself old, but he is absolutely right; aging brings challenges; and not just physical ones. I remember a friend, who was nearing 100 years, wondering why she was still alive when all her friends had passed on. At a small party she said: “I do enjoy all of you, but I am sad that there is no one left with whom I can share past experiences, who will understand them. It is true that as one’s generation thins, and as one’s capabilities ebb, one does wonder. But life itself, with all of its troubles, is reason enough, isn’t it? Even though I cannot whirl around in a polka, get the house cleaned in a day, plant four garden beds in an afternoon, or throw a 12th-Night party, I am alive and so far, lucid, a solid resource for our sons, grandchildren and family members. Kerm and I are a reliable “constant” for at least a while longer. Albert Camus said: “The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. Inside this aging body is a heart that is still curious, still as hungry, still as full of longing as it was in youth. I sit at the window and watch the world pass by, feeling like a stranger in a strange land, unable to relate to the world outside, and yet within me burns the same fire that once thought it could conquer the world. And the real tragedy is that the world still remains so distant and elusive, a place I could never quite grasp.”** I don’t regard my world as alien as Camus apparently felt, but perhaps that is because my world smaller and I have no desire to conquer those larger realms to which he refers. I do understand though, how one can feel young inside, regardless of parchment skin, whitening hair, and stiff joints. The inside person sometimes bears little relevance to the outside shell. According to the “young” part of my mind, I could square dance the evening away, buy the church that is for sale and turn it into a tea/book shop, or start an after-school spot for kids to gather. Fortunately, my “common sense” part kicks in and swats me (Gibb’s-style), bringing me back to reality. I recently heard a podcast by Dr. Kelly and Juliet;*** they were discussing signs of not aging well. One of the top signs was lack of mobility; increased episodes of falling and being unable to get up from the floor or the ground. Since this recently happened to me, and I was still recovering from that fall in November, I took special note of what they were saying. Bone-Builders has ceased to be in my community, so I’ve done no specific exercises to strengthen the legs. After listening to that, I have decided to begin again, regardless of how boring it is to exercise alone. It is important to me to maintain both mobility and independence. It is distressing to all concerned, when I must be picked up off the floor. So, in addition to the exercises, I will walk in the snow (carefully, with my new pointy cane) and take time for deep-breathing to strengthen my lungs, and maybe my balance. While out there, I’ll only visualize making snow angels and sliding down the hill. Just visualize! And now that I’ve mentioned snow, we’ve had a weather-cycle of light snow, melting away, and light snow again. No huge amounts but a constant covering. There seemed to be more, and it lasted longer, when I was growing up. Of course, I lived near Rochester, so we got lake-effect from Lake Ontario. I remember making snow forts, snow angels, and snowmen quite frequently when told to “get your nose out of that book and go outside!” In my teen years, we had sledding parties or skating parties, with hot chocolate afterward --- some delightful ones by moonlight. And we occasionally tobogganed; a hazardous sport when barbed wire fences are involved. Another part of my winter experience was how difficult it could be for dairy farmers when snowy roads closed. Until the 1960s, the road I lived on was unpaved; iffy driving in snow and mud. One snow storm, I remember, made it impossible for the milk truck to get through to our farm for two-three days. Cows do not stop giving milk just because there is nowhere to put it. So after all the milk cans were filled, we began finding other containers. Our final resort was sterilizing and then filling the bath tub with milk. My father swore me to secrecy, but I think that after 70 years, it’s probably OK to share what was a creative and frugal winter necessity. Today’s milk tanks may make excess storage easier perhaps, but I if I had a dairy farm, I’d keep a few of the old milk cans around, just in case. As we begin this year of 2025, I’ve been trying to equip my mind for happy things that this year may bring. Conscious gratitude may be a buffer against the frightening things; that are blatantly evident on every newscast and newspaper. Besides the activities mentioned above, there are some cold season blessings we may choose to make our winter pleasant. None of them involve TV, social media or driving in snow! We don’t have hot chocolate often, but once in a while, it is a comfortable way to end the day. Making soups; bean and ham, vegetable/beef, chicken noodle, potato; they taste great and make the house smell wonderful. Those stacks of books or magazines? What better time to read them than when we want to be cozily inside. A recent cartoon showed a girl sitting in a chair surrounded by stacks of books. The caption read: “Books won’t solve your problems, but ---- neither will housework. Read!” My sentiments too! There is music; because we are inside, we listen more often or maybe even produce some music ourselves. Popcorn and movies at home drown out those cold winds. Brisk breezes and fresh snow have a way of clearing the mind of sludgy thoughts too. A walk outside is good for both the mind and body. A warm coat, mittens and good boots are necessities, and most people in my age category should probably use a ski pole, cane or walking staff for balance. One of my jobs (before falling) was filling bird feeders. I may moan slightly in mid-afternoon, about going out into the cold, but once out there, I enjoy the chickadees bopping about, the tree branches against the sky, the flash of a cardinal, and checking who’s been by; via the tracks of rabbits, cats, mice, deer, and other visitors. January offers time to absorb some new ideas; to broaden our experiences, maybe to reach out to community in some way. The Spencer Grange used to have what we called a “Winter Wake-Up.” It was a dish-to-pass for anyone who wished to come. It brought a wide mix of people. There was conversation, sometimes musical instruments for a fun jam, and games or dancing. Being a comfortable part of a community is important, and we need to get together often. There are also many places to volunteer for everyone’s good: Food Pantry, Fire Station, Lion’s Club, Library, churches, etc. As we observe this yearly cycle, pay attention to the world around us – the star patterns, the times of meteor showers, changes in daylight hours. Taking the time to watch the sun rise or set is a pleasure for the soul. January skies can be brilliant. And increased daylight hours lift my spirits. So, begin this year’s cycle with relishing each day and being grateful for all the small beautiful happenings. Stay connected – with people around you, with the earth and skies, and with your own feelings and thoughts. Then, no matter what difficulties pop up in 2025, as they surely will, you will be glad you are alive and perhaps even grateful for January. Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *James Russell Lowell – American poet and diplomat. 1819-1891. **Albert Camus, from “The Fall”. --- French writer, dramatist, activist. 1913-1960. ****Dr. Kelly and Juliet--- American mobility trainers.

by Christine Schueckler If you’ve ever spent more than fifteen minutes on any social media or news platform, you’ve probably encountered “rage bait” content. Misleading headlines, out-of-touch opinions, and nonsensical commentary can be intentionally ridiculous, designed to make viewers click, view, and write scathing rebuttals in the comments section. Like it or not, the more it annoys us, the longer we remember it. This is exactly what the creators of this content want. Rage baiting is no longer restricted to Instagram Reels and TikTok, however. Political commentators are perhaps the worst offenders, provoking their audiences to righteous outrage. We’ve all experienced this: A voice in the political sphere discredits, debases, and insults those who believe differently, convincing his audience that he is morally and intellectually superior, while his opponents are evil, idiotic, or both. This has to stop. A 2023 Pew Research Center study found that 65 percent of American adults find thinking about politics “exhausting,” while another 55 percent stated that thinking about politics makes them angry. Those who were the most politically engaged were the angriest across the board, regardless of political party. And since 2016, both parties have increasingly reported that it is “stressful and frustrating” to discuss politics with those whom they disagree with. To be sure, there is much to be angry about. I find political debates to be “stressful and frustrating” as well. But when frustration with the convictions of the opposing party turns into anger at individuals—everyday Americans—with whom we disagree, a line has been crossed. Both Republicans and Democrats are guilty of negatively stereotyping each other, equating one type of person with the whole and thus dehumanizing every member of the opposite party. Democrats seem to regard Republicans as Trump-worshipping, uneducated, fanatically religious, racist hicks. At the same time, Republicans stereotype their opponents as purple-haired, Satan-worshipping, self-righteous snowflakes. None of this is productive. Stereotypes exist for a reason. Certainly, people of both descriptions do exist. But political news outlets perpetuate these clichés to dehumanize the other side, to make us angry. And it’s working. In order to heal the stark divisions in our country, we need to approach one another with compassion and understanding. It’s baffling to see how many members of both parties have never taken the time to understand the other point of view and learned to say, “I disagree, but I understand.” This is vital for the future of constructive discourse in our nation. What many fail to recognize is that someone can be wrong and still have the best of intentions. I firmly believe that the majority of voters in both parties are motivated by concern for the well-being of others, care for the oppressed, and human equality. We may have different definitions of what constitutes “well-being”; we may prioritize different forms of equality. But almost everyone is doing what they think is right. It’s easy to demonize our rivals, to write them off as twisted and evil. It’s easy to become complacent in our own convictions and decide that we have nothing to learn from the opposition. However, I hold that you can’t truly know what you believe until your views are formidably challenged. We need to be willing to engage with those with whom we disagree—with friendliness, respect, and an open mind. I speak from experience when I say that I’ve learned far more about my conservative beliefs by engaging with my more liberal peers than I ever have from conservative media outlets. The media wants us to be angry. It drives up their viewership numbers and keeps us coming back for more, anxiously waiting to hear what terrible thing the other side will do next. It has no incentive to treat its rivals as humans with past experiences and honestly held convictions. But we do. The end of political polarization begins with the individual, with respect and open dialogue. Our country relies on every one of us to treat each other as humans instead of sycophantic, faceless cogs in the political machine. J.M. Barrie wrote, “Shall we make a new rule of life from tonight: always to try to be a little kinder than is necessary?” This is what America needs. Begin by assuming the best of intentions, then listen. Be a little kinder than is necessary. Christine Schueckler is a third-year English and French student at the University of Virginia. This content originally appeared on InetellectualTakeout.org and is is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License

Scattered scraps of Christmas wrap, curling ribbons and partially-burned candles, mark this morning, as I send greetings out for a continued good Christmas season (it is Christmas until Twelfth Night January 6th), a Blessed Chanukah season a Happy Boxing Day, and a joyous Kwanzaa festival. All of those make up today. Also, our granddaughters and family are here for a few days, and life is good. After a leisurely, get-it-yourself breakfast, I’m sitting at the computer, looking out at a wintery landscape, about to happily connect with you all. We got enough snow last Friday to make plowing the driveway necessary, but it is receding now. Yesterday was lovely, as it generally is when our family gathers; there’s laughter, appreciation and sharing of stories. And because we are in basic agreement about much of life in general the atmosphere is very relaxed. However, even if our whole extended family members gathered and there are some with whom we disagree in specific areas of life, we all have love enough, and manners enough, to listen to each other, and speak with consideration. Loving does not depend on thinking alike or agreeing about lifestyles. We love people for who they are to us --- quirks and all. That is what good families do, and what courteous people do, and definitely what Christians are supposed to do. Courtesy and caring should be our basic attitude toward each other anywhere. If we regard each other with love and respect, we can be honest, but listen and allow differing points of view to be spoken. If we look on each other as persons who both care and wish to learn, life would be better everywhere (infinitely better in Congress, where manners are few and adolescent behavior is rampant)! Manners seem to be slipping into rudeness and scorn, in a lot of places. My father, having himself been brought up by a stern mother, was adamant about proper behavior. There were to be no sloppy table manners; no interruptions of other’s conversations, or, Heaven forbid, no throwing a tantrum, or behaving in a rude manner in the presence of anyone at all, anywhere! We were to respect a person for who he/she was, and if we couldn’t, we were to keep quiet about it. While I don’t agree with my father’s way of teaching this, I do agree that children should be taught to be courteous people. This must have impressed my siblings as well as me for I never heard any of their children behaving in a way that created havoc when we were all together. The house could be filled with a dozen children of varying ages, and there was only laughter and conversation. There might be a scream or two if someone fell down the laundry chute or rolled out of the hay mow, but those were understandable reactions. I have to wonder about parents who let their kiddies mouth off, loudly demand attention or scream in displeasure. It is no favor for children to allow them to be rude or uncaring of others or to think that their little selves are the center of the universe. Teaching children to get along with others will be a benefit to them for all their lives. I’m not advocating “children should be seen and not heard”! Nor am I failing to recognize that there are emotional disturbances that surely need understanding help. That is quite a different thing from being obnoxious to get one’s own way. I am just saying, manners are a boon and a blessing to all concerned. But back to Christmas. Kerm and I can, from our vantage point, look back on a lot of family Christmas celebrations. Very few were ideal or without problems. When I was seven or eight, I had the mumps during Christmas holidays, and I remember being able to eat only mashed potatoes for dinner. And there was the Christmas my father built large doll houses for my niece, Jan, and for me (but whose would be finished first??). After Kerm and I were married, there were the years when traveling to visit family triggered colds and/or tonsillitis for our little ones. We spent a lot of nights in a rocking chair with coughing, wakeful children. Then there was the year our three-year-old decided to open gifts at 2 AM and he is still alive to talk about it. The year we moved to the Catskills, Christmas Eve brought a blizzard through those lovely mountains and most of central NYS. When we tried traveling on the next day (Christmas) --- we ended up in a ditch outside of Trumansburg. A super-kind family rescued us that night --- with our two children and an English cocker. They warmed us, fed us and gave us sleeping bags and blankets, and allowed our dog to point their cockateel all night. There were really good Christmases when we put tables through my mother’s dining room and living room; when our whole clan of 35 or so gathered. There was the Christmas when Grandma knitted every kid a pair of wooly slippers, and the Christmas when our small son’s 15-year-old uncle, gave him a drum!! There was the stellar Christmas when Kerm built a barn for the boys; a barn they could crawl into, with hand-painted-by-me wooden cows, pigs and chickens. We remember Kerm’s Grandma’ B.’s “Christmas cake,” opening gifts after the morning milking was done, and learning from Kerm’s Grandma Storm how to play triple-deck pinochle. We have a rich store of Christmas memories to warm us when we are feeling adrift and old. Looking back, seems to erase about 30 years from our ages. Christmases do not have to be perfect in every way; they were always exciting regardless, or maybe because of, mumps, weather, financial resources, sniffles or coughs, and even a drum. Every twelve-month cycle brings both good times and not-so-good to really terrible ones. I’m sure this has been true as long as there have been years. We are nearing the end of 2024, which seems quite impossible, and leaves me wondering how a yar can fly by so fast. Last January we began the new year by sharing a meal with friends. That is an excellent way to begin any year and we hope to do this again. Of course, by tradition, many people begin making resolutions for a better “next year.”. I recently read a blog by someone called The Urban Monk, whose writing I like. And he suggested that perhaps trying to make changes in our habits in January, with the snow flying, isn’t such a smart thing to do. He suggested that winter is a time to snuggle in, to simply enjoy a time of semi-hibernation. He feels winter can better be used as a time of restoration rather than resolution. Save the new energies and habits for spring. And that sounds good to me. I plan to use wintery days to put together at least two or three more scrapbooks; getting my piles of photos and memorabilia in some kind of order and tossing the rest. And, of course, there also will be the plant and seed catalogs just waiting for my enthusiastic scanning! (Repeat after me: “No new gardens! Downsizing!”) 😊 It isn’t my habit to make resolutions anyway. There are certainly things I hope to do, but basically, I hope to survive well, to find the most joy possible in each day, and to find peace amid the conflict and chaos around me. I would like to be less judgmental and less inclined to go off like a lit sparkler when I’m upset. But I know that kind of behavior adjustment, is a work in progress. I would also like to make sure I do not fall on my face (or any other part of my body) either literally or metaphorically. Falls are potentially lethal for people in their 80s, and I’d rather not go there. Age is maybe supposed to equal wisdom, but there are times when my wisdom is on par with a toddler. A small part of my brain tells me that I’ll be fine on a step stool, or skidding around in the snow, but another part of my brain --- thankfully --- usually flashes a warning signal that saves me from disaster. I’d like a tad more wisdom in those questionable areas of activity. And I’d like to have clear direction, on occasion, whether to speak firmly, or to keep my mouth shut. The learning process will likely be a hardship, but one that needs to be endured. As you look to the last days of December and peer into the new year beginning in January, I hope that you envision good times with friends, many moments of peace, and a continued growth of who you are. I saw a seminar being offered, the title of which was “A Year of Courageous Loving.” And the subtitle was “A Yearlong Journey of Compassion, Connection, and Courageous Love.” I thought that this is probably the ideal way to look ahead in a year that must be difficult. There is so little peace, so much suffering, so little compassion, so much selfishness and a plethora of twisted values. If we meet these challenges with anger, despair, or bitterness, we only contribute to the universal mess. Learning to love with agape love, in the midst of all that we see as bad, inappropriate, and even evil, that is a weapon that will, eventually, make a difference for good. Meanwhile, in these last December days, I find this advice by Richard Street to be good: “Enjoy these short days. Curl up with a book, a candle, and a glass of something you like. Revel in the dark depths of December, so beautiful, black, and utterly without expectation. Longer days will be coming soon enough.” Carol writes from her home in Spencer.

We take pleasure in answering at once and thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun: Dear Editor, I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, "If you see it in The Sun, it's so." Please tell me the truth: Is there a Santa Claus? Virginia O'Hanlon, 115 West 95th Street. *************************** Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except (what) they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood. Francis P. Church, Editor 1897

Are you sitting with your feet up, listening to lovely music and enjoying the day? Relishing the season of Advent? Perhaps not; for many, ‘tis the season of constant rushing around, and endless “to-do” lists. For at least fifty years, I’ve been trying to bring more serenity into my very own holiday chaos, sometimes succeeding for a bit, but the rushing around always catches me at some point, tossing me hither and leaving my mind yon and a-whirl! I find myself overwhelmed by the metaphorical weight of “wreaths, ribbons, baubles, bangles and beads.” But, with determination (and probably advanced age!), each year, holiday time gets a little better. I may be a slow learner, but I do pick up a hack or two every year, that, when applied, eases my holiday season and improves my mental health. I used to be madly sewing holiday pajamas for our small sons, robes for grandmas, sachet bags, neckties, etc. Said sons are quite large now, and can acquire their own pajamas, and I plan no more sewing projects for them or anyone else. In the kitchen, I no longer make six kinds of candy and a dozen kinds of cookies. I find two or three kinds of cookies and one batch of fudge is more than sufficient ---especially when everyone is watching their A1C and trying to stem the tide of weight gain. Now, usually when my head begins spinning, I very sensibly sit down and listen to some Christmas music, from the Kings’ Singers, Enya, the Monks of the Weston Priory or Rod McKuen. And I am restored. When one lightens the daily weight of too much to do, and moving too fast, it becomes possible to share the warmth and blessing of our personal Light within. This year, because I had the misfortune of falling and injuring both ankles, just before Thanksgiving, I’m slowed down by necessity. Talk about bad timing! Or is it? While I am recovering, it is certainly difficult to rearrange furniture, hang the greens and buzz about in my usual speedy manner. And that is a bit frustrating, but impaired ability has taught me several things: 1) It isn’t so bad to allow people to help you. I greatly enjoyed Thanksgiving where my only contribution was a casserole of Dutchess potatoes taken from the freezer. I have felt blessed by the flowers, applesauce, Emails and cards from friends. I also was grateful for the kind assistance provided by sons and daughters-in-law. 2) For right now, I have discovered that I can enjoy the season without some of the decorations and traditions that I thought necessary. This may not be true of every year, but the world actually doesn’t fall apart if I take a nap instead of decking the halls. 3) This experience has helped me to sort out what is important to our happiness and what is ephemeral. There is much that is pleasant and pretty but won’t be missed. I save my limited energy for what delights me. One of those things is putting out simple seasonal decorations. I like pumpkins on the porch for Halloween and Thanksgiving, and then evergreens for Christmas. When it is time (and this year, the days were so warm that the jack-o-lanterns sagged quickly), the pumpkins go to the turkeys and deer. Then, the green wreaths with red velvet bows, take over the porch. I enjoy the annual reappearance of old ornaments, setting up the creche with all our odd, collection of santons (figures), and creating a winter scene with the Sno Babies. And I love the large bouquet of seeded eucalyptus that I only get at this time of the year. There will be one difference this year. My rearrangement of the living room in September, left no room for squeezing in a floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree. Just none!! I’m very skilled too, at squeezing things in, but even I can’t do it this time. So, for the second time in our lives, we will be having a table tree. Our first, and so far, only table tree was in 1964, our first Christmas together. We lived in what was optimistically called an “efficiency apartment” just over the D.C. line into College Park, Maryland. This abode consisted of a tiny kitchen, a miniscule bathroom, and a slightly larger room that doubled as a living room and bedroom, in the below-ground level of a house. Kerm was in grad school, and I had been working all of three months, as a 4-H and Youth educator for Maryland Cooperative Extension. To mention that our budget was tight would be redundant. Kerm finally found an “affordable” Scotch pine ($35 in 1964 was considerable!! Rent was only $95/month!), and set it up on the only possible piece of furniture, an oak dresser. We found some shiny inexpensive ornaments, a string of lights, and a box of tinsel. This was our first Christmas tree. And it was beautiful! Another dilemma created by our extremely limited income that year, was with Christmas gifts. At the time, I was accustomed to giving to 14 nieces and nephews as well as the adults in our lives. What could we do? Happily, we found an unusual solution to part of our problem, as we were exiting a five and dime store. There was a 16-inch-tall “Gonk” on display; a creature that resembled the Shmoos in the “Lil Abner cartoons.* When inflated, they kind of rocked and popped back up when knocked over. And they were $2 apiece. What a success they were! As the living room, at Christmas filled with gonks, everyone laughed and laughed, and one kid who we thought too old for a gonk, complained that he hadn’t gotten one. Happy Christmases do not have to be expensive. Inflation has made gifting a bit harder, but ingenuity still works. Baked gifts and home-made candy are always wonderful and so are promissory notes for helping out at a later time. I grew up with a regular Christmas tree every year with lights, tinsel, and Shiny Brite ornaments, as did Kerm. Sometimes we even had “angel hair” (popular in the 1950s), that prickly-to-the-hands stuff made of spun glass, resembling cotton candy. But after my father died, and my mother was alone, the large tree became too much for her to handle, even with help. She gradually drifted into setting up a large crock full of evergreen branches from her own landscaping---spruce, fir, pine, and yew. Her decorations were simple, often just bright red bows or white snowflakes! She passed the Shiny Brite ornaments on to us. I was a little sad to see that change, but the fragrance and the vision of the mixed greens was just as Christmas-y as a tree stretching from floor to ceiling. And the really important thing, that we came home to find, hadn’t changed the pleasure of being together. Humans need togetherness to really thrive in life. If one’s blood family isn’t compatible, then we must create a family from friends. No one should allow themselves to be isolated. Everyone has heard that “no man is an island unto himself,”* and this is quite true. We need each other. Some of us are more comfortable than others with plenty of alone time. But every single one of us also craves companionship. One of the worst results of the pandemic, in addition to the deaths, and loss of many small businesses, was the effect of isolation on people. It created major difficulties for kids who were doing all of their schoolwork on line, and also for adults who had no social resources. Some elderly people in nursing homes died without family nearby; they weren’t allowed in. I hope that if another such time comes along, we realize how damaging all that isolation can be, and will try some ideas for mitigating the loneliness even as we try to keep from spreading disease (masks are useful things after all) We are undeniably interconnected! The light from the sun is needed for our survival on earth. The Light that we seek, each year in December, in the seasons of Chanukah and Christmas is necessary for our spiritual enlightenment and growth. And Kwanzaa also reminds us about the blessing of Light and a supportive community. Releasing some of the weight of our imaginary holiday burdens and taking time to find lightness of spirit, is the purpose of Advent. Christmas Eve is only 12 days away. Chanukah begins at sundown on Christmas Day. Kwanzaa begins on the 26th. With dark clouds (both real and metaphorical) around every corner, carrying Light within is not always easy. I think that this next year may be one of those difficult times for many. We need a spiritual connection with a Higher Power than our own, we need to realize our ties to and responsibility for the earth, and we always need each other. A personal in-filling and sharing of Light is what saves humanity and this world. Leo Tolstoy*** knew that when he said: “There is something in the human spirit that will survive and prevail --- a tiny and brilliant light burning in the heart of man that will not go out, no matter how dark the world becomes.” May this holiday time be full of blessings for you --- music, laughter, good memories and a strengthening of your spirit. Let your Light shine! Carol Bossard writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *”Lil Abner” by Al Capp ---American cartoonist and humorist, known for his satirical cartoon, “Lil Abner”. 1909-1979. **John Donne ---English poet, scholar, soldier and cleric in the Church of England. “No man is an island” came from Meditation XVII --- a study of the relatedness of humans. ***Madeleine L’Engle – American writer and teacher. Wrote both young person and adult fiction and non-fiction. 1918-2007. ****Leo Tolstoy – Of the Russian nobility and a well-known writer. 1828-1910.

We continue facing an era in state government that will forever be defined by a “no consequences” approach to law and order. And in a state that remains, at least for the foreseeable future, under one-party, all-Democrat control, there appears to be no let up on that approach. In fact, one of the first post-election actions for New Yorkers is the implementation of a new law known as the “Clean Slate Act” – which took effect on November 16th and directs the state court system to begin the process of automatically expunging millions of criminal records from public view. The consequences of these and many other actions have become more than clear to many of us in the Legislature, throughout the law enforcement community, amongst advocates for crime vicitms and their families, and elsewhere: a rapidly declining Empire State. Beginning under former Governor Andrew Cuomo and continuing under current Governor Hochul, working in tandem with the Legislature’s Democrat majorities, New York State’s criminal justice system has been turned upside down – and, in the view of many, for the worse. Much worse, in fact. Failed bail and discovery law reforms have been a disaster. A “Raise the Age” law (aka the Gang Recruitment Act) removes criminal responsibility for violent 16- and 17-year-olds, thereby providing incentive for gangs to recruit and utilize younger members. The ability of law enforcement to ensure public security has been severely weakened and the criminal element knows it. The same is true throughout our prison system, where the Albany Democrats’ HALT Act restricts the Department of Corrections from maintaining control and, instead, gives violent inmates the upper hand. Correctional facilities have become powder kegs of violence. At the beginning of November, the New York State Correctional Officers & Police Benevolent Association (NYSCOPBA) called on the governor and the Legislature to recognize and end it, noting that the most recent data indicates “that both inmate-on-staff and inmate-on-inmate assaults have already exceeded 2023 levels with two months still left in the calendar year, underscoring a crisis that shows no signs of improvement.” NYSCOPBA President Chris Summers said, “Enough is enough—our members cannot and should not be used as punching bags. NYSCOPBA members, working in the most challenging of conditions, are being assaulted at record rates, yet their health and safety continue to be disregarded by those responsible for protecting the state workforce. The statistics speak volumes: 2024 is set to shatter last year’s assault records.” New York now has a parole system that goes out of its way to release violent inmates – including cop killers and child murderers – back into society. Instead of it all being a wakeup call to Governor Hochul and Albany Democrats, it just seems to keep fueling their determination to keep going too far in the opposite direction. The latest example is that the “Clean Slate Act” is now another law of the land in New York. The governor and supporters of the new law tout it as a “second chance” action, aimed at giving people with criminal records, who have served their time and paid their debt to society, a better opportunity to move forward in their lives to find a job, get an education, and secure housing. That’s an admirable and, in fact, widely held goal of the criminal justice system and New York State already had built-in mechanisms to achieve it. Clean Slate, however, takes erasing criminal records from public view to a whole new level – a sweeping, across-the-board, one-size-fits-all approach at the risk of crime victims and law-abiding New Yorkers. That’s because the innocent-sounding action now begins a widespread sealing of millions of criminal records, upwards of 2.3 million conviction records to be exact, including for any number of violent crimes including assault, armed robbery, attempted murder, manslaughter, kidnapping, drug trafficking, and others, regardless of how many criminal convictions an individual has, they're all expunged. Records will be sealed eight years after sentencing or after release from incarceration, whichever is later, for felony convictions, and after three years for misdemeanors. One former, prominent state prosecutor, Albany County District Attorney David Soares, a Democrat, never bought it. Following the law’s approval, he said, “Employers and other people will not be able to see who it is that they're hiring, so you're putting a lot of employers in peril. If you're a parent who's looking for child care, you may be hiring someone who has had a violent past, and you just don't know it." Senate Republican Leader Rob Ortt has stated, “The victims of crime and their families do not get a ‘Clean Slate.’” Clean Slate continues an alarming trend by Governor Hochul and the Legislature’s Democrat majorities to keep enacting pro-criminal policies that risk the safety of all New Yorkers. Senator Tom O'Mara represents New York's 58th District which covers all of Chemung, Schuyler, Seneca, Steuben, Tioga and Yates counties, and a portion of Allegany County.

These first two weeks of October have flown by, as have most days and months, to my over-busy mind. Suddenly we need a fire in the wood stove on chilly mornings. The plants that I will attempt to overwinter are inside now and the garden looks relieved that fall has come and it can sleep until spring. If you could get an opinion from my garden, I’m quite sure it would relate a sad story about being neglected; that the summer was tough, the weeds grew tall, September brought little rain, and it is feeling unloved! Fortunately, it is now time for good gardens to go dormant and to build up hopes for next year. There is no longer any possibility of hanging onto summer, though one may still plant a few more spring bulbs. But nix on another row of lettuce and there’s no basking in the hot, hot sun or gardening in as few clothes as possible. It is now time for flannel shirts and wool socks. We harvested both tomatoes and potatoes, but neither were abundant nor were they large. And the tomatoes were rather tasteless. Other gardeners in this area agreed, about their tomatoes. My radishes grew out of control, but I have waited until now to pull them. In their over-growth, they bore lots of small white flowers, and I noticed that bees were all over the flowers. Since I didn’t have all that many flowering annuals this year, I thought leaving the radish flowers would be a kind thing to do. Bees need all the help they can get, but hmmm… I wonder how radish honey would taste????! We’ve been pruning things quite severely this fall; my lilacs have all acquired some disease and many of their branches have died. The leaves aren’t looking good either; most of them fell a month ago after becoming brown and dry. I’m hoping that some of them show life next spring. I would hate to lose that wonderful purple mist and the fragrance. Other shrubs have grown out of control --- seemingly suddenly, though I’m sure they have been sneakily growing bit by bit until ----ZOOM---- they could take over the house. I can understand how the impenetrable rose hedge grew up around Sleeping Beauty in the old fairy tale. And good for the prince; it takes real courage, not to mention muscle, to fight with a determined shrub! Kerm has had a many-years-war with multiflora roses and one or two of my climbing ones. In the last essay, I spoke of depression, an ailment that plagues so many people. I seldom succumb to it in the Fall of the year; instead, I feel a certain lassitude --- lack of ambition to accomplish. By mid-October, I have this strong urge to curl up in a corner of the couch with my wonderful wooly coverlet and a stack of books. Depending on the time of day, there should be either a cup of tea or a cup of hot chocolate on the end table. I wonder if this is the autumn version of Spring Fever! It seems to be how I transition into late fall and early winter. Unfortunately, my desire to be inert, does little to accomplish house-keeping or meal-preparation☹. So,eventually, out of guilt and necessity, I try to summon enough energy to put in another load of laundry, make that casserole, and get at those cobwebs. I fully agree with “Alice**” who when she was “Through The Looking Glass” said: “’Oh, it is too bad, ‘she cried. ‘I never saw such a house for getting in the way. Never!’”* Deer season is nearly with us again, so for the deer who take up residence on our hill it is a time to be extra-alert. Our son has been chopping his way up our hill and I’m sure the deer are observing. Over the summer, big winds have blown down quite a few large branches that now bar advancing feet or vehicles. Shawn has both a tree-stand and a blind up there somewhere, and he hopes that after a few weeks, those structures will seem “normal” to the deer, but I believe deer may be smarter than he thinks. Shawn hunts with a crossbow and a gun in the appropriate seasons. Since he likes venison and uses it, I don’t give him grief about hunting deer. I am aware that the deer population, without enough natural predators, tends to over-run gardens, cause many an accident on the roads, and spread disease among themselves. So, hunting is useful to mitigate what we humans have done to unbalance nature. But I am also glad that when the hunter drives down the driveway, the deer come out to eat our wild apples and bird seed. Sometimes I’ve seen them emerge from the woods in time to watch Shawn’s truck roll down the driveway. September and October have been very social months. Friends from afar came to visit, so, of course, a party was absolutely necessary. A couple of days later, our neighbors came over for ice cream sundaes and conversation. It is so easy to isolate one’s self; we are all busy, and sometimes we just don’t take the time to be neighborly. Getting together for informal fun helps us stay acquainted. Over the first weekend in October, we drove to Vermont to spend some time with our son and family. The weekend after that, Kerm’s siblings and families came to our house for an afternoon of sharing stories and good food. We will continue our connecting by driving to Pennsylvania for a couple of days with friends there. Our time in Vermont exposed us to beautiful scenery during leaf-peeper season, and gave us time with our granddaughters, daughter-in-law, and son. We explored a bit, rode to Burlington to see Kaylah at college and got a glimpse of Ashlyn’s senior photo ops which, I assure you, are far more artistically done than my 1960 senior pictures. We feel very comfortable with Vermont’s twisty/often-dirt roads; we have spent vacation time there off and on for quite a few years. The Green Mountains look very blue in the distance and the rock formations are impressive. The leaves were a beautiful mélange of colors. It is hard to imagine that solid granite moving for any reason at all (rather like some people’s minds; great in the mountains, not so great in our thinking.). We don’t do as much traveling now, nor do we go as far as in former years, but getting out and about keeps us alert to the world around us. We may not have all that many years to feel able to take off and safely drive whenever we wish. So, we mustn’t waste an opportunity to do so while we can. We need to be with people who make our lives better just by being, and this time, we did miss some of those. I wish we’d had time to visit with all our New England friends and family while we were in Vermont. We didn’t want to neglect you, but time away does have its limits. Meanwhile it is mid-October, and may I call your attention to the old childhood craft of waxing colorful leaves and hanging them in the window? That is simple and fun, but there is actually another way to preserve them for a table arrangement. ou will need a bottle of glycerin (local drug store) and water. Make a solution of 2 parts boiling water to 1 part glycerin.Stir well and cool a bit. Place your cut branches with lovely leaves into 3 inches of the solution and allow them to stand until the leave darken a bit. Remove and arrange in a vase. The attractive foliage will last for weeks. I plan to spray the Advent wreath (coming all too quickly) with this solution, as an experiment. Hopefully, it will keep the needles from drying out quite so soon. We don’t want a wreath fire to enliven our services; the services are (in a very good way, of course) quite lively enough already. Henry David Thoreau** wrote: “Live each season as it passes, breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.” There are specific autumn aromas ---- decaying vegetation, sunshine on damp ground, burning leaves (though one really shouldn’t do this), drying grasses, and sometimes the sharp, cold smell of snow. Every day has small, quiet happenings if we are observant. Savoring these little miracles is how we grow in gratitude. We need to be appreciating whatever season we are in with all its quirks and delights. So do take time to really enjoy October before suddenly it turns into November. Carol Bossard writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *“Through The Looking Glass” by Lewis Carroll, an English author, poet, mathematician, photographer and Anglican Deacon. 1832-1898. **Henry David Thoreau --- quotation from “The Gardener’s Assistant.” Thoreau was an American philosopher, poet, essayist and naturalist. 1817-1862.

October can be the quintessential autumn month full of sunshine, changing foliage and mellow breezes, or, it can rain, blow, and even, very occasionally, snow. Kerm used to schedule a multi-county 4-H horse show on Columbus Day weekend, and several times, there was rain and twice, there was snow. And there have been a few snowy Halloweens. We’ll hope for a sunny and mellow October this year; we have a couple of road trips in mind, and want really good weather. Then too, family will be coming to our house for a get-together, and we’d hope roads would be good for their drive and for hiking up our “dragon-infested” hill (we put up a sign that said: “Beyond this there may be dragons!”). We’d like that perfect October day, when it is as though angels had made a night visit to touch up the leaves; making everything delightfully crisp, colorful and exhilarating. I’m glad my brain accepts angels and dragons; it makes life more interesting. While leaves are dancing in the breezes outside, inside, it is time for people-dancing. Community dances usually begin in the fall, and there will be the polka, square dancing and line dancing. Sadly, I don’t think I have energy or balance for either the polka or square dancing, but maybe line-dancing would work. FYI, the gem of the month is the opal (found largely in Australia), and the flower is the marigold, which is a bit odd since in many places, marigolds would be frosted by October. But the frilly blossoms do hold all the gold, mahogany, reds and oranges of fall. I thought I had none, but yesterday, I found three plants peeking brightly out from beneath the weeds. We have several family and friend birthdays in October. My brother, Ken’s birthday was at the end of October, often celebrated with a yummy molasses cake, and just a day later, Kerm’s parents marked their wedding anniversary. My sister-in-law celebrates her birthday mid-month as does a good friend. So, it is a month of festivities and memories. It is also, annually,a time to adjust things in my house, energy permitting. With Kerm’s help, I rearranged the living room a week ago. This is not an easy task; the room isn’t all that large so there are not many choices for some of the large furniture. Things like the book case, the wood stove and a desk are sort of permanently in place. But I do what I can to change the setting a bit. Both sons dropped in at different times, but their query was the same – “Hmm --- you rearranged things. What prompted that?” Maybe their wives don’t disrupt things when they are once in place, but you’d think the boys would remember that pulling chairs and tables around and about is something I’ve always done. Moving furniture gives me a fresh perspective on life. And it also encourages some deeper cleaning than the norm. October, delightful though it might be, isn’t all bubbles and happiness. We were with a group of friends lately, chatting about many things, as in "The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things. Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings ---and when the sea is boiling hot--- and whether pigs have wings!” Naturally, there was discussion of the looming election, which for most of us, created a heaviness of spirit. Then, the fall season itself, can, for some, bring discouragement and even, depression. Difficult events at the same time, can worsen this feeling; dancing is the las thing that depression wishes to do, and there seem to be many more dragons than angels! As sunny days grow fewer in the Finger Lakes, the gray skies can bring bleak attitudes, rather like an emotional flu bug. Gloom that might vanish on a sunny warm day, hangs around and grows darker when the skies are gray or spitting out precipitation of some sort. I have written before about depression because I have lived with it several times, as have a number of friends; it is neither fun to work through, nor easy to disperse. Those who have not experienced it are usually clueless about its depth and difficulties. Admittedly, it is hard on the people around us when depression hits, but more understanding of the ailment and continued patience, can help. We need to talk about it! Depression, like any other ailment, can become even more serious if left too long untended. An analogy would be a broken leg; painful, but repairable. But if one leaves a broken leg untreated, infection may set in, then gangrene, and one might end up losing that leg, or even one’s life. Depression may begin as a light case of “the blues.” But it can rapidly become a heavy enough cloud to engulf a person, who to needs the intervention of professional help. Help may be talk- therapy or medication therapy, or both. There are also things that we can do individually that may hurry the process on. Getting out and about (not easy but doable), interacting with other people --- especially those who are light-bearers to the soul are steps in healing. Reading books or watching videos or podcasts that talk about depression will also help, as does journaling. Listening to music, being outside in fresh air and sunshine, and interacting with pets are all things that inspire us, and help to dissipate the block cloud that clogs our minds and spirits. Whatever path we may choose, whichever changes to our lives we need, the important thing is to not ignore our feelings. We need to give ourselves the sort of care that will restore us to ourselves. And I would say to everyone who is deep in despair, repeat these two mantras: “This too shall pass!”* and “I will STAY - the world needs me!”** October is time to ready ourselves for the cold months ahead. This month has enough rain and chilly wind to remind us that worse-weather days are coming. Even if we are not inclined toward depression, winter can be challenging, and we all need ways to get happily through it. We repair the bird feeders, hoping that no more bears come by to pull them down. We check the insulation around Smoke’s cat bed by the back door and make sure there is straw in the former dog abode, for wandering feral cats. Kerm splits more wood and kindling to feed our morning fire in the wood stove. We load up on sunflower seeds for the bird feeders, and chicken scratch for the wild turkeys. We surround the rose bushes and azaleas with burlap, protecting them from both wind and deer. This does help, but the far-too-intelligent deer have learned to lean on the burlap cages, and squiggle their noses in for a leafy tidbit now and then. On Facebook, there is a fun sketch of a squirrel, scurrying up and down a tree, carrying stacks of books to his hole; attempting a good balance of nuts to novels. Appropriate, for one of our fall jobs is to make very sure we have enough books to get us happily through the winter. Of course, we have our own books, and we enjoy re-reading many of them. But we also need some new literary material. We go to used book stores, regular book stores and on-line sources. This might be a very good time to renew library cards; both Spencer and Van Etten have lots of great books, including ones for listening. Too, there are library book sales- one coming up next week in Candor. With sufficient books of many kinds: fiction, non-fiction, biographies, poetry, and even re-reading books from childhood like the Anne of Green Gables series, or the Black Stallion books, you might not even notice the snow blocking your path or the sleet coming down. There is still time to get in any traveling we want to do before the roads become iffy. When I retired, I determined not to subject myself to slippery roads, ever again. I had driven, and ridden, on some perfectly dreadful ones to and from work. This hasn’t completely worked for me (unfortunately, Kerm considers bad roads a challenge!), but mostly I manage to stay inside, safely ensconced in my chair with a book. But October driving can be beautiful here in the northeast. Foliage is brilliant and even if the day is cloudy, the colors lend their light, brightening the day. So, we are off……… As we go dancing (I hope) into Fall, and feel immense gratitude for our suddenly lovely surroundings, I would quote the poet, Mary Oliver: “You might see an angel anytime and anywhere. Of course, you have to open our eyes to a kind of second level, but it’s not really hard. The whole business of what’s reality and what isn’t has never been solved and probably never will be. So, I don’t care to be too definite about anything. I’ll just tell you this: I don’t care how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. It’s enough to know that for some people, they exist and that they dance.”**** ******** Carol Bossard writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. * Quotation taken from the seal ring of a Persian King, centuries ago. ** Quotation from Heather Leindecker *** From The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll **** Mary Oliver –American poet who won the Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award.

by Rebecca Friedrichs Facebook chief Mark Zuckerburg now admits in writing that he was manipulated by the Biden administration into suppressing free speech on Meta platforms. His actions obstructed vital information on effective COVID protocols, and bolstered the lie that the Hunter Biden laptop was Russian disinformation. This did enormous damage to our health and polity. But Facebook’s censorship brought harm to innocent children too. I’m a longtime teacher, and for decades I’ve personally witnessed dangerous corruption in America’s schools. I dared to warn families, so I was silenced by Zuckerberg’s “shadow-banning,” thanks to algorithms imposed by censors (“fact checkers”) at Meta. Meta’s banning (as well as Twitter’s) began the very same night of my 2020 speech at the Republican National Convention. My pages changed from active with hundreds of likes and shares to zero likes and shares. And I went from rapid, daily follower increases to a complete halt in growth. Hundreds of my followers have reached out to me since the banning began to tell me that they no longer see my posts in their newsfeeds. Instagram’s (Meta’s) analytics show that an average of only 25% of my followers are seeing my content. That’s how shadow-banning works. I’m allowed to post, but my message is squelched. Though I’m a volunteer in this battle for the kids, I had to hire social media experts to help me get my message to the public. They’ve reignited my social media presence – predominantly on Meta’s Instagram – with a reel-heavy strategy. Our ratios are the highest they’ve ever been – with the exception of follower count. That doesn’t add up. It’s even worse on Facebook and X. We have high hopes that we’ll be freed on X since Elon is now in charge, but we’ve been unable to reach their tech team for support and believe our pre-existing Twitter shadow-banning has yet to be lifted on X. Government tech is suppressing my speech because I exposed so-called teacher unions for morphing America’s schools into social, sexual, and political warzones, and I shared personal stories of how they pick on loving teachers and little kids. Though I spoke 100% eyewitness truth, I’m still shadow-banned four years later. I know many people like me who are also banned on social media. We’re denied our free speech rights, while the predators we’re exposing broadcast loudly. Zuckerberg stated that he believes “the government pressure [to censor content] was wrong.” He also penned, “I feel strongly that we should not compromise our content standards due to pressure from any Administration in either direction – and we’re ready to push back if something like this happens again.” That sounds nice. But I’m still shadow-banned, and the day after Zuckerberg’s letter released, my personal page was inexplicably suspended. Many of my allies in the cause for truth are banned too. Because of the censorship, we’re now ruled by tyrants. I have friends whose family members died from untested COVID shots and government-mandated hospital protocols. I know many who are suffering serious shot-related health complications. And the kids I’ve been trying to protect are being sexualized in our schools in record numbers. That’s why I’m concerned about Zuckerberg’s claims that he’ll “push back if something like this happens again,” because it’s still happening – it never stopped. He never freed us from censorship. Nothing Zuckerburg can say now will erase the injury he and the other tech titans have done to the country that made them billionaires. But I’ll believe he’s sorry when he ends the silencing of honest Americans like me. Who knows how many Americans are dead, or severely injured, because tech titans silenced expert opposing views about the government’s handling of COVID? How many of those untested shots would have been rejected? How many patients would have taken commonsense, award-winning medicines like ivermectin and hydroxychloroquine, instead of dying on ventilators? How many Americans might have voted differently in 2020 had they known the Hunter Biden laptop – loaded with authoritative accounts of government corruption and crime – was legitimate? A little closer to home, how many additional families have lost their children to sexualized curricula, school violence, and the transgender agenda because Zuckerberg blocked our vital information about corruption in government schools? How many kids lost two years of learning because schools were shuttered thanks to the politicking of teacher unions? While those unscrupulous unions enjoy the freedom to propagandize on social media, thousands of commentators, including myself, are still shunted off the main feeds of innumerable apps because we dare stray from the official government tech line. That my friends, is reflective of communism. In regard to demoting the Hunter laptop as “Russian disinformation,” Zuckerburg now says, “We’ve changed our policies and processes to make sure this doesn’t happen again – for instance, we no longer temporarily demote things in the U.S. while waiting for fact-checkers.” Since I’ve been demoted for four years without explanation, this is not reassuring. And what about the hundreds of millions of dollars in cash Zuckerburg doled out to nearly 2,500 counties in 49 states? All on the up-and-up? Not according to numerous skeptics, including Hans von Spakovsky, a former Federal Election Commission member who in 2021 said it was clearly an effort to aid Democrats. Spakovsky said “this was a carefully orchestrated attempt to convert official government election offices into get-out-the-vote operations for one political party.” In a contemporary period where numerous government agencies are weaponized to serve the so-called Democratic Party in its persecution of those they dislike, Zuckerberg’s words here are poignant. “I know that some people believe this work benefited one party over the other,” Zuckerburg deadpanned, adding meaningfully, “I don’t plan on making a similar contribution this cycle.” But it’s hard to believe a man who cannot fully admit that his actions did benefit Democrats over the democratic process, and who continues blocking truth-tellers on the very day he released his confession. Calling your bluff, Zuckerberg. Prove your sincerity by freeing persecuted truth-tellers like me. You can find me @RebeccaForKids. Rebecca Friedrichs is the founder of For Kids and Country, author of Standing Up to Goliath, and a 28-year public school teacher who was lead plaintiff in Friedrichs v. California Teachers Association. This article was originally published by RealClearPolitics and made available via RealClearWire.

Late summer is a mélange of ripening aromas, dog-days heat, and lawns growing several inches per day. My Clethra shrub is in full bloom and very fragrant, along with clumps of phlox; both having a sweet and wholesome smell. Yesterday, our road to an appointment was lined, on both sides, with corn fields. Growing, maturing corn has a distinctive perfume, a bit musky and just slightly sweet; it seems to be the signature scent of late August. Summer is calling us to enjoy while we have the chance. We have just returned from some time in Maine. All eight of us (sons and families) came together in Camden for a lovely five days of sea breezes and restoration. I seem to need seaside fragrances and sounds about once every two years or so. Kerm and I were celebrating our 60th anniversary (a little early) and our hosts at the High Tide Inn were amazing. They brought us a grill for cooking, a picnic table, and even a bottle of champagne! They also dubbed all of us “bookworms” because we all were so often found on the porch reading. Of course, there was hiking, and visiting little shops along the coves, but we mostly enjoyed just being. It was the perfect vacation for us --- to be with people we love, to have enough books and to sit, watching the boats sail by. Summer is coming to its end, not in actuality, but by custom. When school starts, summer is over for most people even though the equinox is a month away. While our children were small, I spent some time as a substitute teacher. Subbing is an experience that every criticizing voter should have to perform, at least for a couple of days. And those who vote down budgets simply because they can, should be assigned to a month of teaching every grade. It might instill some understanding of how difficult it is, how many skills it takes to encourage, teach, discipline, comfort and find resources for a classroom of anywhere from 25 to 45 kids. The general American attitude toward the needs of school kids leaves much to be desired; too often I’ve heard “If it was good enough for me, it should be good enough for my kids.” This is a short-sighted and selfish attitude toward those who will be growing up, in a world with new expectations and resources. Each generation must learn new things to maintain this good and changing country in which we live. In an ideal world, teachers, parents, and communities should be working together to provide optimal education. Because substitute teachers are hard to come by, I was asked to teach everything from kindergarten to high school physics even though my major was home economics. Some teachers do leave lesson plans, but others, zilch! To make subbing days easier, I finally created a folder for each age group; something I could grab quickly after that early AM call, and full of things that would hold the interest of kids from K-12. Perhaps the most important thing I learned as a sub was how crucial it is for kids to be respected and seen as individuals. It helps to visit the classrooms before teaching or at least, getting to know your own child’s friends. If kids know that you genuinely like them and care about them, they will interact in a positive way, mostly. There was the 9th-grade class in a science lab (with sinks and faucets), who had a field day dampening each other. However, when their teacher returned, they were given the task of writing apologies to me and the notes were both hilarious and endearing. “Dear Mrs. B.; I don’t know what came over me…” One of my favorite memories involved a 5th or 6th grade kid, a friend of our oldest son. This kid was a bit older, and a bit bigger, and he had been in reform school for a year. He had also been at our home for dinner once or twice. I was working in the school library that day, when Shawn’s class came in. The kids were a bit noisy and suddenly this older, bigger, tougher boy stood up and said: “You guys sit down and listen to Mrs. Bossard!” And they did! It pays to have friends among the troops. 😊 A teacher (substitute or regular) needs a good sense of humor. Too much indignation, shock and glowering have no place in a learning-friendly classroom. Kids desperately need people who look at them with caring, with liking and who are real and honest. I’m sure I didn’t always exhibit those good things, but at least no one (to my knowledge) groaned when I walked in. A “funny bone” and ready laughter are needed outside the classroom too; needed for a good life. The Bible tells us that “A merry heart doeth good, like medicine!”* When Normal Cousins,** an American political journalist, became seriously ill, and wasn’t getting better, he released himself from the hospital, rented a hotel room where he took a lot of Vitamin C, watched funny movies, and TV shows like “Candid Camera.” He insists in his book, The Anatomy of An Illness, that his cure was greatly due to the laughter. I was relatively quiet in school, but I did find humor around me. My favorite teacher wrote in my year book: “I’ll miss you; you made me smile even when I didn’t want to.” One of the joys of moving to Spencer was finding the people with whom we are now well-acquainted. For some reason, the Spencer-Van Etten area has collected a large number of community-minded, very creative, talented people, in music, crafts, and the arts of all kinds. Among them, there are those with several kinds of quirky humor. Together, we’ve planned variety shows, dinner-theaters, concerts, musicales, and fun nights to combat winter’s “cabin fever.” The events included singing, acting, and sometimes silly but always, clever skits. Planning sessions, involving “All Wet Productions”, or the “Rescue Squad”, brought on gales of laughter, extravagant punning and a comfortable sense that we’d put something together that would entertain us and others. These creating and planning together, built camaraderie, and all that laughter healed our tattered senses. We’ve been fortunate to find so many kindred spirits. One of them, a retired teacher, had a good sense of how important it is for classrooms to be places where kids, in addition to book learning, also build camaraderie, discover how to settle disagreements, and learn self-control. She was so good at this that I often wished we could recycle our boys just so they could experience life in her classroom, though they do seem to have accomplished all those things on their own. Many people see the goal of education as acquiring reams of data, along with prestigious degrees. However, learning how to think creatively, how to find answers for one’s self, and how to work with others is even more important. One recent study warns parents that allowing toddlers too much screen time creates a well of anger inside that toddler, maybe from the content of the screens, or maybe because they are missing out on other important toddler activities. As we look at the world around us, it is quite evident that large numbers of people, for some reason, seem to be full of anger and jangled emotions, that spill over in unwelcome ways. In today’s tumultuous climate, I’d strongly recommend talk-therapy and anger management classes for grades one - twelve. Horace Mann*** said: “A teacher who is attempting to teach without inspiring the pupil with a desire to learn, is hammering cold iron.” In a classroom of needy, diverse kids, being inspirational is no easy task. In less than two week yellow buses will be rolling up and down our roads. Perhaps as we see kids heading back to school, we can give some thought to how each of us can be part of a more wholistic education. Our schools could use the community of supportive adults as a resource. And if each of us did such a simple thing as sending out prayers and good vibes for our schools, every morning, as the bus goes by, that could make a difference. Speaking of a difference, have you noticed that daylight hours are noticeably shorter? It is dark here at 8:30 and a bit before that while we were in Maine. Goldenrod brightens the roadsides as well as my gardens. I pull it out in the spring, but seldom get it all, and now it is tall and deeply-rooted. The days have flown by so quickly since June, and this quotation expresses my feelings well: “The summer is so radiant I cannot see it go. I hug it closely to me for its final warmth and glow.”**** Even with the extreme heat on some days, I’ve enjoyed summer with its foggy mornings, its yummy watermelon and orange creamsicles. Our rose-breasted grosbeaks left quite a while ago, but the hummingbirds continue to buzz around my head, assuring me that there is summer still to be had – for a few weeks. Soak it in and enjoy every moment. Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *The Bible: Proverbs 17 **Norman Cousins --- American Journalist, author and world peace advocate. 1915-1990. ***Horace Mann --- A famous American educator who sparked the improvement of public schools in America. 1796-1859. ****George Elliston –American journalist. 1883-1946

by Ray Craig Recently, my 10-year-old son, Eric, made a play in his baseball game that I was particularly proud of. He didn’t strike out the side or make a fantastic stop in the field. He didn’t smash a double down the left-field line. No, it wasn’t a remarkable play at all—Eric was hit by a pitch on his arm while batting. What pleased me was how Eric casually dropped his bat and sprinted to first, similar to when he draws a base on balls. It’s sad, but this behavior from a young boy is now about as rare as one of these kids knocking a home run over the fence. For whatever reason, most young boys now cry and make a scene if they suffer any pain—however minor—on the field, usually carrying on until the umpire or coach runs out to attend to them. Before long, Mom and Dad are rushing into the dugout, and the kids from both teams get into the act by kneeling to show respect to the injured player, similar to when they take a player off the field on a stretcher during an NFL game. The commotion quickly comes to a close when the youngster miraculously shakes off the injury and finds his way to first base. I look to the ground and cringe at the overreaction whenever this happens. Reflecting on where this early behavior leads, I think about the excuses employees at my business give for wanting to work from home in this post-COVID world. A recent humdinger was a boy in his mid-20s who said he couldn’t make the 10-minute walk from his apartment to our downtown office because it was raining and he couldn’t find his umbrella. Not exactly “greatest generation” material. Back on the Farm When Eric quickly shook off the hit by pitch the other night, memories of growing up with my dad, grandpa, and uncle on our farm flashed into my head. I recalled the countless times I saw them suddenly cut their hands working on machinery, fixing a fence, or getting pinched between a gate and heavy livestock. I would notice the blood and point it out. My remark would usually get them smiling as they carelessly wiped their hands on their shirt or jeans before returning to their job like nothing had happened. I think about my mom in her early 70s still taking care of things around our 10-acre farm. I picture her working outside in the summer wind and heat, using a push mower on the bank of grass between the blacktop and our house. I am thankful for my niece, who gritted through this recent college softball season. She probably never felt better than 50–60 percent but kept showing up game after game as a courageous example for her teammates. Next in Line While Eric is growing up as a city kid, I am happy he has picked up this toughness. As his dad, I know I am his most critical role model in this area. But to hammer the message home, I hung up Rudyard Kipling’s “If—” poem on his bedroom wall, alongside an autographed black-and-white photo of Iowa’s all-time best baseball player, farmer’s son, and Cleveland Indians’ hall-of-fame pitcher Bob Feller (my grandpa’s favorite). Next to those items is a framed photo of Derek Jeter’s famous catch when Jeter dove headfirst into the Yankee Stadium seats to snare a pop-up against the Red Sox. Eric and I watch the Rocky movies and Pride of the Yankees together. We check out the recent Nolan Ryan documentary. And we stream The Last Dance series, where a young Michael Jordan risks his career by playing with a devastating foot injury and still scores a playoff-record 63 pointsagainst Larry Bird and the Boston Celtics. Most of all, I look for ways to surround my kids with people who demonstrate this same fortitude. I travel back to Iowa at least three times every year so the kids spend more time with their grandma, aunts, uncles, and cousins who approach life the same way. Cowboy Up As I went to bed on Father’s Day this year, I wasn’t ready to sleep. I scrolled through our video library and landed on 8 Seconds, the 1994 movie about the legendary bull rider Lane Frost, a film my own dad always liked. While watching, it struck me that a lot of people right now could use a kick in the butt like the one Tuff Hedeman, another bull rider, gave to Lane in 8 Seconds. (Language warning): Lane was in pain from his last bull and was down on himself after a string of bad rides. He started whining about how he should quit the only thing he had ever loved to do. Tuff: “I got two words to say to you.” Lane: “Yeah, I know. It’s ‘f—’” Tuff: “That ain’t it!” Lane: “Well what is it?” Tuff: “Cowboy up.” The sooner, the better. This article was originally published by RealClearMarkets and made available via RealClearWire.

by Rob Smith Convention, customs, manners and civility. When my daughter Ella was 16, I met her at a local restaurant for dinner. I was already seated when she arrived and before I could hold the chair out for her, she plopped down in the seat next to me. I was livid. I stood up and told her to get her ass out of the chair and stand up. I told her to always wait until the gentleman held the chair out for her, no matter how long it takes. I followed with “you need to demand respect from men, because if you don’t, you’ll never get it.” Manners are important. Indeed, they are the adhesive glue that binds society together and allows it to operate in smooth, orderly and conciliatory fashion. Like all convention, customs and manners developed organically because they served important functions. There was never a top-down Napoleonic Code of Manners that was dictated to the populace by some sort of government edict. I think all would agree that we have seen a degradation of civil society over the past 30 plus years. Our cities are trashed, there’s violence in the streets, and civil adult discourse is rare. Politicians and talking heads are totally uninhibited from telling not just “straight up lies,” but lies that are so fantastically and obvious false that a 3rd grader can immediately recognize the deceit. I attended schools with rigid honor systems and grew up in a culture where such blatant dishonesty made one an outcast and an immediate social pariah, cast out from respectable society. I remember a childhood contemporary was kicked out of boarding school for cheating on a test. At the time, this seemed like a punishment worse than death, as he would have to live with the stigma of dishonor the rest of his life. These long-established honor codes reflected the mores of the culture, anyone who violated these standards polluted the student population and had to be immediately drummed off campus. Today dishonesty seems to be rewarded as long as it advances an agenda. I have lots of nicknames, Robbie, Jones, Big Rob, Big, B.R., B-aura, Mr. Bread Truck, Professor and a few others, one of which is Mr. Mayor. I don’t know why folks call me Mayor, but I have thought quite a lot of what I would do if I was the mayor of Richmond, or better yet Governor of Virginia. The very first initiative, before any government policy proposals would be to start a campaign to re-establish civility and good manners. And what better place to begin than Richmond, Virginia, which I am quite sure, at one point not terribly long ago was the good manners capital of the world. I want to bring those days back. An initiative like this takes leadership and passion. Oh, how I hate to see what is happening to my city, not to mention the fabric of our national culture. My campaign would be much like Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” program. No government money. When Robert E. Lee became president of what would become Washington and Lee University in 1865, he initiated the “Speaking Rule.” Other Virginia schools followed. I don’t remember there being such a rule at the University of Virginia, primarily because the natural, organic culture that already existed was one spoke to everyone he passed and engaged in a pleasantry. It’s demoralizing to walk down the sidewalk in Richmond and watch your oncoming neighbor try NOT to make eye contact to avoid speaking. They know nothing of the “speaking rule,” and it’s sad. In the world of social media where people rage at complete strangers, there is no better salve than to look someone in the eye , smile and say “Good morning.” Good manners revolve around respect for others, and of course such respect is the essence of the Golden Rule. Good manners have a transcendental nature in that they create a system that one can’t see and can’t touch, but nonetheless create a benign social order. This evolves into a “custom” which evolves further into an almost universal “convention.” Kindness, gentleness, respect and tolerance are the result. Moreover, when a child is raised in this social order, this invisible ethos of civility instills itself in one’s personality, it is imbued, cooked in the sauce, and the act of being well mannered and thoughtful occurs without any conscience volition or effort to be that way. A few years ago, I visited two older gentleman I knew in the Alzheimer’s ward. There were ladies present, and I’ll never forget, although they couldn’t remember their names, they didn’t forget their manners. They were as we say perfect “southern gentlemen.” It was “baked in.” Before the advent of “business casual,” we all wore suits. How well I can remember 100 degree, extremely humid days and the perfumed smell of tobacco resting in downtown Richmond warehouses. Despite the heat and humidity, men did not take off their jackets when wandering outside their offices. If one was in the presence of a lady, the custom was to seek her permission before taking off one’s jacket. Now this might sound archaic to some, but the foundation of this rule, like so many others, is respect for and deference to women. As these exercises in civility have waned, what are we left with? The absolute barbarity of men beating the tar out of women in an Olympic sport. Dressing well is important. By putting forth an effort to look nice, you exhibit respect and appreciation towards everyone you encounter, but the respect works both ways, your dress illustrates that you respect yourself. Likewise, being punctual illustrates your respect for the other party and the value of his time, but it also illustrates that you respect yourself. Boy, how many lessons did I learn from my father! Always stand when a lady enters a room. Stand when she leaves the dinner table and stand again when she returns. Ladies are always served first. Never, ever begin to eat until the last lady at the table has picked up her fork and put food in her mouth. I’ll always remember him telling me to always wear a sports jacket and sometimes a tie when traveling on a plane. “Son, wherever you go in this world, you are a representative of the Commonwealth of Virginia and our family.” When I was old enough to drive and before cell phones, the custom was to follow a woman home and make sure she got into her house safely. When I see kids that I coached or taught in Sunday School wearing a hat in restaurant, I yank it off their heads and ask them what the hell is wrong with them. That was Dad’s biggest pet peeve! Offer the black housekeepers walking through the neighborhood to the bus stop a ride. Always be a good sport, and win or lose after any competition, whether athletic or business, shake the other fella’s hand. When using the telephone, introduce yourself and say “may I speak to,” and not “is so and so there.” Never go through a woman’s pocketbook or anyone’s mail. There’s a proper way to shake hands. Oh, he was a stickler for proper English! Using words correctly and phrased pleasantly honors the recipient. And, I will never forget exactly where I was when I heard the biggest rule of all. I was 5 years old. Dad was driving. I can remember the story Dad told me, the exact bend in the road and the message was the most despicable thing a man could ever do, and was never, ever permissible under and circumstances, was to hit a woman! Robert C. Smith is Managing Partner of Chartwell Capital Advisors, a senior fellow at the Parkview Institute, and likes to opine on the Rob Is Right Podcast and Webpage.This article was originally published by RealClearMarkets and made available via RealClearWire.

August is named for Caesar Augustus, and it’s also my birth month. The green peridot is the gem for the month. These are stones found in some lava deposits and stand for history and strength. Brown-eyed Susans are the month’s flower according to Native American lore, and I prefer those to the gladiolus usually attributed to August. Gladiolus are stately, colorful and lovely, but the wilder, cheerier brown-eyed Susans seem to fit me better. This August has two full moons; the sturgeon moon and the blue moon. As I contemplate my birthday, I am recalling how many different cakes my mother baked over the years --- not just for me, but my siblings too. Because we lived on a farm, and summer is a busy season for agriculture, most of my birthday celebrations were with extended family. There was one party, I think I was about 9 or 10, where some of my school friends came. I have a photo (black and white, of course) of a round oak table taken to the back yard, and around it sat Bonnie Gillis, David Tischer, Sharon Segbers and two of my nieces (one nearly my age). There were sandwiches, ice cream and cake. My mother’s cakes were over-the-top yummy, and every birthday, she asked each of us which we’d like. There was the white cake filled with banana pudding and topped with creamy icing,my sister’s favorite. There was a maraschino cherry cake, pink through and through, with a pink, cherry-ish glaze, that I sometimes requested. A molasses cake iced with thick white butter frosting was the choice for two of my brothers (the third wanted mince pie!). There was also a delectable chocolate cake with a rich brown-sugar and nut filling. My very favorite was probably a sponge cake, sliced in 3 layers and filled with a mandarin orange/ pudding filling, and iced with an orange-flecked 7-minute frosting. Birthdays were special, but not extravagant. And they made the long (seemed long back then) summer something to anticipate. Mid-August begins my favorite part of the year. From then until mid-November, I find special delight in the days. It may be partly nostalgia, but I really enjoy harvest time and fall flowers. Brown-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s Lace, bloom along the roadsides, and later these same areas are filled with bright golden rod, purple asters, and airy white Boltonia. On our farm, there was a swampy pond in the furthest pasture, surrounded by a wide variety of materials, perfect for bouquets. There were brown cattails, button bush, red osier dogwood, boneset, Joe Pye weed, vervain and much more. Crocks filled with those beauties on my porch exude contentment. No time of the year is perfect, and neither are our days. There are issues with both seasons and life that are annoying, irritating and even scary. Just as weather can throw us big problems in all four seasons, we can experience, daily, a variety of emotions ranging from deep depression to bubbling gladness. I also sometimes find a rather large gap in my grasp of reality; my current capabilities versus what I imagine I can do. In my mind, I can lightly run up the lawn, pull weeds all afternoon, and still shoot baskets against the shed. But in real life, trying to do any of those things would undoubtedly lead to falling on my face or collapsing from exhaustion. The up-side, of days and seasons for us all, is that regardless of what we can or cannot do, each day we live offers some satisfying experiences and many reasons to be grateful. A few years ago --- actually, a whole lot of years ago ---Kerm and I called square dances. We were members of the Cornell Recreation Team, and taught folk and square dances on campus, and out in the counties, for Cooperative Extension. Later, while living in Pennsylvania, we occasionally used our home for practice sessions, for 4-Hers going to a Pennsylvania State contest. If we moved the kitchen table out of the way, there was space for a set of eight people. It was in the 1970s that “western-style” square dancing came along, and one of the fun calls was to the music of “Climbin’ Up The Golden Stairs.”* It was a fast western-swing type of dancing; fun to watch and fun to dance. It stayed in my head, and I have visualized life being rather like that curving golden staircase --- going onward and upward through the years. Sometimes we dance; sometimes we stumble and struggle. The landings, where we stop for a breather, inserting stained- glass windows for remembrance, are like the stellar events in our lives: graduations, weddings, birthdays, wonderful jobs, etc. ---- things that make a difference in who we are or the direction in which we are going. There have been many twists and turns in my staircase; I expect your “staircases” would (or will be) be similar. I will be 82 in mid-August, which I find quite startling. Like --REALLY??? The “little old lady” that, when I was younger, I expected of 82, just isn’t me. Except for some physical difficulties, I feel like the same person I have always been, at 20 or 40 or 60 (except for the falling on my face part). I’m always a little surprised when kindly people are solicitous about packing my grocery bags so they aren’t too heavy, or stopping to let me to cross the street, although I do appreciate the courtesy. However, I do not appreciate the general media assumption that increasing age makes one lack understanding, deems one incapable, or stifles the desire for fun. We need, as a nation, to change our age-conscious attitudes. Of course---- those of us who err by turning curmudgeonly as our hair grays---- might wish to rethink our attitudes as well. Americans categorize people too easily. Observe the way we label generations:“Baby Boomers”, “Millennials”, Gen-Xers, etc. In our desire for statistics and demographics, we plop people firmly into columns and boxes, and expect them to behave in predetermined ways. There is no totally predictable behavior for any age group! I admit to tiring more quickly, and probably couldn’t dance all the way through “Climbin’ Up The Golden Stairs.” But that does not mean that my toes, and my soul, aren’t keeping time to the music. I rather doubt that my knees would tolerate water-skiing anymore, but I can still swim, skip stones and enjoy the lapping of the water against the stony shores of our Finger Lakes. My eyesight isn’t good for shooting hoops. On the other hand, I have a friend, not too much younger, who runs in marathons. So we are all quite different. I enjoy music from Baroque to ragtime; from Pat Boone to Roger Whittaker, James Taylor; and Placido Domingo; from Beethoven to Blue Grass to Rock with a wide detour around hard rock and heavy metal. I clearly remember what it felt like to sit through some classes and wonder why I was there. I can still feel the awkwardness of teenage dating, and I remember the exhilaration of sledding down a steep hill and across a wide breadth of snowy field, just missing a barb-wire fence. I’ve ridden on Motorcycles, rollercoasters and horses. I’ve had jobs from serving food at a Thruway restaurant to directing a human services agency. We are all unique; composites of our experiences. White hair, creaky joints, bifocals, and less stamina do not turn us into aliens! There is a book that tells the story of what happens when we divide and separate people into age groups; it is “Man On The Mountain” by Gladys Hasty Carroll. Excellent reading! Ageism is a sneaky and pernicious reptile that has sold a sham bill of goods to our youth-worshipping society. The assumption that because bodies do not remain smooth-skinned and supple, or hair remain its original color and luster, that our understanding of life must also be slip—slip—slipping away is silly. Some minds, sadly, do lose their way into dementia, but that can happen when one is twenty or fifty as well as in old age. Dementia is simply another form of mental illness in which research is deplorably minimal. For most, old age is a time of harvest; the time when the accumulated experiences from years of living are a treasure-trove and can be put to good use. Of course, aging is no guarantee of wisdom; there are those who stay --- metaphorically ---- in rompers, for their entire lives. They resist change, and maintain whatever they’ve been taught as children, as the total truth. They have never learned to think all the way inside a box, much less creatively outside the box! Aging is not a blessing for them; they fear it and one can only feel sorry for them. Despite my grumblings, this month of August is a time to celebrate; to breathe deeply of the fragrant, warm atmosphere around us (my Clethra shrub is in bloom; very fragrant). I do so because I’ve survived for another year, with mostly intact mind and still operable body. But for all of us, regardless of what we lack or what might be challenging us, there is much to appreciate ---- from sufficient rains that replenish the ground water, to sunny, ideal days. We can rejoice over harvests of veggie gardens and the beauty of the landscapes around us. In August, I replenish my shiny jars of tomatoes. Peaches, in all their lusciousness, are ripening on laden trees. Elderberries hang like purple-black jewels, ready for picking. No matter what is going on in the world, we still have the capacity to continue growing as persons and learning to be kind. At any age, how we respond to both the wonderful/fun/blessed parts of life, and the burdens/changes/disappointments,-is a true measure of how and who we are. So, be filled to the brim with August’s delights, and look onward and upward, with hope. Happy Summer. Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net.

Now are “Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer” *that Nat King Cole used to sing about. The lakes; Seneca and Cayuga, Juanita and Lomoka, are sparkling, the temperatures are balmy. Thunder storms come through frequently, often bringing considerable damage with them, via wind and hail but also clearing the air. Soon tomatoes will be ripe in our garden and sweet corn (not in our garden) ready to eat on the cob, freeze or put into corn fritters. One of my sisters-in-law made delectable corn fritters that, when served with maple syrup, melted in one’s mouth. Fritters are quite labor intensive, so I haven’t tried them --- preferring to remember them as a fine gastronomic experience. But tomatoes from the garden, sliced on buttered bread and topped with leaf lettuce ---- YUM! Those are within my capabilities. Our Family Quiz has been composed and is sent out: “Who has just written a marvelous hard-cover book about family?” “Who is juggling two jobs and working on a Master’s Degree?” “Who found a French-fried rat in the fryer at work?” “Who needs to avoid an over-dose of jelly beans at Easter, lest she spin around like a top? “What numbers-savvy person is starting up a free-lance accounting business?”” These are just a few of the questions for considering/guessing. As families grow larger and produce more generations, it is more difficult to stay connected. My family members are spread from California to Massachusetts, from Virginia to Vermont. I had three brothers and a sister, and all have produced children, who have then produced their children, and so on. So, if we all got together, it would be quite a large (and totally fun) clan. So, to keep us connected in our various locations, there is the annual family quiz. It is like pulling teeth without sedation, to pry information out of the multitudes, but if I keep harassing and listening over the year, I usually can come up with a good and entertaining list. It helps all of us, for We simply mustn’t lose touch! Just a couple of weeks ago, Kerm and I attended two reunion picnics; one with my high school classmates, and one with retired 4-H professionals, plus a few attendees still working at Cornell. These groups were about friendships we’ve made throughout our lives. Family is important, but we don’t want to lose touch with friends either. Being with those individuals who have shared experiences with us, is a reassuring part of getting older. We can laugh a lot and maybe cry a little as we recall past times. And as we are catching up with what we are doing now, we become friends in a new way. We may all, in our every-day lives, have our collections of pill bottles that keep us going and we may walk with a limp or a slight bend, but when we are together, we are restored to ages 16 or 25 or 40; capable of taking on the world. Because we are now older and wiser, we find increased depth of spirit in each other and feel good about being together. On both occasions, the company was super-fine and satisfying. Speaking of experiences, summer camps are now in full swing. I was a 4-H camper at Bristol Hills 4-H Camp, and then a counselor there, and then a Summer Assistant who accompanied kids from Wayne County, along with Kathy Treat and Merle Cuningham. Except for that first summer, when, for at least three days as a camper, I thought I’d die from homesickness, I found camp a fun experience. Boondoggle lanyards (research Billy Collins’** poem about this), swimming in a pool filled with water that we assumed was straight off a glacier, rising to Reville and going to sleep with Taps ---- it was all good. I also went to a Girl Scout camp once --- on Seneca Lake. Seneca’s waters were nearly as cold as the pool at Bristol Hills camp. Previously, I’ve written about camping as an adult, with 4-Hers, and our kids. But going away to camp, as a young person, is quite a different experience and one that is good for most children. It fosters a bit of independence, introduces kids to stories and singing around a campfire, and is one more learning experience in getting along with a variety of personalities. Sometimes, we find new best friends, and always, do we stash away memories that still warm our hearts seventy years later. I found this tidbit somewhere, but do not remember its source. It is a good comment on the importance of friends and family (who can also be friends) in our lives. “Why we need friends; because they laugh at the same stupid things we do. Because they give us honest advice. Because they will be there for us, even if they are thousands of miles away. Because they celebrate with us when we’re at our best but still love us at our worst.” I am so very grateful for those wonderful people in my life who supply those very crucial needs. It is always fun to look backward to the good times. But realistically, we are compelled to return, eventually, to times in which we are currently living. And these right-this-very-minute-times are not always so carefree and happy as we’d like. Mr. Rogers has said that his mother told him to “look for the good; for those doing good”, whenever he became discouraged. So, when I’m looking with disfavor on the world as depicted in the evening news; the disgusting and clamorous politicking, selfish power-hungry leaders, the suffering from continuous wars --- I try to think of the good things that are happening around me. There is our local food pantry, providing sustenance for those who experience food insecurity, for whatever reason. Volunteers “staff” that organization and are willing to take big chunks of time and energy from their own lives to help others. There is our pastor, who is essentially the “community pastor” since she is the only full-time clergy in town. She can be found at school, at community events, visiting those in nursing facilities, sharing on Face Book, at Spencer Picnic, jogging by and waving, as well as in her church office, where all are welcome to stop by. Then there is a guy we know, who keeps track of several people who, seemingly, lack the skills to cope well with life. He hooks them up with resources and helps where he can. He and his wife have helped to raise three children besides their own two. And there’s the woman who, even with serious health issues, continues to send out a community news sheet as well as connecting people with transportation to medical appointments. There is also the man in our neighborhood, who kindly keeps track of his neighbors, helping out when there is a need. Remembering these people (and many more) keeps me from succumbing to the world’s always-ready-to-pounce nightmares. “Here are the bridge-builders, the hand-holders, the light -bringers, those extraordinary souls wrapped in ordinary lives who quietly weave threads of humanity into an inhumane world. They are the unsung heroes in a world at war with itself. They are the whispers of hope that peace is possible. Look at them in this present darkness. Light your candle with their flame and then go build bridges, hold hands, bring light to a dark and desperate world. Be the hero you are looking for. Peace is possible. It begins with us.”*** As July speeds by and August moves in, we need to turn off the news more often and soothe our injured spirits by focusing on those who do good, which may inspire us to do good ourselves. We need to reject the divisive, clamoring and listen to bird song and wind in the trees. And we need more tomato sandwiches, listen to more of Nat King Cole’s music, and to find more reasons to laugh together, and reconnect. Carol writes from her home In Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Bully Collins –American Poet and very popular because of his down-to-earth poetry. **Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer” - written by Hans Carste ---- originally entitled “Du Spielst ‘ne Tolle Rolle.” Made popular by Nat King Cole. ***L.R.Knost ----Founder of Little Hearts/Gentle Parenting and editor of Wholistic Parenting magazine.

I recall a buddy of mine saying that, probably more than once, many years ago. Since that time, it’s been sort of a mantra I’ve taken on as my own. When all signs point to something you should be doing, you do it. When Life presents you with a situation, seek to embrace it. Two of the most common questions I get are, first, “How the f–k do you sleep at night?” or something similar. That one is common after someone is finished reading one of my books. The other, more common question is, “Where do you come up with this stuff?” The two greatest forms of what I consider “active meditation” are walking the dog, which is where the core idea for the book came from, and mowing the lawn. An hour of mindlessly circling the yard allows my brain to relax and go to that creative space where sometimes the craziest ideas come to me. But every once in a while, the ideas come to me in a dream. Sure we all have crazy dreams, but we usually forget them within moments of waking up, or later that day. Sometimes though, they will absolutely haunt you until you write them down. That’s the universe speaking, unlocking and tapping into that part of your brain normally repressed by the demands of our daily lives. For example, I woke up one morning a while back with the craziest thoughts going through my mind, a barebones plot for something so out of my wheelhouse I’m not sure I can pull it off. However, it’s such a cool idea that it went into my notebook that morning, as much as I could flesh out, so I could come back to it another time. Anyone can do this, I truly believe that, all it requires is belief in one’s self. Add to that a dash of chutzpah and you’re on your way. So the next time all arrows seem to be pointing you in a particular direction, it could be the universe telling you what you need to do next. So don’t say “I can’t do this.” Ask yourself, “How can I?” Chris Sherwood writes from his home in North Chemung. He is the author of the In Times of Trouble and In Times Of Trouble: Aftermath, a post-apocalyptic series set in Upstate New York, and is currently working on the third book in the trilogy. To learn more, go to cmsherwood.com

Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day…” Such a happy song from “Oklahoma,” and so appropriate for a lovely July morning. It might be lovelier were the temperature ten degrees lower, and no storms were lingering, but that’s summer. Being mindfully grateful is an intelligent way to begin a day, even knowing that there’s every possibility our plans will move unexpectedly from Plan A to Plan Q before the day is over! In later years, it has become sort of entertaining to watch how agendas for my day morph from one into another, leaving me wondering just where I will end up. Being more flexible is a life-long lesson where graduation is (we hope) a long way off. I still produce resistance when events that I’ve worked over – like parties or holidays ---have to be altered. I’m getting better about daily changes, although a pout or two may still emerge. Part of that acceptance, I gleaned from a workshop (1970s) where we chatted about going from Plan A to Plan Z, but I learned much of it the hard way too. In my job with Office for the Aging, you would not believe some of the situations that developed; dilemmas one would never expect. And then, some of my education in this area, came from having teenagers in the house for a decade. One just never knows when their car will break down 50 miles from home, whether they will drop a log on their foot, necessitating a trip to ER, or how many kids may have stayed overnight and will appear at breakfast. One becomes flexible in changing circumstances, to avoid splintering into frustrated little pieces! Currently, there are no demanding senior citizens, no frustrating (and usually conflicting) mandates from NYS and my county, and no teenagers, so, no reason to worry about being flexible right? Not so. It seems that life continually throws surprises at us. Instead of having a week free from going anywhere, I find that there are three prescriptions that need filling, which means a half-hour trip to and a half hour from, the pharmacy. I suddenly find that I’m on a committee I’d forgotten, so there goes my afternoon. To feel better about annoying changes in plans, I try to indulge myself. Compensation! 😊 A cup of tea plus a Pepperidge Farm sandwich cookie improves my mood. Sitting in a lawn chair and observing the cardinals and grosbeaks, or writing a short poem changes my focus. A friend started me on a “Poem/Day” plan a while ago. It was a great idea, although I soon became negligent. However, it is still fun to compose something now and then. Writing a letter to a close friend reminds me of funny things that we can laugh about when we talk next time. Stress melts away with laughter, with creating, music, conversation, bird song. With an almond croissant or a little chocolate! Very occasionally, on a fine day, I bestir myself to hang laundered sheets or blankets on the clothesline. I love seeing them fly in the breeze and the aroma that they bring into the house is both refreshing, and a reminder of growing up years, when all clothes were hung on the line. I have a dim memory of my mother using a wringer washer, hooked to the kitchen sink. She would shoo me from the room; afraid I’d get a finger or arm caught in the wringers. When our children were babies, I hung diapers on the line for quite some time. When my hands became arthritic, we acquired a clothes-drier. I think it was less enjoyable to fold diapers (sometimes full of static) from the drier, than smelling wonderful from the clothes line. But in cold or rainy weather, I was very grateful for that electric appliance. Readers below the age of 50 may not have a clue here since disposable diapers have been the mode for 57 years. They were just becoming available when our first child was born, in 1966. We used them for traveling and special occasions when gauze diapers would have been awkward. But on our budget, they were a luxury. Today’s mamas and dads should rejoice over all the conveniences they now have. So many things have changed in the last 6 decades, and so rapidly. Perhaps these multiple “advances” are one reason for our current epidemic of anxiety, tenseness, and lack of civility, all of which are running rampant. We may have confused our brains with too many options, too many new behaviors and sudden life-style adjustments, with more than we can comfortably cope. And we don’t dare take a break from being on-line, because something might happen while we are out to lunch (so to speak). When we, and some of our friends get together, we agonize over the political scene or the on-going wars. As people of faith, we feel we should be doing something, but find we have few answers and little influence. All that worrying could become a problem if it incapacitates us. Fortunately, we intersperse our anxiety with bits and pieces about our kids, our travels and what we are doing to stay active. This brings us into balance. The women’s Bible study group weekly expresses sorrow, and often, indignation, at some distasteful behaviors of our current culture, and there is moaning about the lack of understanding that every human needs a spiritual connection. We continue to do indulge in this behavior, despite Scripture’s frequent admonition to not worry or be afraid. So this poem by Wendell Berry is often a reminder that I need some healing time. It rescues me frequently: Defeating worry is necessary for healthy minds and souls. Very few people speak about nourishing either, but both need as much health care as our physical bodies. I read both historical fiction and non-fiction, and I’ve had almost 82 years to observe the cycling states of the world. What I am seeing now is a repeat of some of the distressing human behavior that we have seen in the past. Instead of bonding, we have allowed ourselves to be torn apart and led into dubious paths of bigotry and fear of each other. With all our opportunities, our communications seem to be worse than ever. The ability to be in someone’s face 24/7 via Face Book or Twitter, does not, apparently, lead to better understanding. Listening to the news several times in twenty-four hours, may leave us over-informed and in despair. Balance is not easy, but we surely need to woo it for peace in our souls. And a spiritual connection would not be amiss. We all have bad cases of sensory overload. Just driving in the car, the radio is on, we are moving along at anywhere from 55 to 75 mph, watching other drivers on the road, possibly talking on a cell phone or chatting with a passenger. Driving itself requires agility and alert attention which may not be the case when it is split 3 or 4 ways. At home, the TV, radio or stereo (yes, I know, the word stereo dates me!) may be on, children asking questions, dinner to be fixed, etc. Our brains are flooded with too many things! Very seldom do we take the time to stop, breathe and spend time healing, with whatever makes us relax and breathe. Whether it is soft music, candlelight, the aroma of baking, sitting outside at twilight, prayer time, a brisk walk, meditation or going “where the heron feeds,” we desperately need to put those down-times into our days. Only with healthy breaks, will we be able to handle our stress with clarity and grace ----maybe even diminish it. Speaking of grace, I’ve seen several examples of that lately, so I am assured that the world is not totally in chaos. One occurred at a recent Baccalaureate. Kids had asked teachers from middle school and high school to speak to them – and give them a blessing as they graduated. Those kids were grateful for individuals who had been patient with them, and inspired them. Another example was seen in the past week, when Kerm was diagnosed with a tick- borne disease similar to Lyme. People called, offered to drive either of us, asked did we need anything, and they let us know we, and especially Kerm, were being prayed for. A friend, who is a Franciscan priest, brought his anointing oil along when we met him for lunch. There is kindness and grace that balances all that is wrong with the world. We all need to inject some quiet, some “Coming into the peace of wild things” into our over-busy and worrisome lives. We will then worry less and enjoy breaks that bring balance. “The older I get, the more wisdom I find in the ancient rule of taking first things first ---- a process which often reduces the most complex human problems to manageable proportions.” Dwight Eisenhower*** Let’s all use this summer as a restoring, happy time. Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Wendell Barry ---novelist, poet and essayist from Kentucky. **Dwight D. Eisenhower –Military man and statesman who served as president from 1953-1961. 18890-1969.

“Thirty days hath September, April, June and November….” And the 30th of June is coming right up! Foliage is fully out making good hiding places for birds and small creatures. I see chipmunks slipping beneath the comfrey leaves and a rabbit skirting the current bushes. Mysterious paths are evident in the grass, where a skunk or squirrel has traveled to the sunflower seeds. We are just one week from Independence Day ---- July 4th. The Solstice is past, so summer is here in all its fullness. We have already had days of very warm weather and there are surely more to come, accompanied by thunder storms and humidity, but there will be blissfully fine days as well. We’ve had our usual late-June “raccoon trouble.” They steal cat food or bird seed --- or whatever their agile little paws can reach or pry open. If enough of them swing on a bird feeder, they can bring it down, and they have also learned to open suet cages. In past summers, we’ve relocated some when they became too bothersome, though a forester friend tells us that is a bad idea. So we refrain unless absolutely necessary. A few years ago, one large, furry individual took on our English setter. The dog was actually the aggressor; he wouldn’t tolerate another creature in his pen; he even once chased out a bear. Freckles came out of his raccoon confrontation a bit lacerated. Our on-site vet patched him up and we removed the raccoon. Now, Freckles has passed on,and the little bandits seldom bother our gardens, so we won’t disturb them --- unless they learn to open doors. They are just part of the wild creatures with whom we co-exist, along with a very fat possum, a mostly-white skunk, and a fox or two, etc. My “cute” woodchuck is another matter! I see relocating in his near future! For those who enjoy outdoor life, the next two to three months bring camping season. The downside, for me, are insects of varying kinds and degrees of irritation, as well as less-than-comfortable sleeping conditions. My back no longer appreciates bumpy ground or air mattresses that ooze air during the night. On the up-side, I love campfires, early-morning bird song, and the camaraderie of campgrounds. As Kerm and I drove to Lewisburg, Pennsylvania a few weeks ago, there was a road off to the right that led to one of our 4-H camping experiences, about which I have written before - the icy, foggy night and day, with trees snaping off all around. Then there was the 1972 flood when we were stranded with 150 4-H kids in a church high above flooded Jersey Shore, PA. 4-H camping has been adventurous in many ways. Our personal camping excursions were less so, although they had their moments. I have mostly fond memories of our camping experiences with our boys.; it was a good way to see many interesting places and to enjoy being together in a different setting. Currently I mostly prefer sleeping in a real bed, in a room with screened windows. Our camping travels mostly took us to New England and south to Virginia, but one trip was much more extensive. My oldest niece, her college roommate, Kerm and I trekked from Victor, New York to Billings, Montana, ostensibly to help another niece and her family move back to NYS. I wrote about this memorable trip last summer. We saw a wide breadth of our diverse country. And besides camping, Kerm and I have done some cross-country trips for conferences and to visit family. We have not, regretfully, taken the opportunity to travel abroad, but many of our family members and friends have done so. At one point we had nieces and nephews in Kenya and Tanzania, in India, in Nepal and Thailand, a son and family in Europe, and another son and wife in New Zealand. Their travels seem to make the world feel smaller. We have friends in our community, from other lands too; from Russia, from Japan, from Mexico and Soth America. What I have learned from our journeys, and theirs, is that traveling helps us to grow, to recognize our diversity ---- our wonderful variety of land and the collection of amazing heritages our country, and other countries, hold. It dissolves prejudice and misinformation, and we come to realize that our personal choices are not the only good ways to live. There are rich traditions in every culture. Sadly, at this point in my life, I find extensive traveling more exhausting than fun. I’d be very happy to teleport ala Star Trek, or Apparate/Disapparate, as in Harry Potter; suddenly being somewhere, eliminating the hassles of packing and weighing luggage, checking for least costly plane tickets, or enduring the heavy highway traffic that adds stress to driving. If I could, I’d stop by Empowering Lives International in Kenya (a Christian Peace Corps-like mission) and the Great Barrier Reef to see those huge tortoises. I’d visit the east coast of Scotland, from whence my father’s family came and some place in France to find my mother’s relatives. I’d certainly visit Finland (where many of our Spencer friends call home), and I might even whisk myself to Alaska, where I’d stand on a glacier, if there are any remaining. I’d spend at least one day sitting at an outdoor café, eating fresh chocolate croissants and drinking tea, in Paris. Those imaginary forms of travel not being currently possible, I am truly grateful for the side roads we have taken, and the wonderful people and unforgettable times we’ve experienced. We are still on the road occasionally; in August we are off to Maine for a few days, and looking forward to the salty, fortifying air of the sea. All of which brings me to the 4th of July, Independence Day, and being appreciative of where we live. This is a celebration to mark the beginning of the United States from sea to shining sea and northern to southern edges. We celebrate all of us, no matter who or where, but being distracted with fireworks and picnics may lead us to forget why we are celebrating. Our original goals of freedom and opportunity for everyone should be part of our agenda year-round. We have honed and improved original laws by realizing that women are capable people who can actually think and vote, that persons of whatever skin color are not possessions, that children are not fair game for cheap labor. We have laws in place to assist those with disabilities. There are still people among us, who disregard the ethics of humanity, and others who still suffer beneath injustice, but most of us keep trying to right wrongs. I would remind us of what is engraved on the Statue of Liberty, welcoming ships into New York’s harbor: “Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, with conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand a mighty woman with a torch, whose flame is the imprisoned lightening, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome, her mild eyes command the air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. ‘Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!’ cries she with silent lips. ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’”* In the 240+ years’ process of creating our country, we have been cruel – and compassionate; overbearing and courageous; we’ve been grasping and we’ve also made sacrifices. We have made grave errors in policy and behavior, but we have also tried to create safety nets, correct injustices and continually work for better things. It is true that we often disagree about what those “better things” are, or how to achieve them. Too often, we work at cross-purposes. But we do try. I think each of us has a responsibility to do what we can in our own spheres. We sometimes ignore needs and protest helpful legislation because we selfishly don’t like, or are frightened of change. But without change water grows stagnant, there’d be no butterflies, we’d still be shouting “OLE” to the monarch of Span, or singing “God save the queen!” (or king) of England. Our country is great because of the wonderful mix of our citizens and because we pay attention to individual fairness. Developing orderly procedures and good laws is essential, but let us not be selfish and uncaring as we move ahead in a way that means living out the words engraved on that statue. We are about to drift from Junet into July; usually our warmest month and possibly the most humid here in the north-east, although last week was as about as hot and humid as one might wish to bear. July was named for Julius Caesar; it was his birth month. The gem stone for July is the ruby, a jewel nearly as hard as a diamond. It stands for strength, vigor, and supposedly shields its wearer from the world’s ills. The month’s flower is the larkspur, a sturdy flower that blooms in many bright colors. July is swimming and ice cream weather. For farmers, there will be second cuttings of hay, if the rains and sun come in proper amounts. County Fairs and festivals bring fun to town. Whatever you do in July - picnics, reunions, swimming, vacations - I hope you are filled to the brim with happiness and peace. Absorb sunshine (carefully, of course), be grateful for the rains and fill your heart with all the goodness and generosity of summer. Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. * The New Colossus and engraved on the statue of Liberty……….by Emma Lazarus. Emma Lazarus, an American poet who wrote this poem to raise money for the base of the Statue of Liberty.

by Rebekah Bills We are under the influence of our stuff—home décor and furnishings, fast fashion, modern art, and too much more—and it’s slowly gnawing away at our contentment and human potential. What prompted this realization? Some old Sears catalogs, actually. And a love for antiques, the reason for which I couldn’t quite put into words. But let me try now. While flipping through an old Sears catalog, the beauty of its illustrations and the quality of the items depicted struck me. How antithetical the now-decades-old catalog appeared in comparison to our modern shopping scene! The kinds of products sold in the old catalog bespeak a more holistic view of life, sorely lacking in today’s shopping culture. The items—antiques by today’s standards—appear so much more beautiful than their modern counterparts, and their beauty brings with it a character and a sense of permanence that invites reflection and creativity into the spaces that house them. Here, we find once-in-a-lifetime items like homes and tombstones. Yes, tombstones! These purchases invite much pre-purchase forethought, prompting the buyer to reflect on how the item will serve its purpose over time. We might see the tombstones and ponder our mortality, or flip through the houses for sale and imagine our ideal sort of family life. Nothing in these catalogs would trigger an impulse buy. It’s impossible to imagine someone buying one of the nice winter coats or the gold-rimmed dinnerware offered in the catalog only to discard it a few weeks or months later. The questions that the catalog prompts in a potential purchaser are of this sort: What would serve my family best for years to come? Is this worthy of being an heirloom one day? Contrast that with today’s throwaway culture. Hardly ever would amemento mori such as a tombstone appear in the pages of a shopping catalog. Sure, we’re told to shop local, shop green, and be climate friendly (which many products now dubiously tout), but we often fail to consider how our items will serve not only ourselves in the short-term but also those who come after us; rather, we look only for what suits our immediate needs or wants. Consider, for example, Amazon, where one look at an item leads to endless recommendations of similar and related products. In the modern online shopping scene, we find ourselves lost in a microcosm of almost infinite, short-term options. To page through the Sears catalog is to travel back in time to a world more holistic and grounded—in which longevity prevails and a more comprehensive view of life is reflected. With our modern preference for faster and cheaper comes the loss of allure that beauty and craftsmanship entail. Look, for example, at the font and illustrated ads of an old 1918 Sears catalogue and a 1940 Sears Fall and Winter catalogue. Today, even the illustrations themselves reveal a deeper level of craftsmanship. We could frame one of these and hang it in our home. In addition, the more “everyday” items for sale, such as dinnerware, fine china, and vases, boast beautifully ornate artistry. Flipping (digitally) through the old catalog, I couldn’t help but imagine what a home must have looked like furnished with the well-crafted items that were so beautifully hand drawn there. Such exquisite craftsmanship gives items the power to imbue their surroundings with personality and to inspire creativity. I thought of a quote I came across on Pinterest apparently from Turkish playwright Mehmet Murat İldan: “Give me an old house full of memories and I will give you a hundred novels!” Winston Churchill similarly said, “We shape our buildings, thereafter they shape us.” I can attest to the accuracy of these sentiments; while studying abroad in Germany, I got to experience quite a few castles, old homes and shops, and quaint inns. And the architecture and the interior furnishings—even of the more modest homes—oozed stories, both real and fictional. The charm of beautiful surroundings was pervasive, and it generated a livelier and more creative thought-life during my time studying abroad. And one needn’t have a castle nor even a little old house in a quaint German town to cultivate such an atmosphere of romance and creativity. When my little family moved from our D.C. apartment to a tiny brick townhome and traded our modern (often IKEA) furnishings for old thrift-store finds, our little home experienced the welcome intrusion of personality and mystery that antiques bring with them. Who owned this before? Will this beautifully upholstered bench be passed down to my children someday? Could I gaze at this painting and be transported to another life? The movement away from quality, lifelong purchases that prompt such questions and spark creativity is not only displayed in America’s shopping scene but also, more pathologically, echoed in the modern American psyche. We encounter “throwaway” culture in movies and pop music (I recently wrote about Taylor Swift’s latest album and the death of long-term relationships). If something or some relationship isn’t “working for you,” just cut it out (which is not always the wrong approach, but it’s certainly not always the right approach either.) Don’t feel the love and devotion you once felt in a relationship? Leave. Our purchases, just like our life choices, are constantly subject to the ultimate criterion of today’s culture: whatever makes you happy now. And, quite frankly, catering our shopping to our every whim and ever-changing appetites is not conducive to the cultivation of timeless, finely crafted pieces whose artistry fuels the imagination. That’s not to say that modern art cannot be used tastefully nor that every shop these days is guilty of pandering poor-quality items—rather that quality finds are a rarity these days, and our short-term consumer appetites lead us to prefer faster, cheaper solutions with none of the personality of the equivalent items of our forebears. Somewhere along the line in our modern world, we traded beauty and quality for endless options, affordability, and convenience. And with this trade, we lost the fine craftsmanship and the attendant romance that things once had. And we lost our ability to connect our purchases with important immaterial goals, such as raising a family or investing in an heirloom. We lost the kind of home that could inspire “a hundred novels.” Maybe if we started investing in aesthetic, handcrafted items meant to last a lifetime, we might then better focus on the things that matter and making those things last—a novelty in today’s throwaway, me-oriented culture to be sure, but one very much worth the expense. Rebekah Bills served four years as a civilian intelligence officer in the Defense Intelligence Agency, earning 6 Individual Act Awards, DIA’s Science and Technology Mission Enabler Award, and the Director’s Personal Coin. Now—her best assignment to date—she cares for her two young sons, Gabriel and Emmanuel, and her exuberant Great Dane puppy, Beowulf. This article appeared on IntellectualTakeout.org and is shared under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

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

Ahh, spring! My favorite season! And hasn’t it been looking beautiful outdoors? Building on last week’s barely emerging florals and greenery, this week’s warmth and rain has showered us with bursting color! I love to see the signs of new life that slowly appear, almost imperceptibly, after earth’s long wintry sleep. To smell the fresh earthy aroma that follows a gentle spring rain is so refreshing, to see the grass almost immediately turning from shades of crisp tan and brown and dingy green to rich verdant hues of green, and to watch the daintiest leaf or flower bud begin to develop… these all bring joy to my heart. With a bright sun’s nourishing warmth, those leaf buds soon swell and burst open, bringing many more shades of green to life. Then, as flowers open to brighten the landscape, it’s as though all of creation rejoices with an endless bounty of color. “For behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.” (Song of Solomon 2:11-12) I’ve often pondered the great joy and pleasure it must have given our God as He created every aspect of this world, every plant and creature… each uniquely designed! After His work of creating separate aspects of this world over six days of the week, “God saw all that He had made, and it was very good.” (Genesis 1:31 NIV) Wouldn’t it have been wonderful to have been a witness as this marvelous creation came to be? I’ve also imagined that the first week of creation was spring with vivid colors bursting forth in blooms from every kind of plant and flower imaginable! An amazing palette of color! When God created man and woman in His image to tend and care for the beautiful Garden of Eden, ultimately to be caretakers of the new world at large… they were each uniquely created and loved by God… just as we are in our own time. And to know that all this beauty was created for our pleasure, to treasure and nourish… what an awesome responsibility and beautiful gift we were given! Enjoy the beauty of spring in all its glory as it bursts forth anew to revive and color our every-day world with exhilarating joy! Colors of Spring Linda A. Roorda From brilliant yellow of forsythia arched To burgundy red on trees standing tall The colors of spring emerge in great beauty To brighten our days from winter’s dark sleep. ~ From shades of chartreuse as leaf buds burst forth To pink and white flowers in cloud-like halos Hovering on branches in glowing full bloom Swaying above carpets of undulating green. ~ From rich azure sky with puffs of white-gray To pale blue horizon at forested hills With sun-streaked rays like fingers of God To lengthening shadows as light slowly fades. ~ From velvet black night as moon rises full To glittering diamonds twinkling bright Up over hills on their path through the sky Gliding above trees with limbs reaching out. ~ From earth’s colorful palette awakening clear To the crisp and bold and shades of pastels Shimmering and dancing to brighten our day Created by God, our pleasure to behold. ~~

There’s beauty all around us in even the simplest of things… if we just take the time to truly see. Sometimes when the days were hectic and I’d get overwhelmed, just sitting in my gardens would help wash away the stress, like a cleansing of the soul, with time to ponder and pray. But in the depths of a cold winter, I’d set out sunflower seeds, peanuts in the shell, and suet… to quietly watch the birds descend on the dining bounty. Whether sitting in a summer garden surrounded by blooming splendor, or sitting in the warmth of my house gazing outward at a pristine snowfall, there is so much beauty to enjoy. Writing this blog a few years ago, winter had finally settled in with her bitter cold, howling winds, and a light snow. After being spoiled with an extra warm late fall/early winter compliments of El Nino, it was only fitting we returned to more seasonable weather… which prompted me to feed the birds. Almost immediately, a downy woodpecker settled on the upright peanut-in-the-shell feeder I’d made several years ago. It’s been frequented by downy, hairy, red-headed and red-bellied woodpeckers, blue jays, nuthatches and chickadees. And that doesn’t even include the wide variety of birds which have flown in to seek a snack in the other feeders. Some very interesting species during migrations were also drawn in when seeds were set out longer during the season than in the recent few years. While watching the birds though, I couldn’t help but notice the stark-naked tree limbs reaching skyward. There’s a distinct beauty in their coarseness. Some branches drape downward, others reach beckoning hands up and out as they twist and turn in various directions. And they all carry leaf buds that before too much longer will begin to swell with the promise of spring… to once again be clothed in shades of green and dazzling pastels. I especially enjoy the warm days of spring that flow into the heat of summer. I absolutely love to hear the early spring peepers and frogs. They remind me of the first spring after we were married, hearing them through open windows in our trailer. They have a lulling effect on me, taking me back to those early happy days. And I love to hear the variety of birds singing as they fly around our yard, swallows swooping to catch bugs on the wing, and the calls of hungry nestlings to their busy parents… all music to my ears. To watch a gorgeous sunrise as the faintest of color pierces the velvet dark sky, or to gaze on a beautiful sunset with rays of sun which slice outward from behind clumps of clouds is heavenly… taking a long look at those clouds, noticing the different types, forms, and shapes. Again, there is so much simple beauty to be found wherever the eye may look. Take time to peer a little closer at weeds while taking a walk. Their delicate flower forms often closely resemble cultivated relatives. Watch a stream flowing by, water gurgling over the rocks, little fish darting here and there. Observe a bee or a bug from as close a perspective as you can get. Study the bloom of each flower. Appreciate what’s right there in front of you, and drink in the beauty we often casually walk on by… It seems that as we contemplate nature’s beauty around us, life begins to ease into a slower pace. Allow yourself the chance to slow down… stand still within life’s fast-paced frenzy. Look around… and truly see the beauty in the tiniest of details. For as Ecclesiastes 3:11 says, “[God] has made everything beautiful in its time…” So take the time to pause and contemplate life in all its delicate beauty … I See Beauty Linda A. Roorda I see beauty in the world around Where some see a tree I see living art I see God’s hand in the rays of dawn The streaks of light that brighten our world. ~ I hear the chirps of birds in the air Tunes of delight as they share their praise With grateful hearts for daily blessings Their endless singing brings joy to my soul. ~ I gaze upon a flowing river Or gentle stream and watch its passing From whence it came to where it will go While I at the edge can only look on. ~ I climb these hills covered in thick wood To look on scenes spread out far below A miniature world enchanting and calm Creation’s beauty forever enjoyed. ~ It gives me pause to contemplate life Reason and meaning for all in this world Breeze in the air and sun on my face With reassuring peace midst bustling din. ~ While gazing still away to the west This day winds down and shadows lengthen The sunset dazzles as it slowly fades A perfect ending, its treasure to hold. ~~ Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer.

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

During the season of Lent, we tend to reflect a little more intently on Christ’s mission and sacrifice for us. Since He gave so much in giving His life to redeem us, it seems we could easily give up even a little for Him. Though the traditional idea of giving up something for Lent has not been something I have done, my friend and distant cousin, Carolyn, got me thinking more deeply about the season of Lent. A few years ago, as Carolyn read her “Catholic Weekly” magazine with its daily devotionals, she shared with me a Lenten focus on the Roman Catholic perspective of the “seven deadly sins.” These sins can lead us away from God… away from that close relationship we long for. Unfortunately, I/we often exhibit the pride of self or greed as we exclude others to serve ourselves first, jealousy in coveting that which is not ours, wrath or inappropriate anger, sloth or laziness when we could and should do something constructive, lust of a sinful nature, and gluttony or self-indulgence in so many ways. Yet, we know that each one of these sins is absolutely forgiven on confession and repentance to God; and, under His tender mercy and grace, our heart is renewed as we follow in His footsteps. In synchrony with the above, we also recall that Solomon wrote in Proverbs 6:16-19, “there are six things the Lord hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies, and a person who stirs up conflict in the community.” Some also say there is an unpardonable sin, the blasphemy against God and His Holy Spirit. As Jesus was performing miracles and driving out demons, the religious leaders’ unpardonable sin was in claiming Jesus’ power came from the devil rather than acknowledging that He had the power because He truly was the Son of God. (Mark 3:28-30, Matthew 12:31-32) If we turn away from the Spirit’s convicting promptings that what we’ve done is wrong, we may harden our heart, turn our back on God and not repent, willfully continuing in sin. Perhaps even expressing that God loves us no matter what we do… a sense of pride allowing for willful sins wrongs. Instead, on conviction of our sin, confession and repentance, we can be assured of God’s welcoming arms and loving forgiveness… for nothing can separate us from the overwhelming love of God. (Romans 8:34-39) May I always be convicted of my sins, confess them, and ask for forgiveness from God and those I’ve offended. Pondering the above Lenten theme as mentioned by Carolyn, and the variety of themes from many churches for spiritual renewal each year, my own failings came to mind. Sadly, it can be said that I/we betray our Lord’s love in so many ways because we are far from perfect. Yet, as a reminder of Christ’s love for us, and living within us, there are familiar virtues we can strive for. As the Holy Spirit leads, guides and helps us live out our faith, we exude “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.” (Galatians 5:22-23) These fruits evidence the Holy Spirit’s work within us, as God transforms us to be more like His Son. (II Corinthians 3:18) Because He loved us first (I John 4:19), even in our sinfulness, we can live a grateful life of holiness, bringing honor and glory and praise to God for all that He has done… because to this we were created. (Revelation 4:11) We can demonstrate our love for God and those around us with our faith or reliance, hope or trust, and charity or love as shown in I Corinthians 13, the “love chapter”. We can share this joy and peace in living out our faith in God by showing such loving kindness in our interactions with others. With courage and wisdom from the Lord we can face those difficult trials. Just as God has granted mercy and grace to us, we can show the same to others, forgiving them as we’ve been forgiven, acting with moderation and self-control, with honesty and integrity in our dealings. Against these virtues there would be no complaint as we respect others, bring glory to God, and become a beacon to point others to Christ… not only during Lent, but always. As the familiar Golden Rule reminds us, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” (Matthew 7:12) Though our Lord was mocked and betrayed as He walked this earth, may we never forget the depth of all He suffered in His great love for us despite knowing our wayward penchants. For it’s only through Jesus’ shed blood that we have forgiveness and reconciliation with God. As I prepare myself spiritually this Lenten season to focus more intently on Christ’s sacrifice and resurrection, Carolyn’s words echo the thoughts of my heart when she wrote that “these are the things we could all reflect on during the 40 days before Holy Easter, and maybe change our hearts and minds to reflect more of Christ’s love.” From Betrayal to Beacon Linda A. Roorda ~ There is One who felt the heavy hand The slap to the face, the mocking abuse The glib excuses, lies begetting lies Betrayal by friends, abandoned in need. ~ But there was a man who took this and more A man who never responded in wrath, The Son of God, who sought us in love Who lay down His life that we might live. ~ The Light of this world, a rejected man Scorned by His own and scoffed by scholars. Still there were those who pondered His words Words that were new and words that gave hope. ~ Bless those who misuse, pray for their soul Just as our Lord, the servant of all, Dwelt here in peace and drew us to His side To offer us hope with redemption’s gift. ~ Be that beacon to a world needing hope Bring peace and comfort with welcoming arms. Offer your love to the soul in pain Become a servant to meet the needs. ~~ Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer.

As this year draws to its conclusion, I began pondering all that I’m thankful for… among the many blessings God has showered on each of us. It’s been a good year of making new friends and appreciating friends from the past, of joining a new-to-me Reformed church group and their band, able to use my aging voice to share a love of singing praise to our Lord, of treasured memories of loved ones who were a special part of our lives for a time, of family who grace our lives with their love and presence, of the students I sub for and care about, and so much more. But sometimes our blessings are taken for granted, because I, for one, forget to focus on the gift of those blessings while some days our hearts fill to overflowing with praise and thanksgiving for even the least of these. Those are the days we remember all that God has given each of us with love. And then we wonder how we can ever thank our great God enough for all He’s done for us, especially in the life of Jesus, our Lord and Savior, whose birth we just celebrated, who came to this earth with a purpose, ultimately going to the cross for our eternal salvation. (John 3:16) And that’s a blessing to forever be thankful for! My previously unpublished poem below was written several years ago as two separate poems during a particularly difficult year of Ed’s continued worsening health and my cancer diagnosis and treatments. Yet their poetic themes were similar enough that they seemed to flow as one entity of praise in alternating verses, fitting to end this year with and to welcome a new year. I also find it easier to write in the first person. From my own life experiences and feelings of my heart, words flow onto the page. Ed always said I wore my feelings on my face. But it’s also been said I’m too emotional, by someone in a leadership position who should know better. It’s true, but that’s the way God created my caring heart. And often when a poem is finished, re-reading it in its entirety brings tears to my eyes. For I know God has blessed me with words that often seem to come from somewhere deep in my soul… from someplace with which my consciousness is not always in touch… with words that have touched the hearts of others and brought healing to mine. Because yes, it’s my heart that rejoices, my heart that is saddened, my heart that gets angry at times, my heart that despairs, my heart that apologizes and seeks forgiveness for my wrongs and desires peace, my heart that looks up to the Lord for His loving forgiveness, asking for His hand to guide my path, and it’s even my heart that these poetic words lift up. For it’s also my heart that praises the Lord for all the blessings He’s given while allowing me to face hardships and pain, as He brings healing and peace, and joy amid tears from His loving mercy and grace. In all of life’s ups and downs, He knows best how to guide my heart and my steps… and may He use these words to touch your heart in turn… as I thank each of you for being a blessing to me. You’ve Blessed Me Linda A. Roorda Oh Lord, you’ve blessed me in ways beyond count At each new dawning to greet a new day With words of praise from depths of my heart Like birds taking flight are songs in my soul. ~ How do I begin my Creator to thank? For where life began barely touches the sum. But were I to try my heart could not name All the blessings of love and joy in my soul. ~ Your hand is my guide unaware at times Taking for granted simple joys of life, So may I pause and contemplate The myriad ways Your love covers me. ~ Through seasons of need joy and praise burst forth In testing and trial with hope I reach up For You always guide each faltering step To carry when I fall and ease heavy burdens. ~ Look upward my soul as life and stress deep Overwhelm to the core and deprive of peace. With hope the key to renew my heart I walk not by sight but by Faith alone. ~ Within this world You allow my struggles For an easy path was never promised. Yet You have vowed at my side to be Guiding me over life’s treacherous shoals. ~ For it’s You my Lord, to whom I will run Whose voice I hear, whose Word is my guide Directing my path, gently leading me on Guiding with light, Your Son in my heart. ~ You promised more if I will just seek Your grace and mercy since Your child I am, With a love and joy that knows no bounds And peace that passes all understanding. ~ And oh! the joy that blesses my soul! For since time began You’ve called me by name. And with thankful heart I praise You my God For blessings given in ways beyond count. ~~ Linda writes from her home in Spencer.

“Something told the wild geese it was time to go. Though the fields lay golden, something whispered ‘SNOW”! Leaves were green and stirring, berries luster-glossed. But beneath warm feathers, something cautioned ‘FROST!’ All the sagging orchards steamed with amber spice, but each wild breast stiffened at remembered ice. Something told the wild geese it was time to fly ---summer sun was on their wings, winter in their cry.”* There is something about hearing geese fly over, especially at night. Their call ignites a breathless wish to fly along with them ---- to escape the routine and anxiety; to be free, to explore warmer, sunnier, magical places. When mid-November comes, if snow hasn’t already made an appearance, we know that it will be along soon. I like the brown, taupe and gray tones of November, especially before the snows come. I like the designs of the bare tree branches against the sky. I like the textures and patterns, the different shades of brown along the roadside; the round galls on golden rod stems, the delicate tan cups of Queen Anne’s Lace, and the many-shaped seed heads that stand ready to drop their fruitfulness everywhere. And I like foggy mornings that disappear into sunshine two hours later. Sunlight becomes more precious because of its rarity. It is said that we have five senses (sight, smell, touch, sound, and taste), but there is a nameless, sixth sense, that pops up serendipitously when certain things alert us, like flying geese. Because of our travels, the recent untimely (in my opinion) deaths of friends, and All Saint’s Day back on November 1st, I’ve been reminiscing and remembering. I often wonder about my memory files; how many of them must be squished, in confused disorder, into my brain somewhere. If only there were a guaranteed way to call them forth at need. Instead, they make random appearances, often oddly mixed and strangely unrelated to whatever I am doing. I can’t really blame my brain for refusing to organize itself; I’ve always disliked filing, as anyone who viewed my desk would know; I’m sure the brain that fills my head, had something to do with that. However, the oddest things come popping into my consciousness, uncalled. Sometimes it is the snatch of a song like: “Tell me a story, tell me a story, oh tell me a story, remember what you said. You promised me, you said you would; you gotta give in so I’ll be good. Tell me a story and then I’ll I go to bed.” I can’t remember how old that song is (very) ---- or when I last heard it (when my kids were little?). And then there are those unconscious, jumbled memories that assemble themselves into strange dreams during my sleeping hours. If I could remember then all, they’d surely make successful novels. A couple of fine writers have books about how all of our senses impact our daily lives; Gretchen Rubin --- The Five Senses, and Diane Ackerman – A Natural History of the Senses. Touch, for example. The accidental touch of a nettle leaf reminds me, not happily, of the time I grabbed a whole plant, not realizing its nasty potential. It is a good thing that nettle has other, good qualities, both edible and cosmetic. The soft velvet of mullein leaves is as soothing to my fingers as mullein tea is to a bronchial cough Touching any of the herbs fills the air with fragrance. When I’m wrapped in my great-grandmother’s quilt, or the soft, knitted throw made by my daughter-in-law, I am warmed twice; my body by the extra layer, and my soul when thinking of all the stitches that went into these gifts. When preemie babies are in the hospital for a time, volunteers come in to stroke or hold those babies. Without human touch, babies do not thrive. It is true of other creatures; baby chimps need touch or they die. Foals and calves all need a mother’s tongue to bring them into full life. I remember hearing from a client in a nursing home how she missed human contact. Her remaining family was sparse, she didn’t have children, and there were few, if any, times that someone hugged her or held her hand. That came to mind as I watched an episode of “Bones” on TV. The whole scientific staff was shut behind glass doors on Christmas Day because of some toxin that had accidentally been loosed. Their families could only come to visit them with the glass barrier in in between. And as each family came, they put their hands on the glass and “touched” the fingers of their imprisoned loved one. Without any words, this segment emphasized the importance of touch; how crucial to our well-being. A kind of touch, hugging has now become more common as a greeting, especially if it has been a while since people have been together. And that is a good thing, I think. I was a little slow to accept hugging, especially from people I didn’t know all that well or at all. My first exposure came at a Faith-At-Work conference. In my growing-up world, my parents hugged me, but we didn’t casually hug others. At this conference, everyone was hugging everyone. We had come to this event with our pastor and his wife. Kerm had no trouble with hugging and neither did Connie, our pastor’s wife. However, Bill and I stood a bit apart, watching, as if we were afraid hugging was contagious. And you know, it was, and is! By the end of the conference, we were hugging fellow attendees along with everyone else. I think that all of us should probably make the effort to be a bit more touchy-feely with people, especially those who are so alone. When visiting people in lonely circumstances, it might be kind, and even healing, to hold a hand or give a gentle shoulder hug. I have a friend who, when he comes into a room, often gives shoulder massages. It is a kind gesture to those of us who travel through life with tenseness in, around, and about us. And I know he does that in nursing homes when he visits. Touch - so important to our health and how we feel about ourselves! Another task that employs touch, and sight, and smell, and brings memories surging back in, is going through old blanket chests and cupboards. Mine have some wonderful old textiles: blankets, quilts, laces, and linens that my mother either inherited or acquired over her 94 years of living, and a few more that I’ve found in my auction forays. There are two possible scents; lavender and sweet clover ---both of which she (and I) included in the chests. Because we really need to down-size, I have given quite a few things away, but I’m running out of people who care for these old items. It is the same with lovely old dishes, glassware, and silver. No one wishes to wash things by hand, and everyone wants cups and plates that can be microwaved. Wedgewood, Spode, and Minton may be prestigious names in the porcelain world, but they carry little influence with the digital generation. (I did notice that new Spode plates can be microwaved.) As I imagine the lives of my grandmother and great grandmother who wove the blankets and pieced the quilts, and who owned the dishes and glassware, I am grateful for the lovely items, of course but also for all of the unseen qualities that I inherited from them. I know their lives were often difficult, and I feel their strength flowing into me when there are challenges to be met, as there surely are right now and as there are in every era. Speaking of gratitude, we have only a few days until Thanksgiving. Our family gatherings have changed over the years, as things tend to do. We used to drive two hours to be with extended family. Now, in a different era, we gather with our own family; all eight of us, plus an occasional friend or two. When I look around the table, I am still happy and thankful for the company and the day. I think that gratitude for simply living, waking in the morning and being mobile, is a daily crash course in glad awareness for all of our senses. Especially do I appreciate that unexpected sixth sense that comes so unexpectedly and with a a touch of strangeness. As we move further into November, this poem, by Dixie Willson**, speaks of that un-named sixth sense, and seems appropriate: “I like the fall, the mist and all, I like the night owl’s lonely call –and wailing sound of wind around. I like the gray November day, and bare, dead boughs that coldly sway against my pane. I like the rain. I like to sit and laugh at it ---And tend my cozy fire a bit. I like the fall ---- the mist and all.” Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Rachel Field --- “Something Told The Wild Geese”. She was an American poet, novelist, and children’s fiction writer. **Dixie Willson –An American writer, author of children’s books, novels and short stories as well as poetry. 1890-1974.

Every year, I’ve written about Halloween, but never had the opportunity to send out an essay ON Halloween. As you know, this is a popular, and controversial,day. The word comes from the Celtic “Samhain” (pronounced Sa-ween). It was the Harvest festival and beginning of the new year in Ireland and surrounding regions; sort of like New Year’s Eve for us. The belief, at that time, was that on Samhain, the “curtain” between the here and the hereafter was very thin. Uneasy or angry souls could come back to admonish/ take vengeance on those who had caused them grief during life on earth. So, people carried candle-lit vegetables (lanterns were too expensive for many) at night, to feel safer, going from one place to another. And, of course, all sorts of spooky legends have grown up around this day, involving “eye of newt and toad spit,” ghosts, skeletons, headless horsemen, dressing up as someone else, bon fires, and Jack-o-lanterns. Some people find this autumn celebration, at the very least, annoying, and others, totally unacceptable, feeling that it promotes Paganism and maybe, actual evil. Some just ignore it, pulling the curtains to avoid trick & treaters. Others find it fun to dress up, to go trick-or-treating, or to have parties with slightly spooky games and steaming punch. We probably fall into the latter category, for we have had several Halloween parties over the years, sewed costumes for our children and grandchildren, and carved many a Jack-o-lantern. Mostly our boys did not go trick or treating; we had the parties instead, that included skits, mazes, seasonal food, and campfires. Our former house had a split-level attic with gables. It was perfect for a Halloween maze. That was the same year we took the “Duck, Duck” skit from “The Electric Company” (or was it “Sesame Street”?) and reproduced it in our living room. Home-made costumes became pajamas or went into the dress-up box when Halloween was over. One year a Mexican student was staying with us; he was part of an “Up With People” performance, and his group was having a Halloween party. From our capacious dress-up box, we outfitted him with my sister’s nurse’s cape and a fake moustache, until, with his dark, good looks, he made a convincing Dracula. He only had to buy fake fangs! Note: everyone needs a costume box, it’s not just for Halloween. I do think that many lawn decorations observed in our recent travels, are too expensive, and of dubious taste - macabre even. The dancing circles of ghosts are kind of fun. Some amusing displays in several places this year are using the fake skeletons. On one lawn there were probably a dozen skeletons busily “working”; mowing, raking, pushing a cart! And just down the road from us, a line of skeletons stands on guard, outside an old barn. They really should be chicken skeletons; that barn was full of poultry when we moved here. And ---- a warning about those cob-webby things that people drape over shrubbery; they create lethal traps for good insects (butterflies, moths, bees) and some small birds, so, not good. Thus far, I’m sticking to pumpkins, corn stalks and a scarecrow or two and a treat for any kid who makes it up our long driveway. Some believe I’m too casual about Halloween. I do not dismiss the potential for evil in this world, and I know that on Halloween some misinformed individuals are involved in unpleasantness like a black mass and similar unsavory practices. I believe however, these are minimal and obvious when compared to the evils caused by greed and the worship of power and money. I think we find more real evil in respectable places; Congress, country clubs, business offices, yachts, and arenas; places we do not necessarily expect evil to be. Wealth, status and glib language impress too many, and can create moral blindness! This obtuseness allows us to shrug off daily practices of injustice, greed, abuse and hate-mongering. So, a fun celebration of Halloween seems relatively innocent in comparison. There are other special days at about the same time. When Christianity was introduced into the Celtic regions of Europe, the new religious leaders made a habit of “revising” pagan holidays, turning them into Christian celebrations. Halloween became “All Soul’s (or All Hallows Eve) Eve” and the day after Halloween became “All Saints’ Day.” These are times to remember the wonderful people in our lives; those still with us, and those who are no longer here, but who have impacted us in good way. For our first Christmas together with family, Kerm’s Grandma Storm quietly asked me if we went to church. I replied that we did --- but not every Sunday. She nodded and said: “That’s good. You’ll go more after a while.” This turned out to be quite true. When we moved to Pennsylvania, the pastor of the church we chose, and his wife, not only made us welcome, but made sure we had many opportunities to grow. They convinced us we should teach Sunday school --- which guaranteed we’d be there every week and created so-o-o many learning experiences! The pastor was new and we were new, and we shared some fine occasions. In Livingston Manor, we became better acquainted with the Jewish faith and Catholicism via good friends and participation in Interfaith Marriage Encounter. And in Spencer, we’ve found guidance and examples in good pastors and good people. As we look backward, we are very grateful for all our grandmas, grandpas, aunts, pastors and wise friends who have blessed us in many ways. Speaking of special days, the autumn time change is about to be inflicted upon us. This very weekend, Daylight Savings Time will be whisked away, the clocks will be turned an hour backward, and, in another month, it be dark at 4:30, Standard Time. There is one friend in my life (I suppose there could possibly be more…) who rejoices over this day that gives her an extra hour. People who like this end of the time change, tend to get up early. I do not, so I don’t need morning light as much as I need late afternoon/evening light. As a result, that first weekend in November always leaves me a tad grumpy, even supposedly having had an extra hour of sleep. I look forward, with eagerness, to the winter solstice in December. My motto is “bring back the light”!! Life goes on, and as we come to the end of October (a most delightful month) and waltz into November (an iffy month), we have about three weeks to enjoy the month’s variations of time and weather before the holidays are upon us and we are caught up in the rushing hither and yon. I must bake fruitcakes (a new tradition begun after I retired). I wait to bake them until I’m sure the bears have denned; I’d be upset should a hungry bear break into our porch for the fruit cakes he smells mellowing there. Now lest you try to tell me that even bears won’t eat fruit cake, I will inform you that my fruit cakes are yummy! The spicy cake batter is full of raisins, glazed fruit, pear conserve, pecans, Brazil nuts, almonds, and a “touch” of B&B Liqueur. The cakes rest a while, and are basted again with B&B Liqueur, after which they are ready to share with other fruit cake lovers. And my afternoon tea time becomes an especially a delightful experience. (And a razz-berry or two, to my fruit-cake-denying sons and husband!) Even more fun than fruitcakes was our recent pinochle night. We used to play frequently, but life has gotten more complicated, so a pinochle evening is nearly an annual event now. Unfortunately, when there are long gaps between activities, some of us tend to forget what we are supposed to do. Is there a right and left bower? Nope, that’s euchre. Oh, someone must open with a bid? What makes meld again? “What do you mean a king of hearts can’t marry a queen of diamonds? We managed to pull ourselves back up to speed after two or three hands so we could actually converse and play cards at the same time, and we were reminded of how much we enjoy each other. We also observed that two or three people still should be sent to “Over bidders Anonymous!” We aren’t serious about our card-playing but we are very serious about the good it brings into our days. I am convinced that the camaraderie and laughter build up our immune systems. And the recall of our playing skills keeps our minds agile. Friends and fun are undeniably as health-building as vitamins!! On this day of ghosts, goblins and big, orange pumpkins, I hope you will be doing something good, fun or refreshing. A line from this appropriate poem should challenge our senses: “….listen…..with faint, dry sound, like steps of passing ghosts, the leaves, frost-crisped, break from the trees and fall….”* Look with kindly tolerance at costumed kiddies, having a fine time scuffling through those same dry leaves. Think about old Ireland and the interesting Druid theology that led to many of our customs today. And take time to appreciate daily life here and now. Even with so many frightening things in our world (including the coming elections), there are stars in the sky, birds singing, puppies rolling on rugs and music waiting for the listening ear. And --- “October baptize me with leaves! Swaddle m e in corduroy and nurse me with split pea soup. October, tuck tiny candy bars in my pockets and carve my smile into a thousand pumpkins. O Autumn! O teakettle! O grace!”** And take responsibility! We have good lives in this imperfect but fine land. You may have grievances, but living here is still better than in most other countries of this world. Be a good citizen and VOTE!!! No excuses! Carol Bossard writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *from a poem (November Night) by Adelaide Crapsey --- American poet and writer from Rochester, NY. 1878-1914. **Rainbow Rowell –American author known for young adult and contemporary adult novels.

Since October 15th is always National White Cane Safety Day, I thought it might be fitting to again share Ed and my journey with his blindness. (Written in 2016 with his wise input and approval.) Unless you’ve experienced what someone else has dealt with, you cannot make a valid judgment against them. We take so much in life for granted… especially in what we can see and do. But reflect with me for just a few minutes on what it would be like without one, or more, of your senses. What if you could not smell, taste, hear, speak, or see? What if you couldn’t walk, or move your arms? What if the simplest tasks became so much more difficult due to a new disability? As I’ve mentioned in other blogs and poems, my husband, Ed, was blind, and my mother was paralyzed on the right side from a stroke. Thankfully, my mom was left-handed and propelled her wheelchair with left hand and foot to visit her friends – and let me tell you, that left hand and arm of hers was so strong I had to laugh and remind her not to squeeze my arthritic hand so tight when we’d say goodbye, and she always got a chuckle out of that! But this poem was written one day as I contemplated Ed’s dark world of blindness, and the vision I take for granted, even now. I had to remind myself of his limitations because I’d become accustomed to how good he was at getting around the familiarity of our home without sight in a world that depends on vision. He never wanted anyone to feel sorry for or pity him. He had limited vision in his only usable eye, damaged by pure oxygen in the incubator for a month as a tiny 3-1/2 pound twin, having 20/200 vision with glasses. When he farmed with his dad, he managed to make barn and field chores look easy. In reality, it wasn’t. He made accommodations and learned to live with very blurry vision. It’s all he knew. Yet, he longed to drive a car or truck on the road and be like everyone else. As a family, we learned to remember to put something back in its original place so he could find it again, and not to move the furniture without telling him, or leave a door ajar for him to walk into. Yes, we learned the hard way to make those issues priorities… and sadly, I would forget on a few occasions. I would also put bump dots on digital dials of appliances so he could do minor cooking and laundry, while he used rubber bands of different sizes or widths to tell his medications apart and to distinguish salt and pepper shakers. He wanted to be as independent as possible, though his permanent statin-drug muscle damage took more of a toll and he struggled to get around, limiting what he could do. But there once was the day he made his usual big pot of delicious chili… with a twist. When the kids came home from school, he heard, “Oh Pop! What did you do? There’s fruit cocktail in the chili!” The can of fruit had gotten too close to the cans of tomatoes, and he had had no idea. We ate it anyway. And it wasn’t too bad, just a little sweeter than usual. Who knows… maybe it would be worthy of winning a competition! But, yes, life was interesting in learning to accommodate his needs… for all of us. When he went to The Carroll Center for the Blind in Newton, Massachusetts for six months of training in the fall of 1989, we family members were given occluders to cover our eyes for a while. (Actually, each staff member was required to wear them one day a month.) At the end of the exercise, the kids and I, and Ed’s parents, could take our occluders off. But Ed could not… his vision loss was permanent. It was a stark reminder to us with sight as to how blessed we really are… and how to better understand his loss and frustration in recovering and learning a new way to function. It’d been very hard for Ed to face the world without vision along with his other disabilities… as it would be for anyone with a disability. Our world is not always as understanding as we would like to think. Despite others’ prayers for miraculous healing, we knew that was not likely to happen due to the permanent destructive damage inside the eyes, not from our lack of faith. What we needed most were prayers and emotional support as we faced the grieving process and a new way of life. Then there were folks who rushed past as I’d guide my husband, and their feet became entangled in his outstretched cane which feels ahead for obstacles... and I’d had to stop unexpectedly because someone cut us off sharply in their hurry, throwing him off balance, nearly falling. We found that people would sometimes talk louder to him; he was blind, but not hard of hearing. Once, when he was hospitalized, the nurse’s aide actually said sarcastically to him, “Hey! What’s the deal with the sunglasses? Think you’re a movie star?” Ed calmly replied, “No. I’m blind.” And she stumbled profusely trying to apologize. Then there were adult stares, which I hope were due to their being impressed with his ability. During mobility training with his specialist, he was learning to find his way through the mall while she followed at a distance. A kind gentleman came up to him, grabbed his arm and started walking, i.e. pulling, him along, asking where he wanted to go. Ed stopped walking, thanked him, but gently explained he was learning to find his own way around. As for the children who stared and asked their curious questions, we explained why he used a white cane to help them understand what it’s like to live in a world without sight. But there are so many limitations placed on someone with any disability that we often don’t think about. Ed simply could not do whatever he wanted. He couldn’t get in the car and drive wherever and whenever he wanted. Without sight, there is so much that is missed… in the beauty of a sunny day, of flowers blooming in multitudinous hues, of storm clouds gathering, in watching brilliant flashes of lightning, of seeing a rainbow at the storm’s end, seeing the beauty of a freshly fallen snow… loved ones’ dear faces… a newborn’s precious face, never having been seen before to hold onto the memory… having lost the ability to simply pick up any book or paper to read, or a pen to write, having to take the time to accomplish those tasks a new and slower way by having them read to him or by listening to books on cassette/CDs, etc… and so much more. And to be honest, he generally preferred we not describe the beauty around him for the painful reminder of what he was missing. In time, though, understanding and acceptance was gained by going through the vital grieving process, as for anyone with any loss. Life is no longer the same, and never would be. We also learned the hard way that grief over a loss is important. It’s a key process in learning to deal and grow, and it should not be rushed. That was also something neither of us understood early on with his blindness, until an aide from the Association for Vision Rehab in Binghamton came to our home. Simply be there with support… for acceptance comes with the change by gaining confidence in the ability to move forward a new way… in learning new processes for what was once familiar and easy. Our faith in the Lord had been our support when we felt overwhelmed… when Ed couldn’t do what he wanted, and I’d been stretched to the max to pick up the slack. The Lord listened to our prayers in the needs of everyday life. He was at our side to see us through a journey we never expected to make. Ask how you can pray for the one on the journey. Ask how you might be best able to help them. Don’t assume to know what they might need. Take the time to understand life for someone with a disability of any kind. Take the time to put yourself in their shoes… to walk their path and understand their limitations. Take the time to love them, to share and ask questions… and then listen between the lines for what they might be hesitant to express. Encourage them and laugh with them. Help them overcome the changes. Walk with them, and you will both be blessed on the journey. I Cannot See by Linda A. Roorda I cannot see this beautiful day Yet I long to bask in its brilliant glow Taking in rays that uncover the dark But instead I feel its warmth like flames. ~ I cannot see tender smiles that beam As voices carry the tones of your heart, And tears that flow in sadness or joy Are a gentle touch felt deep in my soul. ~ I cannot see love’s beautiful face Though I hold you near in image faded. I take your hand and with gentle kiss Shower affection from memories dear. ~ I cannot see what your eyes behold As the world moves on and leaves me the past, So let me borrow your words to describe Changes in life without an image. ~ I cannot see somber cloudy days Though I hear your voice cheer me on. You tenderly hold my heart in your hand For without your strength I could not go on. ~ I cannot see the path that we walk Yet wisdom shared from the depth of trust Embraces our hearts to cover what lacks As you guide with love in step at my side. ~~ Linda writes from her home in Spencer.