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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

What lush, thoroughly-enjoyable days we are in. Who wouldn’t like May? Birds are everywhere; scarlet cardinals are flying through purple lilacs and the colors don’t clash at all! Dogwood blossoms make white clouds against the dark spruce trees. In the musical, Camelot, they sing: “Tra la, it’s May! The lusty month of May! The lovely month when ev’ryone goes blissfully a-stray…..”* I’m not sure about the astray part, but it is surely easy to feel blissful right now. The month’s name came from Maia, the Greek goddess who oversaw the growth of plants. The Romans celebrated “Floralia”, a five-day festival to honor the goddess, Flora – the Roman equivalent. For some Native Americans, May is the month of the Full Flower Moon. On the western Christian church’s liturgical calendar, the Easter season is ending with Pentecost, this year, on May 19th. The cinnamon ferns in my shade garden have unrolled like so many green, leafy scrolls. They are now high enough to hide the path created by the “family” skunk, who has a burrow over that way, and who comes out at night to dig in the lawn for grubs. They are so tall that I can no longer see the bird feeders from my chair in the dining room. This is too bad, because the rose-breasted grosbeaks, cardinals, chickadees, nuthatches and woodpeckers are constant visitors. Baby raccoons will be out of the nest very soon, raiding the cat food. Bluejays have also added cat food to their daily diet; I think it may be a game with them, birds vs. cat! The world is full of life in technicolor, both flora and fauna. May is another way to define a new word I found (I like interesting words) ---" Yugen” ---- a profound, mysterious sense of the beauty of the universe that triggers a deep emotional response”.** This response seemed to be true, world-wide, when so many people watched the eclipse. I feel it when there is the dark tracery of trees and shrubs on a moon-lit lawn or in a quiet, lavender twilight when birds’ soft cheeping morphs day into night or when everything sparkles at sunrise and the sky is streaked with rose and gold. The beauty of the universe is so vivid in May. Our pastor gave us an assignment one Sunday for the next Sunday to “find Sabbath” somewhere other than church. It was a fairly easy assignment for me, but not, apparently, for everyone. To feel the reverence and rest of Sabbath while in the garden, or on the lake shore or under a blooming tree is just natural. I do appreciate stained glass and beautiful organ preludes, but I can find awe and delight in all the wonders of what is around me. I can find love and delight in being with family and friends. The world surely has gaping wounds and is filled with grief and destruction in many places. But we can still be bathed in the natural wonders; gifts to those of us living on this earth --- so many beautiful places and ----the opportunity to be with incredible people. Nature’s gifts lead me to consider human gifts. One of the things we recently tossed around in our Friday AM women’s study was how everyone has intrinsic gifts but are not always realized by those who have them. Helping others recognize their gifts is an affirming part of loving/caring. Some gifts/ talents are quite visible; those individuals who pour out music, those who dance as lightly as thistledown, those who bring roles to life on stage, who turn oils, acrylics, and water colors into pictures that speak to the heart, those who take a flat piece of fabric and turn it into clothing, quilts or collage, gardeners who “paint” the landscape with flowers and foliage, people who bring life to wood, stone and metal via sculpture, furniture, and carvings those who draw us into stories until we feel we’ve lived there. So many beautiful things come from our gifts/talents. There are also wonderful, but less evident, gifts. Attentive listening is a precious gift when we need someone’s ear. We don’t necessarily want anyone to “fix” our problems as much as a quiet acceptance, and the feeling that someone hears us; that we are not alone in our feelings. Then there are those individuals who teach in a way that makes learning exciting ---- often helping us with inner growth as well. There is the gift of hospitality; people who always make me feel that they are glad I am with them. There are the comforting huggers, leaving a trail of affirmation in their wake. I am not, by upbringing, a very “huggy” person, but I almost always appreciate a hug from someone who thinks I need one. Another rare gift would be in people who notice small things, and express their gratitude or appreciation. We may not work for rewards, but it does the heart good when someone notices. Going out of one’s way to do something feels better with “Good Job” encouragement along the path. Gifts can be huge visible ones or small quiet ones, but we all have them, and should share them and our appreciation of others’ gifts extravagantly. We might not consider events as gifts, but celebrations, good times of many kinds, are gifts that give us breaks in our routines. May begins a train of celebratory events. Since we live only one-half hour from Ithaca and Elmira, we are very aware of college graduations. Ithaca College graduation is this weekend, and Cornell’s ceremonies are on Memorial Day weekend. We appreciate these events from afar; we try to avoid driving where there is an influx of parents, along with students packing up to go home. This brings me to another subject, which is sort of about wasting gifts. Students tend to leave heaps and piles of perfectly usable stuff behind to be picked up by garbage trucks and deposited in a landfill. This lack of concern about waste bothers me. I think kids should be taught to take good care of their possessions. Feeling “entitled” to everything one wants is not the way to become a responsible adult. It is no gift to a child to be the parents who do not speak to this lack of gratitude and care. There is a happy ending to this messy and profligate exodus. The surrounding community is very aware of this annual “leaving behind,” habitual behavior so the “gleaners” come to the rescue. Potential waste has become, instead, an exercise in re-using and re-purposing. Wasting gifts of any kind, material items or those things of the spirit just shouldn’t happen. In Camelot, because it is May, they obviously believed in letting the good times roll. Here, in addition to the graduations, there are oodles of possibilities for going “astray”, or at least getting out and about. There are parks with waterfalls, lakes and rivers, several garden centers, Farmer’s Markets, The Wind Mill, the Finger Lakes Ice Cream Trail and a plethora of yard sales -- all fun things to give us a break from the very daily lives we tend to live. Check your community’s offerings and be a part of them. Living vibrantly at all ages is using our personal gifts well. And planned recreation for ourselves is as important as planned maintenance for our equipment or functioning factories. We all grew up with the idea that working hard is a virtue, which it certainly is, to a point. Working to achieve goals is a good thing, but learning to contemplate and take reasonable rest is an excellent thing too. Moderation has never been a popular concept in the U.S.; our general population, historically and currently, has tended to bounce rapidly from one extreme to another, and we’ve glorified that “work for the night is coming” hymn. Corporations have made people think they must work 24/7 if they wish to be considered loyal, ambitious employees. There are entities who, even knowing it is illegal, expect their employees work overtime without compensation. And we do it to ourselves; push-push-push until we are exhausted. If we have been raised to believe how much we accomplish in a day measures our value, then having fun may seem frivolous and self-indulgent. Not so!! Taking breaks is a healthy, as well as a creative way to live. We need to re-learn and believe that we are enough just as we are. Personal growth and delight in the world around us are valid parts of living, as well as whatever it is that furnishes our bread, butter, and shoes. Perhaps that was our lesson from our unusual Sabbath. We may not need to go blissfully astray to celebrate the month of May, but maybe we could indulge in just a bit of wandering. Taking time to really see the world blossoming and growing green, actually hear the singing of birds, create a picnic in the park, instead of dinner at home, do something different and fun! Spending just a little time in our own personal Camelot adds elan and value to our lives. “In short, there’s simply not a more congenial spot for happy ever aftering than here, in Camelot!”* Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Camelot ---Created for the stage in 1960, produced as a movie in 1967. The story/legend of King Arthur’s court and the brief, wonderful time of Camelot. Written by Adam Jay Lerner and music by Frederick Loewe. **definition of “Yugen” found on Pinterest from “Singing Grasses.”

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

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

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

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

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.

We are nearing the summer Solstice, the time of the longest daylight, directly after which we begin to experience diminishing the light once again. We are also nearing the mysterious Mid-summer Night’s Eve, a time of legend; pixies, fauns, and faeries. Each year seems to speed by like someone on rollerblades; no sooner do I write about the Summer Solstice, than I’m pulling out the Halloween pumpkins and the light is fading at 4 PM. My perception of life flying by, is why making each day fully-lived, is so important. We easily label a day “good” or “bad”, but he goodness or badness of a day often depends on how we choose to look at it. We can emphasize the discouraging, unhappy moments in a day, or we can focus on the beautiful things and people around us. Perception can make us sad or happy, and it is variable. Do not misunderstand, there is deep grief, clinical depression, and other situations that make choosing happiness difficult; perhaps even impossible, without help and time. And we should get help if we need it; therapy is good for nearly everyone. But often, contentment is a daily decision. Here in the Finger Lakes, we have (for most of us) far too many gray days. But instead of designating cloudy, drippy weather as a bad day, we might instead remember that moist atmosphere keeps our skin in better shape than dry air, and that gray days give us more time to accomplish “to-do” things, leaving us freer to enjoy the sunny days. Even occurrences that we might consider annoying, may turn out to be valuable lessons or gifts, in some way. We never know all there is to know at first glance. We all have more choices in our lives than we may realize. It is generally more comforting to blame someone else for our over-busyness than to accept that our own lack of thought has trapped us. Our decisions about what we “must” do, are not necessarily what we truly must do. Of course, if we are responsible and caring persons, then there are things which we accept; as parents we need to nurture and raise our children, if we have a career, it is our responsibility to do our best with that job, if we volunteer, the same sense of task-ownership stays with us. Often, however, we take on more burdens than should be ours, creating continual stress in our lives. It is often our own choice to be over-extended. “Not my monkeys; not my Zoo!” is a rather flip, but astute, way of accepting that some things are not ours to handle, agonize over, or fix. Kerm remarked a while ago, that people make the decision to get out of bed in the morning --- or not. (I hope that wasn’t an oblique way of saying I get up too late!) But he’s right about the choice; we can open ourselves to the day, or we can dive back under the covers and put a pillow over our heads to exempt ourselves from what the next 24 hours might bring. Some mornings, the blankets and pillows are surely tempting. Little excuses easily pop into our minds, and can add up until they become a completely solid reason for staying in pajamas. But each day we live is a precious day. Morgan Freeman* said: “Waking up in the morning is a miracle of its own. Be thankful for another day to experience life and be grateful that you get another opportunity to continue on your incredible journey.” And ---- if your journey isn’t sufficiently incredible, each of us has the power to make things different, if only a small bit. Have your choices led you where you want to go? Father’s Day is fast-approaching, and I think of my father’s choices. He lost his father when he was 2 or 3 years old to pneumonia and typhoid fever. Dad was fortunate in that his father’s brother, his Uncle Fred, stepped up to give some male guidance, and his mother eventually remarried another fine man. Both were good role models. I know that he respected education, but was financially limited to high school. Dad’s brother chose to follow his stepfather into carpentry. My father decided, after returning from WWI, and after briefly working in the automobile industry, to become a farmer. After marrying, he and my mother lived and worked on two rented farms before buying the one on which I grew up. After WWII, when my brothers came home and Dad had acquired a painful back problem, my eldest brother took over the farm work, and Dad went to work for first the Federal Land Bank and then Farm Credit. He was a banker of sorts, issuing loans to qualifying farmers. He also became a working part of his community; an Elder and Trustee in the church, a Grange member, active in Farm Bureau and worked tirelessly to get a central school and school buses. He strongly encouraged and assisted his five children to educate themselves as well as they found possible. His choices took him from limited resources, as a boy, to giving back and being respected in his community, and supporting a family. He assuredly was not perfect; he was easily irritated, quite thunderous when displeased, and had little patience for foolishness. But he loved his family and his choices reflected his determination to do the best he could for them. This did not mean an easy a life. It did mean getting out of bed every single day, regardless of his mood. First it was cows to be milked and crops to plant, and later, farmers to be counselled. And I must add here (with a generous measure of grumpiness!) that when my father was out of bed, he thought everyone else should be also --- regardless of prom night or midnight work on last-minute essays. He was meticulous about good manners, respect for people and tradition, including the etiquette around our nation’s flag. Friday was Flag Day --- an often- forgotten, but special day. Perhaps schools currently neglect teaching its history, and how the flag is to be displayed or flown. Some individuals and groups have thoughtlessly used it as a measure of protest over a disliked governmental issue. Others, in a mistaken sense of patriotism, have draped it around their shoulders or painted it on the street. Our flag, which is a symbol of who we are as a nation, has been displayed in several less than admirable ways. It is not supposed to be carelessly worn, especially worn in a way that requires sitting, lying or treading upon it. Those using the flag in casual or disrespectful ways, or for purposes of protesting government policy do not think, perhaps, that they are also dissing the courageous men and women who have fought to keep that flag flying. Protestors are often, one-thought people, and they often lack a grasp of history. They do not consider how the spray of their words and deeds may be toxic to others other than their objects of protest. There are probably better, more intelligent, and more honest methods of getting people’s attention for something that needs correction. I have always liked the Civil War era poem, “Barbara Fritchie” by James Russell Lowell*. It is too long to put here in its entirety, but a few lines will ---- perhaps ---- make you want to check it out for yourself: And for the rest of the story, you must look it up. 😊 But it is a poem that demonstrates how important the flag has been to those who love their country, even with its many errors. And speaking of June celebrations, Juneteenth is coming soon, Wednesday, June 19th. Because this is a relatively new holiday, many do not know its history or why it has suddenly become a federal holiday. Its status has been long in the making but it stems from the extended period of time it took for the word to get out to all slave-owners, especially in Texas, that emancipation had come. It was months after the law was enacted before everyone was informed or believed it. Juneteenth celebrates the ending of one of the darkest parts of our history ---- slavery. Owning another person is the opposite of everything our nation stands for, and something I find difficult to imagine; repulsive even. So, Juneteenth requires us, as a nation, to recognize our past, to go forward in a direction that erases the prejudice and mis-information we have accumulated over the years, and to keep celebrating both the change in law, and hopefully, in our hearts. So because it comes but once/year, enjoy the wonderful month of June, whatever it brings. “What is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days….”** sing and dance --- even in the hay fields. Remember the wisdom that considers each day we are alive as a gift. It is your choice! Carol Bossard wrties from her home in Spencer. *James Russell Lowell --- American poet, diplomat, literary critic and editor. He was associated with the “Fireside Poets” of New England, who promoted reading, as a family, in the evening. 1807-1891 **from “The Vision of Sir Launfal” by James Russell Lowell

by Michaela Estruth “When I grow up, I want to be a mom.” These are common words to hear from young girls; they aspire to be just like their own mothers. But all of a sudden, once those young girls become women, those words become less and less common. Has that maternal desire faded? Perhaps. But might there be another explanation? The question, “What do you want to do?” is a constant ask of every 18- to 22-year-old. College-aged adults like me are just beginning independent lives and discovering the world of opportunities while also discovering a culture of commendation or condemnation. Depending on where we go and what we do, others will either praise us or persecute us. And young adults know this. We can feel it every time someone asks us that question about our future plans. If I were to respond to that question with “I want to get married and be a mom,” the average American would stare at me and blink. Then they’d probably say, “Right, but what do you want to do before that?” This mindset is just one of the factors contributing to America’s declining birth rates. America’s birth rates reached a record low of 1.6 children per woman in 2023, below the necessary replacement rate of 2.1. The birth rate had been on a rise for the past two years, which many experts attribute to the COVID-19 pandemic. But the statistics now show the continued decline and the lowest rates since 1979. This decline cannot be reduced to one factor. The cultural “success message” that delays marriage and family, however, should take some blame. Last December, Statista reported on U.S. Census Bureau data showing that the average marrying age for men is 30.2 and for women is 28.4—a marked increase since the 1950s when men married around age 23 and women around age 20. Along with getting married later, men and women are also having kids later. Twenty percent of women have their first child after the age of 35, according to a July 2022 article from the National Institute of Health’s News in Health. The article opens explaining why women may postpone starting a family: “There are many reasons you might wait to have kids. You may want to focus on your career. Or save some money first.” These are some of the common arguments against getting married and starting a family at a young age. Shouldn’t young women like me first go to grad school, perhaps law school, or at least make a worthwhile living? Don’t we want to travel, let loose, and have fun? Of course, all these reasons aren’t inherently wrong or even necessarily unwise, but the point is that people are starting families much later, and often putting off doing so for the sake of perceived personal accomplishment or enjoyment. And therein lies the heart of the issue. The cultural sermon preaches “you first” to every young man and woman looking to start adult life. “Do what you want to do. Marriage and family will come later.” But here’s the blunt truth: Marriage and family doesn’t just happen to someone. They take time and intentionality. Dating requires patience and thoughtful consideration before making a lifetime commitment to another person. Marriage requires self-sacrifice, a love that is rooted in commitment, not mere sentimental feeling. And a child demands that same self-sacrifice every minute of every day. Being a father or a mother means putting the child’s needs above your own. It means instruction, love, discipline, provision. These are exhausting responsibilities, and yet the most fulfilling. But sadly, the exhaustion and selflessness of parenting causes many to postpone the joys and blessings that overwhelmingly dominate. On May 15, Evie Magazine posted an article on X highlighting actress Rachel McAdams as a mother. In the post on X, McAdams is quoted as saying that motherhood is the greatest thing she has ever done, despite years of living the independent dream. “Your life is not your own anymore,” McAdams said. “But I had 39 years of me, I was sick of me. I was so happy to put the focus on some other person. I waited a long time. I’m having more fun being a mum than I’ve ever had. Everything about it is interesting and exciting and inspiring to me. Even the tough days — there’s something delightful about them.” For McAdams, the famous actress lifestyle wasn’t satisfying. But motherhood was. Even though women are still having kids—something that will hopefully never stop—many women aren’t doing so until much later in life, instead pursuing immediate self-fulfillment and enjoyment. Unfortunately, this mindset is also often imposed on a family. One kid is enough work already, so why would two exhausted parents have another? Today, a family with more kids is stereotypically deemed Catholic in reference to the Catholic doctrine that opposes contraception. But maybe that family of seven just loves having a big family. One thing is for sure, though: That eldest child was born well before the mom turned 35. That mother wanted to prioritize being a wife and a mom. So no, I’m not advocating for every 18-year-old woman to go get her MRS degree. But I am saying that prioritizing marriage and family isn’t a waste of time, energy, or money. In fact, it is an investment in a bright future of laughter and love. So don’t let anyone tell you to not get married and have kids—starting a family is likely the best decision you can ever make. Michaela Estruth is a rising senior studying history and journalism at Hillsdale College, where she is the senior editor of Hillsdale College’s The Collegian and host of various radio shows. She is a 2022 graduate of WORLD Magazine’s World Journalism Institute and a writing and editing intern for the Colson Center. This column originally appeared on IntellectualTakeout.org, and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License Unsplash

Three essays on May might well be overkill, fine month that it is, were it not for Memorial Day, the day of remembrance and celebration, just past, but still current. There are enough reasons to extend the celebration for several days; parades, the annual PBS Memorial Day programming, family picnics and visiting family graves. There is the traditional switch to white shoes and clothing if anyone bothers to follow such customs nowadays. And since Memorial Day brings thoughts about family, about war and peace, and about heroes,there is much to consider. One of my favorite personal memories of Memorial Day would be the parade in Victor. I was in the high school band. Not a marching band; a concert band, but we marched in the local parades. Our uniforms were a bright blue wool with gold metallic trim, blue hats with visors and white sneakers (polished, of course). Since I played the flute, and outdoor weather isn’t great for flutes, I often played the bell lyre for outdoor events. That is a heavy instrument held by a strap over the shoulders and around the waist. It adds considerable weight to the marching; good exercise, I’m sure. Sometimes, I played the piccolo, especially if we were doing Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever,” and that was not only lighter in weight, but more fun; all those little runs up and down the “Stars and Stripes.” The down-side of all this parading was that by the end of May, the weather was/is quite warm, and our wooly uniforms held in the heat. One or two band members per parade, fainted. Not I, having experienced heat in the hay field, I was generally OK. And the show must go on; it was a community event where we felt good about participating. Another memory, oddly pleasant, were cemetery walks with my mother. There were many of her family members in the Holly/Murray, NY area (since 1827), and so there were quite a few graves. We took flowers (sometimes even planted flowers) and walked around the pleasant, shaded grounds, reading tombstones. She introduced me to my forebearers, annually. There was Abner Dusett, my great-grandfather, who was a carrot farmer and his wife, Jennie Mae Allen Dusett, my grandmother Ada Weatherwax Dusett, Aunt Lovina, and many others. Sadly, there were also youngsters who succumbed to childhood diseases. I felt quite akin to all these people after a few strolls through the cemetery. Besides recalling family members gone on, Memorial Day is also a day for remembering our larger history. I regard war as a foolish waste of human and monetary resources as well as a barbaric way to settle differences, get revenge, or satisfy greed. It creates trauma for those fighting on either “side” and for those in the path of harm; “collateral damage” they call it. And yet, even with all these negatives, Memorial Day gives me a feeling of gratitude and even pride in the courage and sense of duty that pulls men and women into defense of their country. In the worst of times, we still manage to emerge intact as a nation, ready to pick up the pieces of who we are, and able to look ahead once more. I have, tucked away in a chest, a Civil War hat from an ancestor who served in that terrible war of brother vs. brother. My father served in WWI until he was sent home with pneumonia --- there being no antibiotics as the time to combat the disease. Two of my brothers served in WWII, one in the Army and one in the Marines, while my third brother was considered essential for keeping the farm going. He was also too young to enlist. In my opinion, they were all too young, but they felt that duty called! Regrettably, I never spoke of this with my mother, perhaps one needs growing sons to empathize, but I cannot imagine the amount of stress that she bore, knowing two sons were in harm’s way for months at a time. As I said, the “glory” of war is a matter of perspective. My brother-in-law served during the Korean conflict. Highschool and college friends served in Viet Nam. Some never returned. Those who did were sadder and wiser, or sometimes, more in despair. One young man I knew took his own life after seeing the atrocities of that war. The sons of friends suffered, both physically and emotionally, from their service in the Gulf, Iraq and Afghanistan. No one escapes war without scars,inside as well as out. I recently saw a quotation: “All those who go to war give their lives; some all at once and some over many years.” Some beautiful stories of heroism, of compassion and of personal growth often emerge from war experiences. Humans can develop wisdom in almost any situation if they so choose. But wouldn’t it be fine if combatting the power-hungry, the greedy and those with no compassion or wisdom were not a part of that growth? Meanwhile, reality tells us that the world is as it is ---- a complicated mixture of good and bad, of upheaval and change, of dread and delight. It is for us to find paths that lead to building rather than tearing down. And generally, being unable to change others, we must, to make a difference, change ourselves and our careless, often self-centered thinking. This weekend we turned the calendar page to June. June --- a month for graduates, for brides and grooms, for making hay and for contemplating the wonderful summer ahead. Parents begin wondering what to do with their kids for the summer months. If the kids live on a farm, this is no problem. Haying, combining, county fairs fill the days and often, summer is too short. Summer camps are on the agenda for some. Summer programs in the arts or sciences are available if one is near a college town. Whatever the choices or lack thereof, I believe that parents may give more attention to parenting when school lets out. Speaking of parenting, should it require a license? Of course not, but deciding to have children should certainly inspire more thought than most couples give it. There are people who simply should not have children. Too many young marrieds produce children because “it’s the thing to do,” and then discover that they really don’t have the inner resources for that very hard job of bringing up a child to adult-hood. It takes a wise person to realize that motherhood/fatherhood is not in the best interest of either themselves or a child. Of course, that situation can often change as life changes; what doesn’t work well at age twenty might be fine at age thirty-five. It is good to remember, though, and to remind young people, that adorable babies turn into obnoxious nine-year-olds, and challenging teens. And, one’s life is entwined with a child’s life forever, which can be wonderful, or debilitating, depending on the circumstances. Kerm and I gave parenting as little thought as most young couples. We were fortunate, though, in that when one of us wasn’t doing well as a parent, the other one generally was. Toddlers weren’t my most joyous age, but Kerm played trucks and trains and blocks on the floor with them, often supervised their splashy baths and corralled them when they crawled beneath the pews at church. When they were teenagers and Kerm vanished into some adolescent-free corner of the house, I was able to find humor in their often-clueless and certainly loud, behavior. And I enjoyed listening to their developing reasoning. There were, of course, times when both of us failed to be as aware or as available as we should have been; we made some grave errors and in looking backward, would surely make some different choices. But mostly, we enjoyed being parents and now, we find ourselves rejoicing at the very likeable and accomplished people our sons (and most of their friends) have become. My suggestion to parents of today is to enjoy your kids --- even on the days when you’d like to ship them off to the polar regions. Childhood passes quickly, and suddenly, they are children no more, and for a while, the house rather echoes with emptiness. As I glance back over May, I think it has been a good month, a month of growth, of music, moments of grief for a friend who has passed on, and days of fragrance (lilacs and lilies of the valley) and beauty as the world here grows green. We can close out the month with a visual version of “Taps”: “May is done…”; giving us days to take an honest look at our history, what love of country means, and how important are our families. No matter what today and tomorrow bring, our lives are wrapped intricately with those generations long gone (genetic history), with our parents who did the best they could, and with our close and immediate family. In reviewing our nation’s history, we can be aware of the many times our country has endured crises ---and has recovered. It is the same with families. We have disappointments, crises occur, but we bounce back and continue on together. And now, we look ahead to the summer month of June. We can hope that we get just enough rain for gardens and crops, that wars diminish and that legislators suddenly overflow with common sense and civility. But even if these things do not happen, June still comes with its days of sunshine, blue skies, festivals, weddings, roses and growing grass. And “….together we walk onward …..beyond our vision….. into the unknown….whether the path may be steep or narrow ….wide or straight…….in sunshine or rain….it matters now because we are secure…..and moving toward greater wisdom blending in the glory of life…..and the promise of tomorrow.”* Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. From “Together We Walk” by Peter S. Seymour---- American author.

I grew up near Sacandaga Lake. It’s not a lake, it’s a reservoir. But, it’s been there so long they call it a lake. This picture hung in a diner near Northville, New York. I’d see it there when I was a kid. Steam engine sitting, almost hovering there. The story was they didn’t get the engine out of the reservoir in time, and it was still there, at the bottom of the lake. At about the age of 12, I was sitting with a family friend who was a diver. He told me an in-depth story of working his way through the weedy, murky depths to the engine feeling his way along the side to the front wiping it off with his hand and exposing the headlight. It was an amazing story. But it was that, just a story. By way of the reinforcement of local lore, many people believed that the engine was set at the bottom of the lake. You could say it was common knowledge. It wasn’t really until the birth of the internet that the truth was sifted out. In the 1930s they flooded the reservoir. The engine was being used as the hall track that was being taken up. The train had in fact, made it out of the lake. I admit it, part of me was heartbroken when I found out the train wasn’t actually at the bottom. The folklore was better than the truth. But, sometimes the truth is more unbelievable. While I may have been fascinated with the idea of a steam engine at the bottom of a lake, the city of New York tossed nearly 2500 subway cars into the ocean in the early 2000s. Photo credit, as well as the top photo and bottom two photos, goes to Stephen Mallon. The train cars were piled up in yards around the city and needed a new home. After some research and some environmental studies, it was determined it would be a good idea to use these cards to create artificial reefs for fish. They were stripped of anything that might be toxic, loaded onto barges, and pushed into the ocean over several years. Take a look and appreciate this photography by Stephen Mallon at www.stephenmallon.com Born and raised in Upstate New York, Mathew lives in a wooded valley north of the Susquehanna River with his wife and kids. His first book "Simple Sutras" was published in 2014

by Cadence McManimon These days, it’s almost common knowledge that homeschooled students have a better academic education, do better in college and careers, and are regarded as “smarter” than students from public schools. Homeschooling families typically gravitate toward this educational lifestyle to avoid the public school environment, to prioritize their faith and family values, to adjust to a more flexible and forgiving lifestyle, and to offer their children a better childhood than that found in public schools. Yes to all! These are wonderful reasons to choose homeschooling and should be widely shared and celebrated. When my parents chose to homeschool me and my siblings, though, they had no idea how deep the effects would be. Academics is only one aspect of homeschooling. The family-centric, homeschool lifestyle offered us benefits that continue to shape my adult life and the life of my own family. Everyone should know the often completely hidden perks that homeschooling provides children long after they finish their high school coursework. Here are just a few: Better Socialization My dad always looked bemused when people brought up the age-old question: “But what about socialization?” His perspective was, what adult spends eight hours a day in a room filled with people exclusively the same age? Homeschooling offered my family the flexibility to explore social settings of all sorts, rather than relying solely on peer classroom interactions. The most natural form of socialization stems from immediate and extended family relationships. Siblings and parents provide the first relationships in our lives, and these often become lifelong stalwarts. Beyond that, extended family and friends offer wider circles, bigger age gaps, and more activities for students to explore. Even beyond that, a flexible homeschool schedule allows room for completely different social contexts to be introduced. For instance, my family was really interested in music and dance. Our various performances through the years taught us all the basic skills of learning to make introductions, first impressions, small talk, and much more. Time Management Homeschooling offered me a lot of free time and a flexible schedule. Throughout my teen years, I would almost always complete my daily lessons before noon! (I challenge you to find a teenager who wouldn’t jump at having that type of free time.) Along with that, my parents wisely gave us many responsibilities to attend to during our ample free time. We had many different chores like tending livestock and gardens, babysitting, and various extracurricular lessons as well. The result was that all of us kids, after reaching the age of reason, developed the valuable skill of time management. As we grew up, we had less and less direct supervision from our parents and learned to balance schoolwork, chores, family, outside jobs, and leisure on our own. This is actually a rarer skill than people might think. In public (and even most private) schools, students are locked into an hourly schedule, with bells and teachers prompting every shift of activity and change, which doesn’t provide the opportunity to internalize how to manage one’s own schedule. This educational method was designed to train children for the military and the industrial/factory world of the early 1900s, and arguably did so successfully. Of course, we do not live in that world today—so why are we still using that system? Many students now will move into work-from-home jobs or careers with widely varying or self-managed schedules. For those who struggle to self-manage, this can be a nightmarish awakening to the real world. And those who are self-disciplined might fall into the common workaholism trap because they never were taught the importance of integrating leisure and variety into their schedules. Homeschooling can be a helpful, maybe even necessary, preparation for the world of adulthood, where time management rests on the shoulders of each individual. Self-Teaching Skills It’s no secret that the public school curriculum is a one-size-fits-all approach. Homeschooling, however, allows students to pursue their niche interests as well— sometimes to great depths. For me, my adult life has been shaped by having the above-mentioned skills of time management and creating a flexible schedule. But also, by allowing me to pursue niche interests, homeschooling helped me learn how to self-teach. For instance, my great passion as a child was art. I would pour hours and hours into working with my sketchbooks, pencils, and crayons. Neither of my parents were artists, and my mother says she’s lucky if she can draw a decent smiley face! But they gave me something better: art books for every birthday, drawing tools for every Christmas, and encouragement to forge ahead on my own. Today, sketching and painting are beloved hobbies I pursue in my leisure time—hobbies I work hard at and choose to do over things like watching television or scrolling through social media. This shaped me into a person who is not afraid to self-teach and pursue things I’ve never tried before. This skill actually led me to my writing work in both novels and freelancing. My writing interest started late in high school; my parents/teachers were not writers, and I did not go to college to study English or journalism. I simply had the skills to seek out resources on my own and the self-discipline to keep at it. Now I have a job that fits my lifestyle, skills, and schedule perfectly. How many public or private school students today might be better able to carve out time for work as well as for the pursuit of passions and dreams if they just had the skill to self-teach? Lifestyle Confidence I have yet to meet a homeschooler who is self-conscious about his alternative lifestyle. Whether their family focused mostly on religion, naturalism, farming, travel, or something else, the common ground is that homeschoolers grow up outside the normative culture. This removes any fear or insecurity about being different. We grew up being different, getting weird looks, and being asked countless questions about being homeschooled from curious strangers. Being a social curiosity inoculates us homeschool families against caring what the wider culture thinks of us. This offers us great freedom and confidence to live as we choose to live. And this doesn’t mean that every homeschooler will grow up to simply echo whatever their parents valued. I have met plenty of adult homeschoolers who are members of a different religion, who have moved far away, or, due to other factors, don’t even see their families of origin much. But all of them were unapologetically living what they valued and wanted and were unbothered when others looked at them askance. They simply felt free to do what they wanted, whether or not the wider world condemned or supported them. This is also valuable in today’s world of social media. I personally don’t use social media, but I have a couple of siblings who do, and the same freedom from peer pressure holds true in their cases. None of them are addicted to it, worried about comments or feeds or negativity, and they don’t compare themselves to what they see online. I attribute this to their confidence in living differently from the norm. And in today’s world, traditionalism is wildly different from the norm. Homeschooling is one of the best choices we can make regarding our children, and it gives them so many more benefits than even what I’ve listed here. The wider world of education is waking up to this, too. Many more modes of education are available today than even just a decade ago. Private schools are popping up left and right, Montessori is on the rise, learning pods and co-ops are growing, and online options are everywhere. And of course the school lockdowns of 2020 pushed the need for alternative education into the spotlight. So let’s take it seriously and choose what’s best for our children in every aspect of life, not just academics. Cadence McManimon is a published author, former special education teacher, and now a wife and mother. She has too many houseplants, plenty of artsy projects, and not enough pens that work! (Doesn't everyone?) Her novels Name Unspoken and The Lily Girl are available at her website cadencemcmanimon.com. This article appeared on IntellectualTakeout.org and is shared under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

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

Due to that recent warm spell, my enthusiastic little crocus bulbs are putting forth green shoots. And this week, we have another warm day or two to encourage them. Has anyone seen skunk cabbage peeking out of swamps yet? My former drive to work took me through swampy areas, so I always noticed those green-y/ purple-y, pointed, smelly leaves. You wouldn’t want them in a bouquet, but they are a visible sign of spring. Spring, on the calendar, is about a month away. But Easter is early this year (we are now in the season of Lent, which, appropriately, began February 14th) and, to me, that means spring, regardless of the calendar. I’m in the mood for pollywogs, daffodils and Easter bonnets. Back in the dark ages of elementary school, we celebrated Washington’s birthday today. Now-a-days, our first president must share the party with Abraham Lincoln, our sixteenth president, on a mutual President’s Day, this past Monday. I think George and Abe would probably enjoy a Lady Baltimore cake and pudding while having considerable conversation about our foolishly complex lives today. I expect that after leading the nation through a revolutionary war, and a civil war, our life-styles could seem a bit laughable, and even potentially hazardous. February is a busy month for our family; several birthdays keep us hustling for appropriate cards and/or gifts. I don’t really mind; I have more of a problem when birthdays aren’t celebrated. I think un-noticed birthdays are a neglect of one’s personhood; ignoring what intricate and amazing creatures we are. “Oh --- it’s just another day to me.” Nonsense! We need to celebrate and be glad for our existence. All this angst about age, “never ask a woman her age,” is silly. Seemingly, in the last few decades, males have become just as anxious about aging as females. Thanks to a glitzy corporate culture and addiction to media stars, hair dye and skin products sell well for both genders. We vain humans succumb easily to promises guaranteeing we will look younger and nearly wrinkle-free, and the dollars roll in to the persuasive retailers. I wonder when we became a society that worships youth thinks being young is the only time that life is good. The place to be, and stay, forever? Admittedly, younger years have some advantages: agility of limbs, fresh-looking skin, boundless energy... all physical pluses. But regardless of our misplaced adoration of it, youth isn’t the ultimate stage in good living. Maturing has its upside. One centenarian, when asked about the benefits of aging, replied, with a smile: “There is very little peer pressure!” That’s amusing, but there is so much more to anticipate! Having worked for 20 years with a county Agency on Aging, I observed a wide scope of behaviors and attitudes among people age 60 and older. Very few tried to deny age or remain forever young, and there were some cool, talented, articulate people among our clients. There was one woman though, and I remember her because no one else was quite this ditsy and foolish. She was a nice enough person, but insisted on trying to be 40 years younger than she was. She regularly dyed her hair an unusual pinky-blonde, wore make- up that no longer went with her skin, and dressed in frilly, girly clothes. Her youthfulness was all on the surface like a mask, and unfortunately, she hadn’t developed much in the way of inner resources beneath that mask. She married again late in life, and sadly, when her husband became an invalid, she helplessly wrung her hands and said: “I didn’t count on this!” and promptly separated from him. She had little substance, no depth, and from what I could see, very little joy in life. She clung so tightly to her imagined “best time of life” that growing older brought neither wisdom nor happiness. Aging gives us an opportunity to develop in understanding and complexity. While I appreciate all of the good times I had in my growing-up years, I would never wish to be eighteen again. I am not the same person I was at 18 or 25, or even 45. If we use our brains, in every passing year we grow in confidence about who we are. Those of us who reach our 8th and 9th decades, feel free to be as Boho, as eccentric, as unusual as seems good to us. What people may think of us is no longer a major concern. We can develop our unique sense of fun, our spiritual lives and perception of the world around us as far as our souls take us. After all, we have observed the world turning several times, and ----if we have used our common sense ----- we know what is important and what isn’t. Naturally, we want to maintain our physical bodies as well as is possible. I wish I had taken better care of mine earlier! All that gardening, with no sun screen, did my pale, Scottish skin no favors. While I wouldn’t put my face under the knife of a face-lift, I do have my own little cache of moisturizers and lotions. I am also notoriously inept with my hair. One hair professional, who I knew well, said: “please don’t mess with your hair! You’ll just botch the job!” Fortunately, my parents both grayed late in life and the inherited genes have been kind. Some people pay well for added silver highlights. So, I worry none at all about increasing silver, and don’t moan a lot about a facial crease here and there. I do miss wearing sparkly, high-heeled shoes, but because I wish to walk, I’m glad to find (SIGH) inch-high heeled shoes that support my uncooperative ankles and don’t look too therapeutic. Obviously, more than a dollop of vanity lingers, and probably will for all of us, as long as we live. We should be asking ourselves why the outer shell of a person should seem so much more worthy than the inner core? Why is it that we judge a person by how svelte their bodies, glamorous their hair or smooth their skin? Or how chic their clothes? What about a beautiful brain? And a light spirit? A wonderful sense of humor? A stock of information and/or wisdom? Someone said: “When any older person dies, we’ve lost an important piece of history.” This is so true. The stories vanish!! There are one or two people in our community who are older than we are, and I love listening to their tales of growing up. And I am assured about our own offspring who, having their own stories of pranks and difficulties, but continue to exhibit the integrity, the humor and the caring for community that was a hallmark of those older friends, in their stories. Back to birthdays; the day is surely worth at least a special cookie, if not a four-layer cake and a brass band. Some years ago, for or my husband’s 50th birthday, we put together a jazz band, with the help of a few musical friends. Kerm had said so often that he wanted a New Orleans jazz band for his funeral, that we thought it’d be a good gift for his 50th birthday. And it was!! But even if you must celebrate without a brass band, doing something special is not a waste of time. Dance around the room (carefully!!). Take a few moments to be glad you are you. Carl Jung *said: “The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are!” Have a special treat --- chocolates, ice cream, tea, lemonade, a brandy Alexander ---- whatever makes you smile. You are unique ---- you have blessed the world for however many years and you deserve to take note. A birthday is an excellent time to run your memory film backward --- to recall all the good times; the special, growing occasions you’ve experienced; how you have become who you are. Birthdays or not, we still have some winter weather. Someone recently said: “Winter is definitely a ‘Wonderland’. I wonder if I’ll slip on the snow! I wonder how many inches we’ll get. I wonder if the car will start. I wonder where I left my gloves.” I’m quite careful as I wander around our snowy yard, not wishing to fall flat. But even as I shuffle through powdery snow and avoid muddy spots, to fill the bird feeders, I am energized by the negative ions filling that cold air. Chill breezes are the winter version of a summer water fall, and those ions are good for us; good for our brains and good for our spirits. There are days, of course, when those negative ions aren’t sufficiently luring. I really don’t want to get out and face the weather. Nor do I have the energy for deep-knee bends to ready my legs for gardening. Late in the day, all that chopping for salad sounds like too much. But I come from relatively stubborn people, so I keep assuring myself that this feeling will pass. If I can just push through, I will feel better and more able to cope. But sometimes we do need a respite. There is this whimsical, little Self-Help that someone posted on FB: How to stop time: Kiss How to travel in time: Read How to escape time: Music How to feel time: Write How to release time: Breathe** In other words, stop and refuel! Little interludes restore one’s zing. For this last bit of winter, remember this little ditty by Robert Frost***: “The way a crow shook down on me the dust of snow from a hemlock tree. Has given my heart a change of mood, and saved some part of the day I had rued.” Perception, changing one’s mood, is part of life. Yoyoing from birthdays to bad days to better days is how we roll. CarolBossard writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Carl Jung ---World-famous Swiss psychologist. Also a prolific writer, illustrator and correspondent. 1875-1961. **from Inspiration Power Bost. ***Robert Frost ---- Widely loved New England poet. 1874-1963.

by Rachel Dworkin When people ask me what I do, I tell them I am an archivist. When they stare at me blankly, I explain that it’s a subspecies of librarian. The job of a librarian is to collect, catalog, and share the information patrons need for their education and entertainment. Keeping these goals in mind, let’s take a look at how well I did this year. 1. Collecting Here at the Chemung County Historical Society, we collect items specifically related to Chemung County history, people, and organizations. In 2023, we accepted archival material from 93 donors. Some of these donations were just one or two items. For example, on recent donation consisted of the 1918 diary of Elmira Free Academy student, J. Lawrence Kolb. There was another earlier in the year that was just a poster for the Auto Thrill Show at the Chemung County Fair, circa 1970. Other donations were a bit larger. George Farr donated his research material for his book Lincoln’s Banner Regiment which contains over 100 items related to the history of the 107th New York Volunteers. A former employee at Sumirail/ABB Traction in the Heights, donated 500+ photographs documenting both companies and their products. In addition to donated items, I also collect items related to things happening around the community. This includes newsletters from the Elmira City School District, the Foodbank of the Southern Tier, the Friends of the Chemung County Library District, and Congregation Kol Ami. I also collect programs from the plays I attend, fliers for various events, and menus from new restaurants. In this way, I’m able to capture a snapshot of what is happening now for future generations. I also conduct oral history interviews. This year, I conducted 8 interviews. The topics included Elmira’s LGBTQ+ community; area Polish, Italian, and Finnish communities; COVID-19; and historic weather events. 2. Cataloging It’s all very well and good to collect things, but an archivist must take what my grad school professors called “intellectual control.” In short, an archivist must figure out what they have, wrestle it into some sort of order, and then make that order apparent to everyone else. This is known as “cataloging.” It can be a pretty time consuming process, especially when a single donation may contain hundreds of items. To be honest, I’ve been a little behind on the cataloging this year. I’ve only cataloged about one-third of our new items. Part of the reason for the delay is that I’ve been working hard on getting our older finding aids up on EmpireADC (see this blog post for detail). A finding aid is an index for an archival collection which provides additional context about the creator(s) of the collection and the circumstances under which the collection was created, as well as the collection’s size and organization.We joined EmpireADC this summer. Since then, I have uploaded 111 old finding aids to the site. Check it out here. 3. Sharing Collecting and cataloging information is all very well and good, but it is pointless if it isn’t shared. The archives here at the Chemung County Historical Society are open to the public 1pm to 5pm, Monday through Friday. Visitors may come in and request to see anything within our collection. We are also open for researchers to call or write in with questions weekdays from 9 am to 5pm. In 2023, we had 84 in-house researchers. This was down from pre-pandemic levels, but up from 2022. We also had 210 write-in research requests. I did not keep track of the number of phone requests, but it was well over 100. Two people requested and received permission to use our photographs in their publications. In addition to assisting researchers, I also find other ways to share information with the public. This blog, for instance is a pretty handy tool. This year, I wrote nine blogs. I hope you liked them. I was also interviewed by the press half-a-dozen times about topics ranging from City Hall to Iszard’s to daylight savings time. Earlier this summer, I teamed up with Maggie Young, the genealogy librarian at the Steele Memorial Library, to create a master list of genealogical resources at both our institutions. Next year, we hope to expand it to other places in Chemung County. You can find it here. We also have several digital collections on the New York Heritage website where researchers can access material for free at any time. Our older collections include the records of the Thatcher Glass Manufacturing Company, the records of the Methodist Committee for Overseas Relief, Chemung County high school yearbooks, and the Black Oral History Project. This year, I received a grant to digitize and upload the records of Elmira midwife, Rose Spadaccino. I also began uploading some of our older oral histories to the site as part of a collection called “Voices of Chemung County.” Looking back, I think I accomplished quite a bit. What do you think? For my next trick, I shall finish cataloging all the items we received in 2023, finish the shelf read, add at least one new finding aid a week to EmpireADC, upload my recent oral history interviews to New York Heritage, and have fun doing it. Rachel Dworkin is the archivist at the Chemung Valley Historical Society. For more information about the museum and to see more of their blog, click here

We take so many things for granted when it comes to first-world problems. Case in point – we’ve never been so thrilled to do laundry as we are this week, since we finally replaced our broken washer with a new one. It’s been nearly four months of either running hampers across the street to my Dad’s house – thanks for being such a good sport, Dad – or the laundromat. And with three dogs and a boy prone to the occasional accident, the laundromat became a fairly regular part of our routine. My first trip after the washer broke, while we waited for a repairman that never materialized, really helped me gain some perspective on how pampered we can be and how little we appreciate those things that many people don’t enjoy. I dragged two hampers through the doors, set them down and almost immediately had very helpful advice from kind folks who were obviously regulars thee, on everything from which size washer I should use to the merits of bringing your own quarters vs. getting them from the change machine. Wiser now to the ways of the laundromat, I returned to collect my wash and haul it back home to the dryer (note to self: factor in how much heavier a hamper of wet stuff is), I saw a guy in his mid-20s with his son, probably five, standing in front while dad smoked and his son bounced a ball on the sidewalk. For some reason, I decided to explain to a total stranger that I was there because of a broken washer, bitched about how expensive it is to wash two loads, and joked, “Welcome to Saturday morning.” He looked at me with a smile and said, “This is my reality,” politely sharing that he does this every weekend – washing and drying – and adds cab fare on top. The $15 I spent that one morning pales next to what has to run three times that much for him. That’s money he could be using to buy his son McDonald’s, or any one of a million other purposes. While still hating the weekly laundromat run, I approached it with some empathy. There are so many older folks there, whether they don’t have laundry where they live or can’t afford machines. So many young people as well, families with little kids … it’s a cross-section of people who don’t have some of the advantages that the lucky among us can enjoy. I’m thankful for a functioning washer, but more thankful for the chance to look at things through the eyes of others. New appliances or not, it’s good for us to share a different perspective and remember that what we consider tragic is just another every day for so many others.

by Lawana Morse Recently there was a vote for the legislature regarding giving the arena $500,000 of ARP funds. Back in December 2022, this line item was already voted on by the then legislature. The latest vote was to release the funds after the conditions of how the money was to be used were ironed out. There was some surprise by my ‘yes’ vote, which I knew there would be. I had been approached earlier in the year and was asked my feelings of the County taking on the arena as a county facility. I emphatically said no. I would not vote for such an acquisition. I strongly believe the arena needs to be a privately owned building. At current, the arena is owned by the IDA (not the county) and the hope is (and has been for quite a while) to find a private company to buy the arena and take over the management. There are talks in the works – as there have been in the past – so, we’ll see. In the meantime, one of the purposes of ARP funds has been to put money back into the businesses and tourism of the county to “recover” after the Covid shutdowns. I recognize that this is taxpayer funds that have been provided from the very broke Federal coffers. I also know, if we don’t use the money in our county, it will go back to the Federal coffers to be given to some other areas that our hard-earned money keeps getting thrown at, some good-some bad. I would rather see the funds put into something in the community that has the potential of increasing the value of life here. For so long the focus of the arena has been primarily on hockey. This town is not a hockey town from what I have seen. When the focus of a huge facility is solely on one revenue stream and the fan base just is not there to support it, the facility can’t operate. When the management is concerned with putting funds into their pockets because they have no incentive to maintain structure, the facility can’t succeed. Moving the focus from a hockey facility managed by a hockey team to a community center with multiple revenue streams being managed by a board of directors that has a desire to see the facility succeed gives me hope. I don’t want to see the arena fail. I have had conversations with many in the community and while it is frustrating to see time after time “under new management” and the seemingly failing of the building, I see some light currently. There is vision. I’ve seen ideas thrown out of how to utilize the facility. I have seen those ideas coming to light. I have heard of the conversations being had by organizations looking for a place to call home for their events. I have heard the collaboration of area businesses looking to come together and give life to the facility. I want to have hope that something good can happen by shifting the focus to a more usable community center. Opening the doors to a wider variety of events will bring a wider demographic of the surrounding area to the arena. That hope of success, that optimism, is why I voted to release the funds to the arena for much needed infrastructure repairs. The facility can’t succeed if it is falling apart. That hope of bettering the community through tourism is at the heart of why most of us have voted to give ARP funds to the different organizations that have presented a strong case and solid plans for their projects. But rest assured, the realist side of me was at work too. With every purchase, there must be accountability. If accountability is not forthcoming, I will be at the head of the line demanding the transparency of what progress is being made and how the funds are being spent. I will be asking for updates continually. I fully recognize that there are members of the community that are simply against putting any funds into a building that wasn’t wanted from the beginning. I get it. I truly do. If there had not been a strong case made for potential success and a vision given that I can support, I would be right there too. I was willing – this one time on my watch – to vote yes. I would rather see this effort made now, than to either see the building fall to ruin becoming a bigger blight in the city or have to put much more into seeing it torn down with no real plan for the area. Lawana Morse represents Chemung County’s First Legislative District. “Guest View” is a column written by readers from the Southern Tier. For information on how to submit something for a Guest View column, email us at elmiratelegram@gmail.com

“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.

Thanks-Giving Day… a time of reflection, appreciation, gratitude… recalling blessings even among the difficulties of a most unusual year… and memories shared from years past as we recall what touched our hearts deeply… remembering our loved ones who are no longer here among us… recalling extended family gatherings with delicious food and lots of it… endless football games (sorry, not my favorite)… hunting (let’s go!), especially if there’s fresh snow for tracking… all felt with grateful hearts! We really do have so much to be thankful for… like starting each new day with a heart that simply appreciates the little things of life… because it’s so easy to fuss and fret about those little things that annoy me/us… yet it’s the grateful heart that brings out the best in each of us! And simply thinking about being thankful got me pondering deeper. How grateful I am for the love of family and friends, smiles, cards, and encouraging words! With love, we lift each other up, strengthen, bring comfort in difficult times, and see the good in each other… reminders of hope and renewal to cheer us on. As I began to write this reflection a few years back, it was a cool, dreary, cloudy, drippy, fall day… much like it is now while editing this blog to repost. It was the kind of day that reminds me warm summer days have passed and the cold snowy winter is coming, as evidenced by the snow many of us saw arrive this past week. But then I realized that we were blessed with a good summer and rains during a warmer-than-usual fall, helping to overcome recent droughts and forest fires. Though they might seem an irritant to sunny days, the rain and snow are so needed to renew and replenish the earth and our water supply, and so I am thankful. A grateful heart also shares much love and joy. From our own thankfulness, we reach out to others. I have often admired those who give their time to serve holiday dinners at local missions. Yet, I have not volunteered as I also felt it was important to spend holiday time with my husband who could not go out and about… a way to make his day special. Family time and making precious memories are also blessings from God to treasure with a heart of appreciation. I also like the idea of a thankfulness jar, but never implemented one in my home. Throughout the year, family members can write notes about what they’re especially thankful for and put the slips in the jar. On Thanksgiving Day, or perhaps several days in a row, slips are removed and read aloud, reminding everyone in the family of all the ways we appreciated and blessed each other. And I’m determined to start that project this year. A thankful heart is at the root of the joy and happiness we so often search for. With a thankful heart, we praise the Lord for His many blessings each and every day, even for every breath we take. With a grateful heart, we express love for each other in a myriad of ways, and are open to seeing the hidden beauty among us and around us. With a thankful heart, we are more apt to focus on the good that can come from trials we face. And with a grateful heart, we see that which we tend to overlook, or take for granted, as the genuine blessing it truly is. For with a thankful heart, we will readily say, “Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good! His love endures forever…” (Psalm 107:1) Happy Thanks-Giving Day! Thanks Giving by Linda A. Roorda For the dawning of each new day For the sun which shines its brilliant rays For the birds who share their sweetest songs… We thank you, Lord, for blessings rich. ~ For desperate pleas You hear with love For all the ways you meet our needs For answers to our many prayers… ~ For all the friends who grace our lives For the ones who left our arms too soon For tears and peace that fill our hearts… ~ For those who fight for freedom’s sake For those who protect our streets from crime For those who gave all that we might live free… ~ For each new season in the cycle of time For spring’s rebirth and summer’s bright sun For autumn’s harvest and winter’s rest… ~ For the joy of life in a newborn’s cry For hope-filled days as our youth pursue dreams For resilient smiles that greet a harsh world… ~ For our great bounty midst a world in need For each new breath in a day not promised For all the ways we love each other… We thank you, Lord, for blessings rich. ~

I suspect we’ve all heard, “There but for the grace of God go I.” Truth be told, I think we all know how true those words are. This world has so much to offer with its many enticements… and how easy it is for any one of us to be swayed aside… but for the grace and wisdom of God. I’m thankful to God for preserving me from being enticed to follow a path that seemed so good, so right when young… which, in reality, would lead to destruction. Studying the book of Proverbs is an eye opener. Oh, I’ve read it before, but appreciate studying it closer verse by verse. Here, the wisdom of Israel’s King Solomon is directly before us as he speaks to his son(s) and daughter(s), his children… us… me. And, knowing his life’s story, the reading becomes even more poignant. When King David died, his son, Solomon, took over the reign. In a dream, God told Solomon to “ask for whatever you want me to give you.” (I Kings 3:5) Rather than great riches, the humble king asked for wisdom with which to rule. I can only hope I’d have thought to ask for that! In granting his request, the Lord gave Solomon not only great wisdom beyond compare, but also great riches. There was no one like him before or since. To know the rest of the story is to understand that, although Solomon began his reign intending to follow God’s precepts, he was soon swayed by the world’s enticements. From humble and wise beginnings, Solomon gradually took to himself 700 wives and 300 concubines, allowing worship altars to be built for all their various gods. And it wasn’t long before this worship by his wives of their pagan gods also contributed to an undermining of his own faithful worship of the one true God. In studying the great and powerful words of wisdom in Proverbs, I can’t help but be struck by the fact that at the end of his life, Solomon realized how far he had fallen. His had been a life of great riches with glory and fame following wherever his wisdom and searching soul led him, and he was left to ponder at what he had gained. Believed to have also been written by Solomon, Ecclesiastes begins: “The word of the Teacher, son of David, king of Jerusalem: Meaningless! Meaningless! says the Teacher. Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless. What does man gain from all his labor...? Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever… I devoted myself to study and to explore by wisdom all that is done under heaven. What a heavy burden God has laid on men! I have seen all the things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind.” (Ecclesiastes 1:1, 2, 4, 13, 14) Yet with the same great wisdom, Solomon penned these verses we’ve treasured since, especially in song – “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.” (Eccl. 3:1-8) Understanding that he had pursued all which life had to offer, it appears the Teacher, presumably Solomon, was not afraid to admit it was all for naught… while also voicing the dichotomy of profound meaning found in every activity under the sun. Thus, his conclusion was that there was a purpose to be found in the relationship with his, and our, one true God. For, in the end, the Teacher concluded we should “Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come…and the spirit returns to God who gave it… Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man.” (Eccl. 12: 1, 7, 13) These were the thoughts which came to mind as I reflected on my poem below well after it was written. Not one of us can say we are sin free. Assuredly, we haven’t committed major crimes. But, deep inside, in all honesty, our heart is not always pure and wise as we struggle in our human attempts to follow a perfect Lord. We, a product of this world, tend to seek our own way in our daily walk – and I know my own bent. But I am so thankful that He pursues me… each of us… with never-ending boundless loving mercy. May I learn from Solomon’s wisdom, and from his mistakes, and humbly bow my heart to our Lord. May I learn to follow His words of wisdom, and His will for my life, wherever He may lead… for “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.” (Psalm 119:105) Your Word Linda A. Roorda ~ Your word is like a comforting hand Within the midst of stress-filled days It calms the heart and soothes the soul To find a peace within Your embrace. ~ Your word is like a sharpened sword It pierces the soul with words brought to mind Causing a change when nothing else can Instructing me, Your wisdom to heed. ~ Your word is like a beautiful scene That greets my eyes, tranquil and serene It points to You, Creator of all Showing Your power and infinite might. ~ Your word is like a solid rock Unshakeable with its absolute truth Lasting forever, foundation secure Its wisdom gained to guide and to lead. ~ Your word is like the calm after storms After winds blow fierce and clouds gather dark As rain pours down to freshen this world So to the soul are Your words of peace. ~ Your word is like a beautiful bud Daily growing beneath sun and rain It opens wide with petals of silk To show the world its hidden glory. ~ Your word is like a fine sunny day With healing warmth down deep in my soul It broadens faith, shines light on wisdom And illumines steps to direct my path. ~~ Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. This poem and reflection were written in 2014 when I had cancer and pondered the various aspects of my diagnosis. I urge you not to neglect your own self-screening and medical exams… because, if it wasn’t for Ed’s insistence that I take care of myself, I planned to cancel that mammogram… because he was in the midst of several new health crises with procedures and surgery. I just didn’t think I had time in my hectic schedule of working full time and running nearly every afternoon for Ed’s appointments to go for an annual mammogram... Yet, it was that exam which found my cancer… so I share a few thoughts from those days… The artist fills her palette with dabs of paint from among the dark and drab to the bright and colorful. I well remember laying out my paints years ago. I love the smell of the oils, mixing to find just the right shades… then gently brushing color onto the white surface, adding accents along the way, bringing the flat blank canvas to life. Come to think of it though, I haven’t picked up a brush since our youngest was a toddler, decades ago. Unless you count painting house walls and doors! But I also remember how hesitant I was to make those first few brush strokes… fearing mistakes which would ruin the whole composition. Not that my work was ever that good. I simply enjoyed losing myself for hours in creating art… forgetting time, food, and sound. My heart was totally involved in a world of joy of my own making. And I can’t help but wonder how much pleasure our God, as Master Artist, must have enjoyed as He created this world for us to enjoy? Our life’s palette is filled with so much good, so many blessings… the bright colors. But we often don’t like to think about, nor do we welcome, the dark and drab… those difficulties which confront us, and just might ruin our day, or a long string of days. I suspect I’m not alone with a tendency to take life, my family and friends, my surroundings… my blessings… just a little bit for granted. Those were among the thoughts rambling around my mind when this poem was written in 2014, my summer of breast cancer, procedures and surgery. It was a time we were dealing with Ed’s new diagnoses added to multiple others, nearly losing him to a severe bout of pancreatitis (he did not drink alcohol), with his own near-daily appointments, procedures, and surgery, seeking time and space for us as a couple to handle the weight of our concerns… My thoughts since those days have come to echo a book given to me by my daughter, Emily. The author, Ann Voskamp, of “One Thousand Gifts” wrote on pg.90: “Who would ever know the greater graces of comfort and perseverance, mercy and forgiveness, patience and courage, if no shadows fell over a life?” A few pages later (p.97), she pens, “And emptiness itself can birth the fullness of grace because in the emptiness we have the opportunity to turn to God, the only begetter of grace, and there find all the fullness of joy.” The scare which a cancer diagnosis brings can haunt you to the core… for it’s then you come face to face with the brevity of life in a world that continues to hum around you… when more often than not life would whiz on by without a second glance. This poem began as I sat on our deck, taking in the sun’s rays, observing a gorgeous tiny hummingbird swooping in to drink from their favored nectar. This little bird reminded me how much more thankful I was for every second of life… every waking moment… every minute blessing… as I paid closer attention to nature’s beauty around me… For here, surrounding me, but taken for granted, were blessings of joy found in the simplest pleasures… like the voice of God speaking in those moments of solitude and quiet as birds sang melodies of praise … as dawn emerged to overtake the darkness with its brilliance… and as something so tiny and delicate as a hummingbird echoed its Creator’s joy in the art of creation. And with those thoughts came the realization that all of life brings a joy to my soul… whether the dark and drab or the bright and colorful. Each and every experience is a chance to slow down, to welcome the new day, to appreciate what God has allowed me, and you, to journey through… by finding we’re in the midst of His palette of life, His will, and all that He has planned for us to experience and learn from as we draw closer to Him and His great love. The Palette of Life Linda A. Roorda ~ There’s joy in my soul as the sun warms bright And colors of dawn announce a new day Birds stir in nests while I stretch and yawn With thankful heart as dawn awakens. ~ Solitude I seek, Your voice I would hear In the early morn, the cool of the day As light emerges from its slumber dark Bathing our world in brilliant display. ~ So I sit still and listen closely As birds arise to greet a new sun With songs on the wing to gladden the heart, No better way to start a new day. ~ Throughout the hours I hear their chorus Songs from the heart lifting praise with mine As sounds of life between these spruce walls Gently beckon to slow my fast pace. ~ Hummingbirds feed, their wings beating fast With a gentle buzz as they zoom on by Tiny and frail, delicate beauty Feathers glisten in their brilliant hues. ~ Sun shining bright in an azure sky A gentle breeze as leaves flutter slow Shades of all colors in plants surrounding Endless beauty, the blessings of life. ~ These are the things that give joy to life Though they be small, with them the heart sings From morning sunrise to evening sunset Treasures are found wherever we gaze. ~ And may all I do bring honor and praise To creator God whose gifts are bestowed Amid life’s frailty like colors bursting forth With joy in my soul, the palette of life. ~~ Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer.

Over the past few months in New York State government, we’ve witnessed constant reminders why this state is headed in the wrong direction under one-party, all-Democrat control, with no turnaround in sight. Exhibit A: Energy mandates. Serious doubts have been expressed, from many quarters, on the affordability, feasibility, and reliability of New York’s current clean energy strategy. A July report from the Hochul administration itself admitted that their timeline to achieve 70 percent renewable energy by 2030 and zero emissions by 2040 can't be met under the current plan. Shortly thereafter, a state comptroller’s audit concluded that the implementation of the Democrats' climate agenda has been seriously flawed and its true costs remain unknown. Exhibit B: COVID-19. Earlier this summer, a long-awaited (and long-delayed) report commissioned two years ago by Governor Hochul – a report that was supposed to be a comprehensive, honest, transparent reassessment of New York’s COVID-19 response -- was determined to be worthless. The Albany-based Empire Center for Public Policy, in a review of the report entitled “Hochul’s Pandemic Study is a $4.3 Million Flop,” concluded: “Hochul had commissioned a $4.3 million after-action review of the crisis, saying she wanted it to cover 'the good, the bad and the ugly' and bolster the state's preparedness for future outbreaks. Yet the 262-page report from the Olson Group, a Virginia-based consulting firm, turns out to be thinly researched, poorly argued, ill-informed, sloppily presented and marred by obvious errors. Although many of its findings ring true, it glosses over or ignores some of the state's most questionable actions -- such as ordering thousands of Covid-positive patients into nursing homes." More recently, former Governor Andrew Cuomo publicly testified before a Congressional Select Subcommittee on the Coronavirus Pandemic and delivered more of the same song and dance on his administration’s execution of the COVID response. It’s a song and dance that has long been tainted by stonewalling, misinformation, coverups, and outright lies. This was the most devastating public health crisis New York State ever faced and yet, because of continued stonewalling from both the Cuomo and Hochul administrations, in concert with an all-Democrat Legislature that has remained unwilling to accept the responsibility, we have not yet taken a full accounting of the response -- its costs, its shortcomings, its outright failures, what worked and what did not, who was responsible and who wasn't, what actions should remain in place going forward and what needs to be scrapped immediately. The longer the reassessment of the response is delayed, the more the effectiveness of New York's future responses is jeopardized and weakened. Exhibit 😄 Border crisis. The illegal migrant crisis in New York remains as out of control and costly as ever. Ten billion taxpayer dollars already spent on the Sanctuary City and State Democrats’ self-induced crisis. Now they're paying migrants $4,000 of your tax dollars to move out of shelters. In early January, I summed up the condition of New York State at that time with the following, “We face an affordability crisis. We face a border crisis. Law and order are in free fall. The Albany Democrat direction for New York simply fails to produce any hope for a long-term, sustainable future for communities, families, workers, businesses, industries, and taxpayers. New York is a state in decline that continues to become less safe, less free, less affordable, less economically competitive, less responsible, and far less strong for the future. We are at a dangerous crossroads, and we must enact an across-the-board agenda to rebuild stronger and safer communities.” The same assessment and sentiment hold true nine months later. We need a redirection of New York’s priorities and resources to begin addressing unmet challenges and crises. We need to start charting a course for a more sensible and sustainable state government focused on priorities that include: a better quality of life for all New Yorkers by restoring public safety and security as one of the State’s highest responsibilities; making New York more affordable by cutting one of the nation’s highest tax and debt burdens; putting a strict cap on State government spending that threatens to make the nation’s highest population losses even worse; rethinking a process underway to quickly implement energy mandates that ignore affordability, feasibility, and sustainability; transforming the State-local partnership by making good on a promise made over a decade ago to address the practice of unfunded State mandates; finally, fully, and honestly reassessing New York’s COVID response, including its failures and shortcomings, to be better prepared in the future; continue to protect and strengthen our Second Amendment and other Constitutional rights and freedoms; and restoring local decision-making and addressing abuses of executive power at the state level. What are we waiting for? 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.

The straightforward fact remains that every time New Yorkers go the grocery store, or the gas station, or to buy back-to-school supplies for their children, or to the mailbox to retrieve their next property tax or utility bill, it’s a reminder that New York State is one of the least affordable states in America. One recent ranking of the least and most expensive states in the nation, the 2024 Cost of Bills Index compiled by Doxo, an online bill payment service, delivered more bad news. The ranking compares average household costs by state and found New York as the seventh most expensive state in the country. “The cost of living is the amount of money it takes to cover basic expenses,” according to one news report summarizing the recent Doxo index. “State and region scores across the country give a snapshot of how expensive it is to live in a place based on earned wages.” In other words, it’s a snapshot of what it takes to make ends meet in every state. In that context, it’s simply not a Top 10 list that New York government leaders can be proud of or that New York State citizens should be forced to struggle under. According to the latest “affordability” ranking compiled by U.S. News & World Report, New York State ranks 45th in the nation, right near the bottom, in affordability. And earlier this year, a USA Today Homefront report found “the Empire State ranked dead last in the rankings when it comes to overall affordability.” According to USA Today, “We analyzed median incomes and five basic expenses: homeownership costs, groceries, health care, income tax and gasoline. We defined affordability by looking at expenses as a percentage of the respective state’s median income.” I have heard it constantly and continually from families, taxpayers, working men and women, small business owners, and many others throughout the Southern Tier and Finger Lakes regions: They are worried about making ends meet and they have been for a long time now. They have watched this state become less affordable. They have felt it become less free. They believe it to be less economically competitive, less responsible, and far less hopeful for the future. There may very well be many Albany Democrats who acknowledge that our state faces an affordability crisis, one that has caused the exodus of hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers to more affordable states (keep in mind that we lead nation in population loss. According to the latest figures from the U.S. Census Bureau, over the three years from 2020 to last year, New York led the nation in population loss with more than 533,000 people leaving, a nearly three percent decline.), yet they have remained true to out-of-control spending, high taxes, exorbitant costs and fees for everything under the sun, and burdensome regulations and unfunded state mandates. New York State’s current path is not sustainable. Albany isn’t responsible and can’t control the ups and downs of every excessive cost facing citizens, however state government can and should be taking many more actions than it has been to try to ease the burden. It’s a concern, of course, that many of my legislative colleagues and I have steadily worked to highlight as a top priority over the past several years. Throughout this time, New Yorkers have consistently let it be known that the prohibitive cost of living in this state is driving them away. The warning signs and the alarm bells keep going off. Fiscal watchdogs already project significant state budget deficits in the immediate years ahead, deficits caused, in large measure, by the inability of Governor Hochul and an all-Democrat Legislature to stop overspending. State budget deficits always equal higher costs for all New Yorkers. Footing the bill of budget deficits inevitability falls on taxpayers. We need to turn New York around, plain and simple. That begins, in my view, by restoring the right priorities in state government, priorities that work toward a more responsible and sustainable future for middle-class communities, families, workers, businesses, industries, and taxpayers. It means focusing on policies being ignored in Albany that prioritize economic growth and job creation, tax relief and regulatory reform, and many other affordability initiatives. It cries out for a comprehensive strategy to ease the financial burden on middle-class families and restore the quality of life in communities statewide through actions like: enacting a state spending cap rejecting and eliminating tax increases and unfunded state mandates on local governments and school districts providing across-the-board tax relief rejecting extreme, mandated climate proposals increasing affordable housing options making child care more accessible and affordable improving the state’s business climate by protecting small businesses and farms by reducing regulations, and lowering taxes and unfair costs. New York is a state in decline. We are at a critical crossroads and we must enact an across-the-board agenda to cut taxes, address affordability, and rebuild stronger and safer communities. 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.

Some of us know the depths of depression and despondency. Some of us know the lack of physical healing or the pain of incurable disease. Some of us know the sorrow and grief of losing a precious loved one. Some of us know family dysfunction. Some of us know abuse that no one else can see or fathom. And we question how this could be… How could a loving God leave us in pain by not healing us, even after much prayer? How could a loving God allow so much evil to go on all around us? How could a loving God allow the senseless shooting sprees that kill our innocent children? How could you do that to us God? But it’s not God who does this to us… with Adam and Eve came “the fall.” The perfect first couple failed to heed God’s words, listening instead to the guile of sweet flattery from the serpent. Ever since, we and this world around us have been living with sin and its imperfections. We tend to put ourselves… our wants and desires… first. I remember many years ago leaders in our church said that if anyone was discouraged or depressed, they must not be a true believer in God. How wrong and presumptuous to think that the difficulties of life can’t and won’t weary anyone, including a hardy Saint! We’re human, as were the best examples in Scripture who dealt with their own failings and weaknesses which brought them to their knees. King David’s psalms of poetic devotions which vividly show his laments and pleadings, including what sound like desperation and depression at times, also showing David’s rejoicing in God’s guidance, protection and provision. He was no different than us in the ups and downs, and sins, of life. We all express our sorrows and laments as well as joy and thankfulness. Yet, it could also be asked, where are we in bringing aid and comfort to the one who has been wearied by the blows of life? As David begins Psalm 55, he sends up a prayerful plea: “Listen to my prayer, O God, do not ignore my plea; hear me and answer me. My thoughts trouble me and I am distraught at the voice of the enemy, at the stares of the wicked; for they bring down suffering upon me and revile me in their anger.” Yet, as verse 22 attests, David confidently reminds us to whom he could turn despite his troubles by saying, “Cast your cares on the Lord and he will sustain you…” A sentiment confirmed by the bold and outspoken Apostle Peter who said to “Cast all your anxiety/cares on him because he cares for you.” (1 Peter 5:7) And this from the man who three times denied he ever knew Jesus, his Lord and closest friend! The difficulties we face do not mean God doesn’t hear our cries, our pleas, our prayers. Though His answers may not be what we want or expect, He will answer in His time and in His way… for He alone knows the best way to meet our needs. His answer to our prayers may not come immediately. Sometimes it’s not until much later that we look back and say, “So that’s why things happened that way!” In allowing difficulties to come into our lives, God quietly gives us an opportunity to grow. By seeking our Lord’s will through those hard times, we mature in our faith. Even the Apostle Paul dealt with a “thorn in the flesh.” Some have thought it might be poor vision after the brilliant light that temporarily blinded him on the road to his conversion. We don’t know his exact problem, and it really doesn’t matter. Paul felt it was given to him to prevent his becoming conceited. Three times he asked the Lord to remove it, to heal him; but it was not removed and he was not healed. Instead, what Paul heard in his heart was the Lord saying, “…My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (II Corinthians 12:9 NIV) In the days that seem so dark, so dreary, so difficult and painful… know that you can find comfort from those around you… a spouse, a child, a dear friend, your church family, a friend within your community. They will be there to comfort you and see you through, and point you in the right direction for help. Assistance may even come through professionals who can provide counseling, medical care and medication. But also know that there is another who will be there, one who will come alongside, hold you up, and carry you on those days when you can barely manage to move forward – our Lord. I know, because He’s been there for me, for us, through dark and difficult days, with a peace I can only describe as an overwhelming warm blanket of comfort… for “the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:7 NIV) There’s an old song I like by Rich Mullins, “That Where I Am, There You May Also Be.” I especially appreciate the chorus, “In this world you will have trouble but I leave you my peace…” This song is based on John 16:33 where Jesus said, “I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” As my proofreader, my husband, Ed, had once commented, “It’s a feeling of complete and unexplainable tranquility knowing that nothing can shake you anymore, that God has your back whatever comes at you. It’s knowing that you have Jesus and that He died for you; and, when the end comes, that you’re going where He is and there will be peace forever with Him… If I had a choice between complete healing of all my disabilities or having the peace of God in my heart, I would choose peace over healing. Although very difficult at times, with God’s help I can survive my disabilities, but I cannot even begin to imagine how I could live without knowing that through the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross and his resurrection I have a secure home in heaven after I die. It is one of the great gifts our loving, merciful and gracious God gives us. First, he gives life; then through belief in Christ he gives us salvation, and then because of our salvation we are cloaked in the ‘peace that passes all understanding’. Without that peace, life would be unbearable; it would be a living hell.” And that from a man who was legally blind with only one viable eye from birth, later going totally blind, and who spent 14 years in unending pain and difficulty with multiple overlapping diagnoses… Those words showed the depth of my husband’s heart for our God. It is this overwhelming peace that I have felt as our Lord wrapped His loving arms around me while in prayer, thanking Him for blessings through difficult days... in our daughter’s passing, in my husband’s blindness, extensive health issues, and his passing… and so much more. Do I always remember to pray right away, to thank Him, and ask for His help and guidance? No, unfortunately, I don’t. Sometimes it’s later that I think, once again, why didn’t I go to God first? I know I need to ask Him to change my heart just as much as I know He is there waiting for me to draw near to Him, telling me “I’ll be there…” Just like the words we say to a friend in need - I’ll be there… as we become Christ’s hands and feet for others. I’ll Be There… Linda A. Roorda When you feel As though the world Has closed in tightly all around… I’ll be there. ~ When it seems As though your prayers Are never answered… I’ll be there. ~ When the road You’re traveling on Seems too steep to climb… I’ll be there. ~ When it’s hard To face life’s challenges That hide your peace and squelch your joy… I’ll be there. ~ When you peer Into nothing but darkness That envelopes your entire world… I’ll be there. ~ When the Lord Does not give healing But simply says, “Trust me…” I’ll be there. ~ When you step Into a bright new day But only feel never-ending pain… I’ll be there. ~ When you need A hand to grasp And an ear to hear the depths of your soul… I’ll be there. ~ When a tear Begins to slide And sadness covers your entire world… I’ll be there. ~ When your face Looks up in prayer While holding tight your Maker’s hand… I’ll be there. ~ When you feel God’s loving arms Gently enfold as He carries you… I’ll be there. ~ When you sense God’s peace fill your soul He gently whispers within your heart… I’ll be there. ~~

To kick off the just concluded 2024 regular session of the State Legislature – one that we believed represented a pivotal session with New York at a crossroads in so many areas – the Senate Republican Conference put forth a comprehensive set of goals to help rebuild and strengthen local and state economies, focus on the financial challenges facing many middle-class families and small business owners, and make public safety a top priority. At that time back in early January, I said, “We face an affordability crisis. We face a border crisis. Law and order are in free fall. The Albany Democrat direction for New York simply fails to produce any hope for a long-term, sustainable future for communities, families, workers, businesses, industries, and taxpayers. New York is a state in decline that continues to become less safe, less free, less affordable, less economically competitive, less responsible, and far less strong for the future. We are at a dangerous crossroads and we must enact an across-the-board agenda to cut taxes, address affordability, and rebuild stronger and safer communities.” We called it “A New Hope for the Empire State” and we began rolling it out at the very start of this session — a session that New York’s Democrat legislative leaders brought to a close last week — with a focus on fiscal responsibility and affordability for all taxpayers, rebuilding and revitalizing New York’s local economies, and addressing rising crime and public safety. Albany Democrats decided to keep heading in a completely different direction. It continues to put this state’s future on high alert. Their direction for New York is producing billions upon billions of dollars of short- and long-term spending commitments that will keep New York a state of high taxes, endless fees, and forced borrowing for state and local taxpayers far into the future. The overriding goals of our New Hope agenda would have: Improved public safety for all New Yorkers by prioritizing actions to combat rising crime and lawlessness statewide; Made New York more affordable for every resident by cutting the state’s highest-in-the-nation tax burden and taking other actions to lower the cost of living in New York; Improved the state’s business climate and expanded economic opportunity by cutting burdensome regulations; Moved more responsibly and sensibly toward a cleaner energy future without ignoring affordability, feasibility, and reliability like the strategy currently set in motion under Governor Hochul is doing; and Restored accountability and local decision making to state government in the aftermath of rampant abuses of executive power throughout the COVID-19 pandemic. But that’s not where we have gone his session under continued one-party, all-Democrat rule. The size of the state budget continues to skyrocket. There was no turning back from this explosive tax-and-spend path. Far from it, in fact. The new state budget, as I have detailed in previous columns, took yet another huge leap in size and will burden state and local taxpayers for years to come. The same goes for law and order. Albany Democrats keep turning criminal justice on its head. Most reasonable New Yorkers recognize that rising crime and violence, and weakened public safety and security, are the direct result of the pro-criminal policies being enacted and pushed by this governor and a State Legislature under one-party control. They have emboldened the criminal element throughout this state through failed bail reform, lenient parole policies, an out-of-control Parole Board, cowing to the “defund the police” movement, and an overall careless approach to criminal justice. In short, our calls to make New York more affordable, responsible, safer, and sustainable – and more hopeful -- have, once again, gone unheard this session. Instead, Albany Democrats continue to make New York State a tax-and-spend addict, a safe haven for lawbreakers, unaffordable for taxpayers, less attractive to job creators, and facing a dire economic future. It’s no way to run a responsible government. They are creating a state in decline. 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.

With Memorial Day celebrated last weekend, my thoughts were of those who gave their lives in war that we and so many around the world might live in freedom. Their battles on the field and in the mind are not what we who have never been there can truly fathom. We can listen to or read survivors’ stories, hear of their fears amid tales of bravery, empathize with the sadness and trauma as they share the loss of buddies and who and what they might have become, consider questions relating to the whys and wherefores of war and the lessons learned, but we can never fully comprehend unless we’ve been there. I’m very thankful for all who have served for the sake of freedom, but especially remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice. Yet, even a few years ago, the corona-virus pandemic was being compared to an invisible war. Here and around the world, we battled an infection among us that struck unexpectedly. Our medical professionals grew weary on their battlefront, faced daily unknowns, while being the sole comfort to those dying without family present. We faced the loss of family and community members to Covid, not to mention the toll among the greater world community. We saw unemployment numbers skyrocket, houses of worship closing for a while with a smaller return of members, businesses being shuttered forever, long lines of the weary waiting patiently for free food, arrests of those trying to open their business to normalcy while hardened criminals are released from jail only to commit crimes again without true legal justice, and we’re left with doubts and fears. Will life ever be normal again? I have various doubts and fears, too. If we’re honest, we all do. We think we’re not good enough and will never measure up. We may doubt our abilities or skills, fear a lack of control in certain situations, or fear the unknown future. We look for accolades to prop us up, to make us feel better about ourselves, trying to prove that we really are someone of some importance. But I have to ask: whose voice am I listening to? That inner voice which berates me for every mistake, every misstep, every poor choice or selfish deed, even looking for praise… or, am I listening in humility to God’s gentle nudging, that quiet voice in my soul from His deep and tender love? A number of times I’ve been nudged with a gentle inner whisper, while other times I’ve heard His voice speak loud and clear. Unfortunately, I have not always listened and reacted as I should have. My will, my desired outcome, got in the way of God’s voice. I need to remember to “be still, and know that [He is] God.” (Psalm 46:10a) For when I quiet my frantic ruminations and sit still, humbly and quietly waiting to hear the Lord’s guiding words, it is then that my heart is receptive, and my doubts and fears subside. Open to profound wisdom and examples of Christ’s love in the world around us, I recall “Blood Brothers” from M*A*S*H (April 6, 1981). This episode is a classic, my favorite about the medical unit’s priest, Father Francis Mulcahy. I appreciate his quiet gentle ways, words of wisdom, and deep humility, yet I also appreciate that he is not so “holier than thou.” Like the rest of us in many ways, he reveals a temper flare at times. Knowing his superior, Cardinal Reardon, is scheduled to visit and review what Mulcahy has accomplished at the 4077th, the good Father wants everything and everyone around him to show perfection… including his own sermon. Instead, Mulcahy becomes cranky and frantic with constant interruptions from side issues. Oh, so like me, and all of us, at times! In the midst of feeling sorry for himself, Father Mulcahy learns that Capt. Pierce has just diagnosed one of his patients with an incurable disease. Offering his own blood for his severely wounded best friend, a young soldier is told he has leukemia and can’t give blood. Arguing about plans to send him out the next morning to the hospital in Seoul, Pvt. Gary Sturgis insists to frustrated Capt. Pierce that he wants to stay. A matter of days won’t bring him a cure, and it’s more important that he be at his buddy’s side when his wounded and unconscious friend wakes up. Ultimately, Father Mulcahy sits down and talks with Sturgis. The next morning, Cpl. Max Klinger searches for and finally finds the Father still in his pajamas and bathrobe, engrossed in conversation with Sturgis. Suddenly realizing the entire night has passed them by, Mulcahy is self-conscious and visibly upset at himself. Totally unprepared to face the Cardinal and his congregants, Mulcahy enters the mess tent used for the worship service. Stumbling over apologies for his lateness and disheveled appearance, and lack of a well-written sermon, Father Mulcahy decides to simply tell the truth. “I want to tell you about two men. Each facing his own crisis. The first man you know rather well. The second is a patient here. Well, the first man thought he was facing a crisis. But what he was really doing was trying to impress someone. He was looking for recognition, encouragement, a pat on the back. And whenever that recognition seemed threatened, he reacted rather childishly. Blamed everyone for his problems but himself, because he was thinking only of himself. But the second man was confronted with the greatest crisis mortal man can face - the loss of his life. I think you will agree that the second man had every right to be selfish. But instead he chose to think not of himself, but of a brother. A brother! When the first man saw the dignity and the selflessness of the second man, he realized how petty and selfish he had... I... I... I had been! It made me see something more clearly than I've ever seen it before. God didn't put us here for that pat on the back. He created us so He could be here himself. So, He could exist in the lives of those He created in his image.” What great words to live by! We truly have a purpose in life! We can learn so much from others around us in examples of Christ’s love… even as we’re in the world, but not of it. (John 17:14-16) Just as our “faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1), so should our doubts and fears disappear in the presence of our Lord. “You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in You. Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord…is the Rock eternal.” (Isaiah 26:3,4) It’s not the inner negatives nor the adulation I hope to hear that matters. It’s where my heart resides in humility as I seek our Lord’s approval. As we each grow in faith, we look to God to guide us through our fears, doubts of inadequacy or inferiority that plague our thoughts, the negativity which so easily berates us… remembering and recognizing that we belong to God, and are loved beyond measure by Him. Christ lives in us as we become His hands and feet to reach others. In bringing Him our praise, we will hear His still small voice in our hearts, removing all doubts and fears that assail no matter what we face. When Doubts Assail… Linda A. Roorda When doubts assail look up beyond self Focus on truth from wisdom above. Take heart from His words spoken in peace And know He holds you in the palm of His hand. ~ When doubts assail know you’re not alone There’s Someone who cares, your burden to bear. He’ll give you His peace and provide a way through As darkest of nights emerge in new dawn. ~ When doubts assail and plague your heart Thinking your worth isn’t good enough, That you could never measure up in life, Know there is Someone who believes in you. ~ When doubts assail and fears haunt your path Speak softly in prayer and listen for His voice, That gentlest nudge stirring in your soul, As He guides your steps in the way you should go. ~ When doubts assail be eager to learn At the feet of Him whose wisdom excels, Bask in His love and dwell in His presence Building your faith to prosper in truth. ~ When doubts assail lift your voice in song Glorify His name with reverence and awe, For Holy is He, full of mercy and grace… As a child of the King, you’re loved beyond measure. ~~

Let’s start here: The Dave Matthews Band are not a jam band. Maybe they once were, back in the day when they were traveling up and down the east coast in the early to mid-90s, cruising in the same circles as bands like Blues Traveler, Phish, and Widespread Panic. But at some point along the way, things changed. They went from a jam band to a great live band. It’s not a knock against them and certainly isn’t any kind of slight. It’s really just a minor change in distinction; a clerical matter. Now, I became aware of this issue over the past couple of months courtesy of listening to the DMB channel on Sirius. The channel has become a go-to mainly because of its reliability and hey, anytime they play a version of “#41,” I’m down. The station naturally relies heavily on live shows and as a longtime fan of the band, it’s interesting to take note of the differences between a version of “#41” from 1997 and 2007 and 2017. Youthful energy and swagger eventually give way to more polished, veteran savvy, which of course is to be expected once a band gets a little long in the tooth. But it’s through that lens that it became apparent that The Dave Matthews Band doesn’t really jam in the way jam bands jam. They ride vamps and outros, trade solos, and such, but they don’t really jam. So yeah, The Dave Matthews Band isn’t a jam band. The Dave Matthews Band is a great live band. Case closed. The Dave Matthews Band have also been around forever and recently they announced the upcoming release of their tenth album, Walk Around the Moon. It’s their first new album in four years since they released Come Tomorrow in 2018. The band has also changed personnel too, something that most likely contributes to their moving away from jam band territory. Following the death of saxophonist LeRoi Moore in 2008, the band essentially replaced him with a two-man horn section and when violinist Boyd Tinsley stepped away following some unsavory allegations, a keyboardist was brought in. Matthews’ longtime collaborator, guitarist Tim Reynolds was made a full-time member in 2008. Whereas when the band first emerged in the early 90s, they were a lean, yet massive-sounding five-person outfit, they now are an 8-man band that can be just as massive sounding, but not nearly as lean and spry. With a new album coming out and another summer tour mapped out, it felt like as good a time as any to tackle a ranking of Dave Matthews Band songs. I had already ranked their albums, so songs seemed the next logical move. Limiting a ranking of songs to studio versions also felt logical because come on now, we’re trying to keep this manageable, and with all due respect to the version of “The Maker” from the Live in Chicago album, it being left off this list would be one of the first of many tough decisions to be made. It should also be noted that any of the songs on Matthews’ solo album were left off. I’m a stickler for fairness, fam. You can check out a playlist of all these songs and a handful more HERE. Okay, let’s do it to it, kids. 40. “Why I Am” (2009) This song just drives. It never gives up or lets up. You think it might but no, you’re wrong. It’s okay. We’re all wrong once in a while. I once thought there was an opening act for a Widespread Panic show and ended up showing up at the set break. See, it happens. 39. “Dreamgirl” (2005) Matthews has a knack for writing a tune like “Dreamgirl,” a whimsical little romp about a lady love, and in my younger days, I had a knack for dropping this little ditty on a mixtape for a lady love of my own. Do people make playlists for people now? How does that work? I kind of feel that you lose some of the magic of the whole process doing it that way. You can find this and other similar questions on my podcast, Fuck, I’m Old. 38. “Digging a Ditch” (2002) Before there was The Snyder Cut, there was The Lillywhite Sessions. Both projects eventually saw the light of day largely due to fans clamoring for them. I would argue that Busted Stuff has the edge on Zac Snyder’s version of Justice League, but I’ll leave that one for the courts. As for “Digging a Ditch,” it’s like a rocking chair; easy to groove with. 37. “The Space Between” (2001) There was one night in college, maybe it was junior year and my buddy and I were sitting in my car, getting blazed and listening to Everyday, the new DMB album that had recently come out and was admittedly a little off-putting at first. It sounded like Dave Matthews Band run through a computer program. Anyway, that wasn’t what we talked about. No, we were talking about “The Space Between” and what it meant. I don’t remember specifics beyond us being stoned and sitting there kicking around ideas and frankly, that’s all that matters to me. Dave Matthews Band songs have been in my life for so long that they almost all have anecdotal memories attached to them, so more fleshed out than others. 36. “The Song That Jane Likes” (1993) I like this song too. It should be called “The Song Jane and Ryan Likes.” 35. “When the World Ends” (2001) Everyday was and still is such a weird album from the band. It’s a given that something gets lost when a band that is dynamic live enters the studio but on Everyday, so much life was drained from the band’s sound. It was jarring. However, what didn’t get lost in translation was the band’s strong songwriting. “When the World Ends” should be brighter and louder but there is some beauty in the restraint shown in this particular version and some solace in knowing the band could really rip in concert when needed. 34. “Samurai Cop (Oh Joy Begin)” (2018) Listen, by 2018, Dave Matthews Band had hit that point of their career where anything new they released was just gravy. We had our hits, our songs we still listened to on a regular basis and hoped to hear when going to see the band live. Anything they released that was even close to fine was a win. It’s a low bar but it’s also a reality when a band has been around as long as they have. With that being said, “Samurai Cop” is a dope song with a cool title and boring subtitle and I’m not sure why it’s called what it’s called but I’m here for it, in the same way, I decided not to be here for that show “Tokyo Vice,” which just wasn’t as good as I was it’d be. But we can talk about that later. 33. “Seven” (2009) It’s weird to say that in the band’s second decade, DMB decided to start getting weird with things because let’s be honest, DMB had been getting weird with things from the jump. I think by the time decade number two rolled around, they just continued being weird and wrote songs like “Seven,” which is a weird song and yes, I used “weird” a lot here but I think it’s okay. It’s all justified. 32. “Recently” (1993) I’ll never get sick of summer. I’ll never get sick of cereal. I’ll never get sick of watching episodes of The Office (only ones with Michael Scott) and I’ll never get sick of listening to “Recently.” I Iike it when the song sounds like a honky down ho-down on the top of speeding locomotion. It’s fun. Thank you for listening to my Ted Talk. Get home safe. 31. “Ants Marching” (1994) Shit, man. I feel like this song should be higher. Oh well! No turning back now. 30. “The Best of What’s Around” (1994) “The Best of What’s Around” is one of the best opening tracks ever. According to who, you ask. Me. That’s who. That snare fill. The groove. The way the chorus explodes into an ocean of happiness and sunshine and fucking rainbows. It’s beautiful. 29. “Funny The Way It Is” (2009) “Funny The Way It Is” is a top-notch pop song and in an alternate universe, it has the feeling that the band should have tried to get to when recording “Everyday.” There’s no flash, and there are no funky time signatures. It’s straightforward, catchy, and has a delightful chorus that gets stuck in your head for at least three hours after listening to it. It even has a soaring guitar solo instead of a sax or violin solo. Is this when it all changed for Dave Matthews Band? Sure, maybe. Does this song mark the line in the sand that separates old-school Dave and new-school Dave? Well, I’ve thought about it for (checks watch) eight seconds and yes, I think it is. 28. “If Only” (2012) Away From The World is something of an afterthought when taking stock of the band’s catalog but it’s not without a few gems. “If Only” is soft, tender, and simple. It looks deep into your eyes, takes you by the hand, buys you a drink, complements you on your shoes; really wines and dines ya. And a bonus is the drums. Carter Beauford isn’t known for showing restraint when it comes to his drumming but he’s perfect on this song. 27. “Satellite” (1994) If this song wasn’t included, I’d feel dirty. Like I was trying to pull one over on myself. Oh and if you’re curious, “Crash Into Me” is not on this list and I felt nothing about that being the case. 26. “Mercy” (2012 “Mercy” feels like a spiritual cousin of “Funny The Way It Is.” Both songs are observations of the world, with both having tinges of optimism to them, optimism coming from the hope that things can be better. Dave can go dark at times but can also take swings at being the high tide of good feelings that rise all the boats. 25. “Pantala Naga Pampa”>”Rapunzel” (1998) The one/two punch that opens Before These Crowded Streets, arguably the band’s best album, can’t be separated. They work in tandems, like peanut butter and jelly, or sleep and my bed. “PNP” is as delicious as an intro one could come up with and the world music vibe of it serves as a nice appetizer to the globe-trotting undertaken by “Rapunzel.” 24. “Tripping Billies” (1996) “Eat, drink and be merry/for tomorrow we die” no doubt was featured in plenty of high school yearbooks back in the day and for damn good reason. It’s a great lyric and great way of looking at things. And this is fun: what exactly is the song about? Well, appearing on VH1 Storytellers a long time ago, Matthews said the song was about the first time he took acid. Like some of us out there, he took it and then immediately was struck with regret, crippled by not wanting to trip. But hey, once the wheels are in motion, there’s not much you can do, which is the stance he took. Dude ended up having a great time. Yet in another instance, when being interviewed by the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Matthews elaborated some. Goats are cool. “Tripping Billies” is cool. I think we’re good here. 23. “Grey Street” (2002) “Grey Street” is one of those songs that really makes you question the thinking behind shelving the Lillywhite Sessions. Were the label executives worried the songs were maybe too good? I don’t know how you listen to a track like “Grey Street” and think, yeah, we’re good, let’s do something else instead. The song stomps, hums, soars, and marches along as the band plays in perfect unison. I mean, did the original get weird and metal or maybe feature a strange flugelhorn part that no one really understood? Cause I don’t understand it and doubt I ever will. 22. “Smooth Rider” (2005) Sure, “Smooth Rider” might sound a lot like Blackstreet’s classic “No Diggity” but it could be worse, it could sound like Blackstreet but not “No Diggity.” Life is all about perspective, kids. 21. “Too Much” (1996) Walk with me, won’t you? You’ve been enamored with Under the Table and Dreaming since the fall of 1994 when you first heard “What Would You Say.” You’ve listened to the record countless times and naturally went and picked up Remember Two Things and Recently. You’ve been listening to those albums non-stop as well and you even bought a DMB t-shirt. You, my friend, are a big-timeDave Matthews Band fan. 1996 comes, the winter trudges on and finally, spring starts to break. Around this time, something big happens. DMB release a new song, “Too Much,” the first single off of their new album. It’s loud and wild and massive and fun. You, as a newly minted big-time Dave Matthews Band, are living the dream, kid. You’re pumped. This song is fucking sweet and summer is coming and it’s going to be the summer of Dave! Just don’t forget the sunscreen. You will still get sunburned, no matter how much Dave Matthews Band you are listening to. 20. “Everyday” (2001) It’s not like the album Everyday is a complete wash. It’s definitely not and I imagine if you’re a younger DMB or someone who wasn’t in the trenches when it came out, you most likely view it differently than I do or others like me who were big DMB fans at the turn of the century. But generational differences aside, the album’s title track is delightful. It sounds like flowers blooming or how nice weather feels when you have the windows open. It also sounds like “#36,” which makes sense because “Everyday” essentially evolved from “#36.” 19. “Don’t Drink the Water” (1998) This is somewhat related, but did you know that in the summer of 1999, there were riots outside of a DMB concert? True story. The band was playing two shows over a lovely August weekend at the Meadows Music Center, just outside of Hartford and while the shows themselves were wonderful, the scene in the parking lot after both shows was not. Shit was gnarly. I know, I was there. Actually, I only kind of know but yes, I was there (and perhaps too drunk) and I walked by, stopped, looked, and was told to move along by cops in riot gear. Then I think I went to MacDonalds along with everyone around who wasn’t partaking in rioting. It was a surreal experience and sometimes I think back to that weekend and laugh, laugh not at the riots but at my buddy Wilson getting way too fired up about the band using a trio of backing singers on the tour. I thought they were fine. He did not. Also, don’t fucking riot after a Dave Matthews Band concert, ya jabronis. 18. “What Would You Say” (1994) The one that started it all for so, so many of us. There was a world before this song and a world after. 17. “Here On Out” (2018) The only bummer about this beautiful tune is that it came out in 2018 and not 1998. If it had come out in 1998, it would have been included in so many mixtapes. So many. It’s a damn shame. Probably would have made the song more popular. Making a playlist for a love interest or special companion just doesn’t hit the same way. Kids these days are missing out. And I know I already talked about that but IT’S TRUE. 16. “So Much To Say” (1996) “So Much To Say” is one of those DMB tunes that when it comes on the radio, regardless of where it is in the song, I immediately lock into the groove and start singing along. The song is ingrained in me, it’s part of me. I hear it even when I don’t but when I do hear it, I definitely hear it and while that might not make a lot of sense, it does kind of sound like words Matthews would string together in a verse of one of his tunes so ultimately, it’s cool. And so is “So Much To Say,” a song that is something of a forgotten gem when taking stock of the band’s legacy and catalog. 15. “Drive in Drive Out” (1996) Any live version of this song packs the punch of a thousand stampeding elephants but if you can find one from the late nineties, well you best lookout. The guitar riff is the match and everything else is soaked in gasoline. Once combined, a wild blaze is ignited and can’t stop, won’t stop. 14. “Louisiana Bayou” (2005) There is a tightness to this song that feels like Everyday but it’s surrounded by a wonderful carefree vibe that is reminiscent of classic, good time having DMB. For DMB in 2005, possibly the best possible outcome of the couple of years that preceded it. 13. “Grace Is Gone” (2002) “Excuse me please, one more drink/could you make it strong, cause I don’t want to think/she broke my heart, my grace is gone/one more drink and I’ll move on.” That’s some relatable pain right there and summed up perfectly. 12. “The Last Stop” (1998) “The Last Stop” opens with a force usually reserved for cowboys kicking open a set of saloon doors and never lets up. Ever. It doesn’t even think about letting up. The thought never crosses its mind. “The Last Stop” is a wrecking ball, it’s shots of Yager chased with Tequila, it’s Fight Milk, it’s bare-knuckle boxing, it’s the promise of excitement and adventure and it’s the reality of adventure and excitement. “The Last Stop” is infused with fireworks, kid. It’s science. 11. “Seek Up” (1993) So if we were including live versions of songs, “Seek Up” would be higher, especially if you were to take a live version from those golden years in the late 90s. You know, like from Red Rocks. “Seek Up” is one of those Dave Matthews Band songs that could only be a Dave Matthews Band and couldn’t have been written by anyone else. 10. “Stay (Wasting Time)” (1998) Flip flops are always comfortable and so is “Stay.” Facts are facts, kid. 9. “Granny” (1994) For a certain segment of the DMB faithful, “Granny” entered their lives via live shows and live recordings. It just kept showing up but where the hell did it come from? It’s not on anything the band released before Under The Table Dreaming and only emerged in studio form when an extended version of the album was released. Turns out it was recorded during the Table sessions and was even tapped to be the lead single off of the album. Yet at some point, plans changed, and “Granny” was shelved, at least the studio version was. It remained in heavy rotation at shows during this time, which helped boost its myth-like reputation. All these years later, it’s still a favorite at a DMB concert, something of a rallying cry for the old heads and youngsters alike. 8. “Lie In Our Graves” (1996) “Lie In Our Graves” starts off calmly, smooth like a pond in the early morning hours. But as is so often the case, at a certain point the weather kicks up and the pond begins dancing with the weather as waves form and lovely little ducks run for cover. Nothing stays chill forever, broski, but alas, that’s not a bad thing, and with the weather kicked up by “Lie In Our Graves” once the rest of the band kicks in, excitement enters the picture. But hold on because things do get a little low-key once the song hits the bridge and thinking things are cool again the lovely little ducks return. Old men get their fishing gear out and there is a calmness that surely will stand pat for the remainder of the day. Right? No and especially when played live, things get all sorts of lively again and fuck those ducks and those old men fishing because it’s time to get nuts. 7. “Jimi Thing” (1994) Dude, “Jimi Thing?” Enough said. 6. “Bartender” (2002) “Bartender” is a massive song, a journey full of perpetual motion and forward trajectory. The music feels like an engine whether it’s the marching percussion or rumbling saxophone. There’s more flash to be found on Busted Stuff but “Bartender” sits there at the end, confident in what it brings to the table and not the least bit concerned it will be overlooked. How could it be? It’s an epic tune that feels as if it could go on forever, never really ending, just fading out. 5. “You & Me” (2009) Dave Matthews Band found themselves in a transitional period at the end of that first decade of the 2000s as they were still reeling from LeRoi Moore’s death and trying to stay fresh and relevant. The band had always had too much fight in them to become a nostalgia act and didn’t seem the type to go quiet into that cold dark night. Amidst this backdrop, they released their last great album, Big Whiskey & the GrooGrux King, an album that concludes with the absolutely beautiful track “You & Me.” Driven by a chorus steeped in positivity, Matthews shouts from the rooftops that “you and me together could do anything, baby” and you can’t but help that it’s in fact true. The album ended up being nominated for two Grammys, Best Rock Album and Album of the Year, and while it didn’t win in either category, just being nominated coupled with their inspired performance at the show was more than enough to show that the band still had plenty left in the tank and send them into a new decade with some wind in their sails. 4. “Two Step” (1996) Ah, I wish I could go back in time and listen to this song for the first time again. By now, the hits and booms and bashes – you know they’re coming but to experience them all fresh again would be amazing. We all have songs that we’ll never get sick of and “Two Step” is one of those for me. I may not always listen to it or pick it out of a lineup, but when I do, God I just appreciate the hell out of it. 3. “Crush” (1998) My relationship with Dave Matthews Band goes back years. We’ve established that by now. What tends to happen when you have such a long relationship with a certain act is that songs become songs you don’t just love, but songs that inevitably have a memory or two associated with them, and then all these years later, long after the memory was first etched into your brain and soul, it still feels fresh. When you hear the song, the memory comes along for the ride. It becomes part of the appeal, not just of the song but of the act itself; a soundtrack of your life thing. “Crush” is a beautiful song. It’s timeless. It has a life of its own when played live but the original studio version still sounds amazing over twenty years later. And dude, every time I hear it, I think about a buddy from college. His nickname was Porter for reasons that are now not totally clear and towards the end of our freshman year, he essentially decided school wasn’t for him and became something of a passive observer. We would get back from class and you would hear him down the hall listening to “Crush” or Enya (Porter was an interesting dude) and drinking vodka and fruit punch. Memories peel off from that one memory and that’s part of the fun and its part of the reason why I love “Crush” so much. That and yeah, it’s a great song. 2. “#41” (1996) As I get older, I tend to rely on the constants in my life. It makes things easier. One constant is that if Dave Matthews Band radio on Sirius is playing a version of “#41,” I’m in. No questions asked. I love how the chorus soars and the whole song has such a joyful bounce to it. Timeless, babe. “#41” is timeless. 1. “Warehouse” (1994) There has always been a duality to Dave Matthews Band, a combination of light and dark. They have never been just one thing and frequently, aren’t just two things. They have always contained levels. Yes, levels. It goes back to the jump, a result of their unique backgrounds and instrumentation. It was the 1990s for crying out loud and they prominently featured a saxophone and a violin. Their drummer was a madman and their bass player might have been the dude down the hall who sold weed and listened to jazz records. And in front of it all was this lunatic from South Africa whose fingers danced as he played and his vocals bobbed and weaved like a player running for his life toward the end zone. “Warehouse” is the song that perhaps best exemplifies this duality as it’s a song that starts off so dark and almost ominous but before long it’s as bright as a summer day. There may be better Dave Matthews Band songs but “Warehouse” is musically a mission statement for the band. It’s grand and epic, intense and ethereal. Lyrically, it’s an embracing of the present and opening one’s arms to the current situation, loving that situation and realizing it might be the best of what’s around but it shouldn’t stop you from exploring what’s outside of its walls. Take the chances, open yourself up to new experiences. Dave Matthews Band has always charted a course of confident certainty coupled with a current flowing underneath of apprehension. To be only one way would run counter to how Dave Matthews Band has always operated and likely always will, regardless of what the future holds. Dare to get weird, kid. The Dave Matthews Band always have. Ryan harbors a constant fear of losing his keys, prefers flip flops, and will always choose cereal if it's an option. He maintains his own blog, Giddy Up America, and has previously contributed work to UPROXX & Heavy. Ryan is on Twitter: @ryanoconnell79

by Rachel Dworkin On March 15, 1964, 12-year-old Mary Theresa Simpson went missing after heading home from her cousin’s house. After a few hours of waiting, her father called the police. For the next few days, the police combed the city looking for her. On March 19th, a trio of hikers stumbled across her body in a wooded area just off of Combs Hill Road in Southport. This March, I received multiple research requests about her murder from self-identified true crime enthusiasts. People’s fascination with true crime is nothing new. Beginning in the 1500s, British publishers began printing thousands of pamphlets and broadsides describing the exploits of various criminals. The publications tended to focus on the gory details of especially violent or unusual crimes and often carried strong moralizing crime-doesn’t-pay messages regarding the criminals’ eventual comeuppance. By the 1700s, America had its own criminals and presses with which to write about them. Newspapers provided readers with minute-by-minute accounts of crimes, manhunts, and trials as they unfolded. The 21st century is no less interested in true crime than our ancestors, although today the format is a bit different. TV documentaries about crime and criminals first gained popularity in the 1980s. Hits shows like Unsolved Mysteries and America’s Most Wanted, which presented new, real-life, stories each week, captivated audiences. In 2020, the streaming platform Netflix brought Unsolved Mysteries back. After the success of their documentary series Making a Murderer (2015), Netflix quickly became the king of the true crime docuseries with over 11 shows focusing on different cases. True crime podcasts got their start in 2014 with Serial, the first season of which focused on the murder of 18-year-old Hae Min Lee in Baltimore in 1999. The podcast was an instant hit. Since its release, it has been downloaded 340 million times, making it the most downloaded podcast in the world. Its popularity spawned literally hundreds of copycats. In US, women make up 73% of consumers of digital true crime media. Studies show that people who listen to true crime are more likely to be afraid of being victimized themselves, although it is unclear if that is a result of consuming true crime or the reason they seek it out. There are numerous complaints against true crime. The genre has been criticized for the way third parties make money off of other people’s trauma, often re-traumatizing them in the process. Some works blend actual facts with fictional elements and rampant speculation in ways that can give audiences distorted views of the case. The true crime genre isn’t all bad. The first season of Serial, for example, helped shine a light on a miscarriage of justice that lead to a man being released from prison. Shows like Unsolved Mysteries and America’s Most Wanted have actually helped to solve crimes. The original run of Unsolved Mysteries helped spark renewed interest that lead to the solving of 260 cold cases. America’s Most Wanted helped lead to the capture of 1,400 wanted fugitives and the recovery of over 60 missing children. In 1964, the local press gave extensive coverage to Mary Theresa Simpson’s murder. The day after her body was discovered, 50 men, including an Elmira Star-Gazette reporter, did a sweep of the area where her body was found. They uncovered her glasses, several buttons off her blouse, and an assortment of trash. Every part of the search was documented by the reporter’s camera. The newspaper coverage included interviews with her family, a timeline events, search photos, a map of the crime scene, and a detailed description of the girl’s body. In the days following her murder, the Star-Gazette and WELM Radio offered a reward of $1,000 for any information leading to her killer’s arrest. The police were hard at work on the case. They established a joint special task force consisting of officers from the Elmira PD, state police, and Chemung County Sheriff’s Department. Together, the task force interviewed over 300 people across multiple states including some as far away as Arizona. Seven suspects agreed to submit to a lie detector test, but no one was ever charged. After six months, the task force was dissolved. After a year, the reward money fund was donated to the Arctic League in Mary’s honor. Eight years later in October 1972, the Star-Gazette re-ran the details of the Simpson murder and offered $5,000 for information leading to an arrest. They created a special system for accepting anonymous tips that could still let people collect the reward. Over the next few months, tips flooded in. The Elmira Police Department briefly re-opened the case, but ultimately, nothing came of it. To this day, Mary Theresa Simpson’s murder remains unsolved. By all accounts, Mary was a shy girl. Her family moved around a lot and she struggled to make friends. She was wary of strangers and once turned down a ride from an uncle because she didn’t know him well. No one except her killer knows how she ended up dead on Combs Hill. Maybe the renewed interest in her case will lead to justice, or at least answers. We can only hope. Rachel Dworkin is the archivist at the Chemung Valley Historical Society. For more information about the museum or to see more of their blog, click here.

It was odd... this winter, just past, of 2023 and 2024. And, spring seems reluctant to stand firm. Winter keeps making dashes back with a little graupel here and a snowflake there, as if to make up for its earlier lethargy. We are usually safe from deep snow by mid-April, but one never knows. Early in March, warm weather brought out the snowdrops and winter aconite. Potted Easter flowers have gotten me through to now, when my daffodils and hyacinths are beginning to open and bring more life to outside. Change can often be a charged topic. People generally applaud winter changing to spring, and, in gardens, brown becoming green. A baby has a whole new attitude when his/her diaper is changed. Finding pocket change (coins) is always fun. A changing of the guard is a relief for whomever has been on duty for hours. A change of clothes and shoes to PJs and slippers defines relaxation. But when it comes to our habits, perceptions, comfort levels, or thinking, we would prefer to make no changes. Over Easter weekend, one of our family conversations discussed how we humans resist changes in our perception of what we can do and be. One of our sons left home in Vermont, about 9 PM, to drive to Spencer, getting him here around 1:30 AM. To quote him (the timeless answer to moms and wives): “I’ll be fine! I’ve done it for years!” His wife, who was already at our house, and I, were discussing the difficulty people (men especially) have in even contemplating the idea that they cannot do everything they have always done forever. But, even as we laughed a lot, and worried a bit, I admitted that I, myself, do not take kindly to seeing my capabilities diminished. Who wants to adjust the vision of one’s self from a coping, can-do person to a fragile being with limited possibilities? Life, however, frequently disregards our wishes and forces us to get real. Reality compels me to confess that I can no longer dance all night. My doctor had the nerve to ask if I ever could!! I assured him that not only could I, but I had more than once. Now, unfortunately, I can’t do a polka without stopping half-way through to breathe and settle my spinning head.I’d probably never make it through a set of 3 square dances, though maybe, with steady practice, say, a square dance/weekend!! 😊 When sciatica hit two weeks before Easter Sunday, rather intense pain meandered from my lower back, down through my left hip to my ankle, and didn’t go away. I was just a little cranky about the bad timing, and abandoning my usual holiday preparations. I ended up baking no cookies, no Swedish tea rings, and we dined out for our family Easter dinner. While the bakery cinnamon buns from Owego, and pastries from Vermont, were very tasty ---- and dinner at the Parkview in Owego quite satisfactory ---- I was not happy at the necessity. It wasn’t what we did, but the change in what I could do that I wanted to resist. But ---- as one of the Star Trek (the Borg, I think) lines went: “Resistance is futile!” At least when it comes to change! Hindsight proves that life is constantly changing. And changes generally bring discomfort, even angst, until they become routine. In our seven changes of residence, I only welcomed two of them. And even then, while I was happy about the one move itself, I hated leaving friends behind. I grumbled when my family home was sold out of the family and had a similar reaction when the houses of my siblings met the same fate. In my work life, when there was an opportunity to take more responsibility in the agency where I’d been for twelve years, I took forever and a day to decide; I was very comfortable in my position, so why change? And there were our offspring! Except for the rare occasions when I was tempted to send them to Outer Mongolia, I mostly enjoyed being an at-home mother, so when our children grew into adults, as children tend to do, (our granddaughters have also done this!), I missed those fun years with tweens, and teens. Even with my grumbling, though, I admit that with nearly every change, there has been a gift, something good that would have been impossible without the change. Our ancestral homes were purchased by people who respect tradition and have restored them well. My time as a director of an agency kept us safe from a director we might not have enjoyed, and taught me quite a lot that I have since found valuable. Our sons have grown to be amazing people and have married good and talented women. Our granddaughters are on their way to becoming equally amazing people. A plethora of gifts, all intertwined with change! I am having trouble recognizing any gifts in health changes (for myself or others), but I have been assured that such gifts will be found. My fading vision is frustrating; I finally gave up trying to sew after several abysmal attempts. Actually, I awarded myself an imaginary gold star just last week, when I neither screamed, gnashed my teeth, nor did I throw the machine across the room, all of which I was tempted to do. To be unable to even do an alteration is challenging, so my irritation level was (actually, still is) quite high. But I keep remembering my mother, who dealt with some of the same issues, and only said that she had more time to listen when she couldn’t be doing. The change most difficult for us all, I expect, is the death of someone for whom we care and on whom we rely. Two days after Easter, we learned that one of our dearest friends had passed on; a friend who had been part of our lives for over 50 years. Because we have reached our 80s, we must expect to lose people, but that makes the grief and emptiness no less traumatic and lasting. If I did not believe that human life here on earth is but one stage of living, I would probably be in despair, for this change I do not like. Bill was something of a “Renaissance Man;” interested and educated in a wide variety of things, and a wise mentor. Having been a history teacher, his perception of the world was based on understanding of what had gone before; on cause and effect. He was an outdoors person who enjoyed hiking the hills, watching birds and promoting good conservation practices, and he loved to garden. Becoming an ordained pastor gave him an opportunity to create a safe place for people who came to him with questions and concerns about life itself. He was a fine musician, and skillful with pen and ink; one of his sketches is on our living room wall. He helped us develop our theology and our families had many good times together. He and Connie participated, with us, in Faith At Work and Marriage Encounter both of which deepened our understanding of ourselves and each other. No one wishes to lose a friend who claims so much affection and respect. But the gift therein, has been the many years we’ve enjoyed what Bill offered. We have immense gratitude for all we have found good in this friendship and the impact he had on our family even as we regret his physical absence. As is probably universally true, the death of someone close, brings a thought or two of one’s own mortality; certainly, one of those changes we seldom wish to contemplate at length. I think I might be miffed (can one be miffed in the next stage of life?) if no one missed me. I would hope that the gift accompanying my death might also be whatever good impact I had on the lives around me; that some individuals might be grateful that I’d been there and that others would forgive me for the times I missed the mark. I would hope that our times together would leave stories and laughter, forming a golden thread of good memories, reminding those I love of who I was, and who I will go on being! Change is universal and unavoidable, though we humans may dig in our heels and attempt to ignore the necessity, and continue pining for “back when.” Unless one takes up residence in a glass ball of protected atmosphere, change will always be in every part of our lives; the seasons, the weather, our growth and understanding, choices and what makes up our cultures (no matter how me may disapprove!). Currently, we are on the cusp of change from mud season to blossom time. The amusing woodchuck I watched last summer has waddled out from beneath the woodshed, and is once again happily munching sunflower seeds. I don’t know its gender; I’m hoping that there aren’t babies back in the den. Spring flowers are about to burst into bloom. The change from brown to green, from dormant to alive and growing is, for me, a most welcome change. And this is a change upon which we can rely. So far, we can be sure spring will come every year and these lines by Rudyard Kipling seem both humorous and reassuring: “Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God, who made him sees that half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees. So, when your work is finished you can wash your hands and pray for the glory of the garden, that it may never pass away.” * Proving that some things never do change after all! **** Carol writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net *from The Glory of the Garden by Rudyard Kipling. Kipling was a British poet and writer, born in India. Two of his most famous books for kids are: The Jungle Book and Just So Stories.

by Erin Doane On November 7, 1923, the Elmira chapter of the Sons of the American Revolution held a meeting. At that meeting, the organization’s president Dr. Arthur W. Booth proposed the creation of a historical society to preserve historic objects, documents, and stories. The first official meeting of the Chemung County Historical Society took place two weeks later with 75 people in attendance. The Historical Society’s first home was in two rooms on the upper floor of the Steele Memorial Library on the corner of Lake and Church Streets (now the Chemung County Chamber of Commerce). The rooms quickly filled with donations from the community. Members of the society presented talks about local history and created displays of historic objects in the library for the public to enjoy. The Historical Society received its charter from New York State in 1947. Shortly after, they began searching for a stand-alone building to house the collections and provide more space for displays. In 1953, the Historical Society moved into 425 East Market Street and Frances Brayton was appointed as its first professional curator. It was around this time that Historical Society also began searching for the mammoth tusk that had been found by Judge Caleb Baker along the Chemung River in 1778. (Read all about that tusk and the Historical Society’s search for it here) While they were not able to find the original, they were able to get a similar mammoth tusk from the American Museum of Natural History in New York City. The Historical Society relocated again in 1965 to 304 William Street. The mammoth tusk and all the other historic objects, documents, and photographs that had been donated over the previous 40+ years were moved into their new home. Many of the objects were used in new exhibits focused on topics we still explore in the museum today - life here in the 1800s, the Civil War, local organizations and schools, and, of course, Mark Twain. Materials that didn’t go on display went into storage. Unfortunately, one of the main storage spaces in the building was the basement, which proved disastrous during the 1972 Flood. (click here to read how the Historical Society reacted to the flooding) The Chemung County Historical Society moved one more time to its current location at 415 E. Water Street. The building was originally home to the Chemung Canal Bank starting in 1833. After the bank moved into new headquarters, the building housed law offices and apartments. It underwent major renovations in the late 1970s and opened to the public as the Chemung County Historical Society in 1982. In 1986, the Historical Society received accreditation from the American Alliance of Museums (AAM). It was reaccredited most recently in 2021. Less than 5% of museum in the United States are accredited by the AAM. In 1992, further renovations to the building took place. An addition that includes the Howell Gallery, the Frances Brayton Education Room, and the Barn Gallery, as well as a new entranceway, was added to the main building. The Chemung County Historical Society currently operates the Chemung Valley History Museum and the Booth Research Library. Our mission is to deepen our understanding of history and to provide an appreciation of our community’s place in state and national history. We’ve done this over the last 100 years by collecting, preserving, interpreting, and presenting the history of our community and we plan to continue this mission for the next 100 years. And, yes, the mammoth tusk is still on display. Erin Doane is the Head Curator at The Chemung Valley Historical Society. For more information about the museum and to see more of their blog, click here

Reading several pages of a book by Laura Hillenbrand to my students, I knew I needed to read the full story. “Unbroken - A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption” is a bio of Louis Zamperini. Holding records for running the fastest mile, he remains the youngest Olympics qualifier at age 19, placing 8th at the 1936 Berlin Olympics in the 5,000 meter race. Though he didn’t medal, he put on a burst of speed to run the fastest final lap among the competitors in an amazing 56 seconds! On asking, the teacher lent me an unabridged version and I’ve been reading every minute I can this weekend, unable to set the book down for long. In a Pacific battle with the Japanese during WW II, Zamperini and his pilot friend survived their B-24 plane crash of May 27, 1943. Stranded at sea for 47 days, they were picked up by the Japanese. Surviving more than 2 years of hellish prison camps and disease, they were tortured, starved, and severely beaten, enduring the brutality with humor, hope and determination. Freed after the atomic bombs were dropped in August 1945, Zamperini faced torments at home with PTSD nightmares of his experience under one especially sadistic guard. Drinking excessive alcohol to control the nightmares, his life began to unravel. Finally acquiescing to his wife’s entreaties, he attended a Billy Graham crusade. She had accepted Christ a few days earlier, and hoped Louie could find solace in Christ for the torments he lived with… and he did! His drinking and tormenting nightmares stopped that very night. Zamperini heard Graham preach on the adulteress that night, Graham’s words reminding him of forgotten prayerful pleas for God to save him while in the lifeboat at sea – “If you save me, I will serve you forever.” After accepting Christ as his Savior, Zamperini returned to Japan, meeting his former prison guards, themselves in prison. They were puzzled to see him reach out to embrace them with his infectious joy of forgiveness. He also began the Victory Boys Camp for troubled youth, sharing his life’s path, including his salvation journey. As I read, I knew I had to change my plans and post this blog instead of my first choice. Forgiven! Can you imagine how she must have felt? So close to being condemned to death, now free to go… forgiven a heavy burden of sin… free to overcome her past… and free to share the love of her Savior with everyone she met! “The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery… ‘In the Law, Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?’ They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him. But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, ‘If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.’ Again, he stooped down and wrote on the ground. At this, those who heard began to go away, one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there…” (John 8:3-9) We’ve all done something in our past we’d just as soon forget. We may still feel the sting of shame. I can think of many public figures who disgraced themselves including President Nixon, Pete Rose, Lance Armstrong, Bill Cosby, Ravi Zacharias… while many others seem to be enabled in walking away from accountability for their words or actions. But, how much better that we all face our wrongs… our sins… head on. Admit them and repent, ask for forgiveness, stop blaming others, walk away from wrongful behaviors, and feel the loving grace of our Lord as we make a full corrective change. So, what about the men who brought the adulteress woman to court? Well… they simply walked away and left her standing alone with Jesus. I’ve always wondered if Jesus was writing a list of their sins in the sand. If so, that would have made them more than a little uneasy. They would have stood in amazement, and perhaps felt shame as their secret thoughts and sins were written in the sand, available for all to read. How did this man know so much about them? They had brought this woman to condemn her for adultery, a sin punishable by stoning to death. And yet, where was the man from the tryst? Didn’t his sin matter to them, too? Or, was he among her accusers, blaming her? Rather than face the depth of hypocrisy in their own heart, each man turned and simply walked away. They didn’t want others to learn the weight of their own brokenness. But, as they silently walked away, no contrite heart or apology was expressed. Did they not realize that God sees and knows the truth? What a mockery they made of justice… fingers pointing at another while being guilty themselves. So typical of abusers who hide behind their mask of piety. They were so focused on trying to get Jesus to incriminate himself with a response, they didn’t understand the depth of their own sin. They walked away from seeing who Jesus truly was, and their own need of grace. Both civic and religious leaders fail us then as now. Leaders who call themselves gifted exude an arrogant pride. (Proverbs 16:18) Leaders who fail to hold themselves and others around them accountable lack integrity and humility. Often, they can be classified narcissistic, being more than simply self-centered. They feel entitled to praise or special treatment. They lack empathy, are abusive, liars who do not take responsibility for their own behavior, take advantage of others, lash out at criticism or perceive they’re not getting the attention they deserve with a behind-the-scenes retaliation and perpetual blame shifting. Underneath the egotistic façade, they are often deeply insecure and use a faux cover to present themselves as more worthy than they really are. Yet, what a powerful picture of mercy and grace Jesus gave us all as He forgave the woman. All she had to do was repent from her old ways, and become a changed woman. In leaving her old life behind to follow the Teacher, our Lord, she gladly started sharing with others what He had done for her. Because she now had a future! A life to look forward to! She’d lived her past under whispered labels. She’d heard the mocking voices deep in her soul… stupid, worthless, trash, adulteress, prostitute. Yes, she’d lived a life of ill repute. But, the Teacher… He respected her! So, what did He see in her? He saw someone who’d been taken advantage of to benefit others… someone weighed down by a heart of sorrow and shame… someone willing to openly shoulder responsibility for all of her own wrongs… someone longing for change. This Teacher, the man named Jesus… He saw what she could be when cleansed of her past. He saw her broken heart longing to be made whole. He stood her up tall so she could start anew. Just like our Lord does for us. He forgives the heart that repents, no matter the charge… that longs to make amends… that longs for a closeness with God. He holds out His hands to draw us near… setting us back up on our feet as He guides our path with flawless wisdom… Forgiven! The Adulteress By Linda A. Roorda I met him today, the greatest Teacher! My life was a mess, but He picked me up. He gave me hope... He gave me vision. He freed my soul from sin’s dark snare. Dragging to court they brought me up front, My accusers smug turning to the crowd. With taunting words they scoffed and accused Revealing my life, my sin and my shame. How could I have reached such fallen depths? He told me he cared. I believed his lies. His words were glib with flattery smooth But now I was caught, ensnared in a trap. Stating that stoning was punishment fit They asked the Teacher his thoughts on the law. Instead He stooped and commenced to write Words hid from others, known only to them. Yet, as they questioned, He continued to write. On standing tall, He peered in their soul. “If any one of you lives without sin, Let him be the one who casts the first stone.” Slowly the elders and then the younger Quietly fled until only two, The Teacher and I, we alone stood still. From silence He spoke, my soul deeply touched… “Woman, where are they? Have any condemned?” Glancing around, “No one,” said I. “Then neither do I. I condemn you not. Go, and leave your sin. Forgiven are you.”

One of the most controversial actions of Governor Kathy Hochul’s proposed 2024-2025 state budget is her move to cut education aid to more than half of New York State’s school districts outside of New York City. If enacted, the governor’s proposed education cuts would fall most heavily on certain regions, including many small, largely rural school districts across the Southern Tier and Finger Lakes. Here's a few of the most staggering cuts to schools in the 58th Senate District: Hammondsport would suffer a 30.7% or $1.6M cut; Penn Yan, 18.5% or $2.2M cut; Watkins Glen, 16.8% or $1.9M cut; and South Seneca, 16% or $1.5M cut. The governor’s education proposal can’t stand. The property tax increases required to ameliorate these cuts would be prohibitive. That’s the message my Senate Republican colleagues and I delivered at the Capitol last week. As I’ve stressed time and again, New York State has been steadily moving closer to the edge of an economic and fiscal cliff – due in large part to the spending appetites of former Governor Cuomo, Governor Hochul and, since 2018, the Democrat-controlled, biggest-spending Legislature in state history. The bottom line is that the state budget, between 2018 and 2023, has grown by upwards of $60 billion! This growth is in the first five years of one-party Democratic control of both houses of the state Legislature, and the offices of Governor, Comptroller, and Attorney General. Just that growth alone is larger than the budgets of more than 30 states. It is larger than the states of Florida and Texas combined, each of which has a larger population than New York. It spends 1½ times more per capita than California which has more than twice our population. From the outset, many of us have warned about this out-of-control spending, that it would never be sustainable and puts a new generation of state and local taxpayers at risk of shouldering an even heavier burden far into the future (keeping in mind that New York is already recognized as one of the highest-taxed, least affordable to live, and most unfriendly to business states in America). In fact, the bill’s already coming due for Democrat overspending. We start the current year facing a state budget gap of $4.3 billion, with ongoing deficits in the next three years projected to be $5 billion, $5.2 billion, and $9.9 billion, respectively. Consequently, Governor Hochul – suddenly painting herself as a diligent fiscal disciplinarian and watchdog -- unveiled her 2024-2025 state budget proposal with the following statement, “We can't spend like there's no tomorrow, because tomorrow always comes.” That’s true, however the governor needed to stand for it long before now. And it’s equally important to understand the context of the governor’s full game plan this year. Her opening gambit offers a $233-billion spending plan, an increase of $4 billion over New York’s current budget that represents a significant increase and, if enacted without any changes at all (and I've yet to see the Legislature come back with a budget that spends less than the Executive's proposal) will be the largest-ever state budget. There are proposed cuts and negligible belt-tightening, but not truly for the sake of any long-term fiscal discipline in this state. It’s being done, instead, to accommodate higher (and long-term) spending elsewhere – while, at the same time, knowing full well that the Legislature is left with no choice but to demand restorations in key areas. As I noted at the start, education is the prime example of this gamesmanship. Governor Hochul’s proposed budget calls for the elimination of what’s known as the “save harmless” provision of the state education aid distribution formula. “Save harmless” is utilized to ensure fiscal stability for school districts, especially high-need districts, and has long been critically important to small and rural schools. According to our Senate Republican budget analysis, this move would cut nearly $170 million from approximately half of the state’s school districts and result in particularly hard hits in specific regions of the state, including, as I said, small and rural districts across the Southern Tier and Finger Lakes. The Governor made much fanfare of “consumer protections” in both her State of the State and Executive Budget presentations. However, her education budget proposal is nothing short of “Bait and Switch” lacking “Truth in Advertising.” While local school districts get cut in excess of $400 million in this budget, she includes another $2.4 billion (bringing the two-year total to $4.3 billion) to provide taxpayer-funded assistance and services to the ever-growing surge of asylum-seeking migrants flowing into New York from the nation’s southern border. In addition, to add insult to injury, the state will pay the federal government $15 Million to rent a former military base, Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn, for use as a migrant shelter to house migrants the federal government has allowed to flow illegally across the Rio Grande! Her budget also spends $150 Million for floating pools in the rivers of New York City (I kid you not) and $45 Million for planting trees, to name just two. These may be nice things, but not in times of what should be fiscal austerity and in the midst of staggering cuts to rural, suburban, and small city school districts. That’s just one example of the shell game going on here. In other words, Governor Hochul’s proposed budget is not truly aiming for long-term fiscal discipline and responsibility. It’s a budget that in the name of fiscal discipline attempts to take away from some to keep giving away far more to others. That’s a game we can never play, in my opinion, with the quality of education for our small, rural school districts across the Upstate region, or any school district at all for that matter. The Senate Republican budget analysis reaches this conclusion, “As proposed, the Executive budget includes few proposals to deal with the high cost of the everyday lives of New Yorkers. There is little in the category of affordability proposals advanced, that work towards mitigating the increased costs in food, home fuel or transportation that everyday New Yorker’s face. There is little in the way of improving New York’s business climate which has been rated one of the worst in the nation. There is little in the way of addressing the State’s outmigration problem which, according to a study in October of 2023 by the Economic Innovation Group, has caused New York to lose $24.8 billion in net adjusted gross income (AGI) during the pandemic.” That's a significant loss of tax revenue. We desperately need to get New York State’s fiscal house in order. But it’s outrageous for Governor Hochul to target small, rural school districts. That’s not an answer to this state’s deep-rooted fiscal irresponsibility. It’s just redirecting misguided priorities that won’t move us any closer to fiscal stability, taxpayer relief, or long-term affordability and sustainability for most New Yorkers. I need you to join in the fight opposing Governor Hochul's budget cuts to our schools and handouts to illegal immigrants. Please contact the Governor directly by calling 518-474-8390 and by emailing at: governor.ny.gov/contact.

I saw the sun shining bright for a while yesterday as it peeked from behind those clouds! That prompted me to take a brisk walk with the wind at my back helping my pace… the same wind and sun in my face on the way home, making me lean into the wind to keep my balance a few times. How well I remember taking walks with Ed on days like that where he’d hold tightly onto my arm to keep me from blowing away, as he put it! He kept me from getting blown to and fro by those changing brisk winds… something our Lord does for us when we hold onto His hand, allowing Him to lead and guide us thru stormy days. Which prompted this previously unpublished blog for today. May you know the Lord’s guiding hand every day on your journey thru life. Sometimes we feel like we have to carry the weight of the world on our shoulders, and we fret and worry about everything! I know… because that description fits me at times. It’s one of my struggles – learning to release my cares to the One who knows and allows what it is I face each and every day. He can handle all that comes my way… if I would just let Him… and He can lift me up from all the mistakes I manage to make. But I’m going to admit it’s not easy to “let go and let God” as the popular saying goes. Sometimes it seems that if I do the worrying, then somehow that will help make the situation better. Nah! Don’t count on it! Actually, it seems like it often tends to make the situation worse as I become confused and lost in the tangled web of thoughts. So, you’d think I’d have learned to always release my burdened heart and let God take over while I move forward in peace. After all, God is right there, ready to listen, ready to carry me, and ready to deal with whatever is stressing me out. He can fix it all… without my help! And He has done just that… blessing me richly in so many ways, so many times… drawing me closer to His side, filling me with a calm and quiet peace. Yet, somehow it seems to be a lesson that I must learn and relearn. All of which reminds me of Matthew 6:25-33 (NIV), part of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. These verses have often come to mind over the years. “Therefore, I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear… Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will He not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? …But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” And as I heed these precious words from our Lord himself, reaching out to Him in prayer, He’ll guide me each step of the way… just as He’ll guide you through whatever you might face on this journey of life! His Guiding Hand Linda A. Roorda Lord, I give You my all As I relinquish That which my heart Has always held tight. You know that I struggle Thinking I can control All of life’s burdens Which tumble my way. You hear desperate pleas As I try to wait, While Your very best answers Conform my will to Yours. At times I struggle Alone with my thoughts In a mind doing battle Within my seeking soul. Where is my God, my protective Shield? How can life be so raw? Why does pain and confusion Keep knocking upon the door? And yet… He is always here! In a whisper soft … or a vision serene Enveloping my heart With His perfect love and grace. For He directs me on the stony path And plants my feet securely Upon a foundation solid and firm Guiding each step along the way. As rough this road at times can be, He gently carries me safely home, When oft in prayer I turn to seek His loving, guiding, and merciful hand. ~~ Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer.

“It was a winter evening of transparent clearness, with an innocent young moon above the housetops...”* Isn’t that a great way to begin a story that could go anywhere? It is also a good description of a fine night in mid-December. Early winter evenings can, if we stop to absorb them, fill us with an awareness of how special life is, evening, morning or mid-day. Right now, outside my window a downy woodpecker is enjoying a cake of suet, and just a few yards away, the turkeys are cleaning up the sunflower seeds carelessly shoved off the feeders by blue jays. The chickadees are, as usual, adding movement to the whole picture as they flit from feeder to branch where they crack open a seed. Someone in an inner-city apartment might give much to be seeing these simple country interactions among the creatures. The hanging of the greens (Christmas decorating) has been done at church and here at home too. Traditions are reassuring parts of life. The “children’s tree” at church is its usual flamboyant olio of tinsel ropes and various Sunday school-made ornaments. The rest of the decorating in the sanctuary is less free-spirited and more dignified with evergreen swags and red and white poinsettias. At home, we have managed to have a Christmas tree even though our space for that item is more limited this year. It squeezes in between a desk and a chair, letting a few twigs venture over the chair arm. I find that fewer house decorations please me this year; simplicity is restful somehow. I do miss using all of our ornaments, most of which have stories, but less glitz seems OK. We have a variety of greenery growing on our land, so we are able to bring the aroma and textures of outside, into the house, and that is satisfying. Watching the birds and animals outside reminds me of the stable scenes that many of us cherish. There is one on our church lawn that was built and the figures created by artists in our congregation. Its presence there is a village tradition. The smaller creche we have on our own kitchen buffet was created by Kerm, and is a tradition with us. A few new animals appear each year ---- as is customary in many European creches. In Provence the figures are called santons and are often sculpted by family members. Ours has, in addition to the usual camels, donkeys and cows, two llamas, an elephant (one of the Magi could have ridden an elephant!), a sleeping kitten, a fawn, a goat, a big-horn sheep and a small skunk ---- none sculpted by us. It may be fantasy, but it is good fantasy to imagine the creatures as well as the shepherds and angels gathering at the manger. Christmas has become a widely jovial, spread-the-cheer season, but while many of us are reveling in Christmas joys, it is a kind and caring thing to remember others who find the holiday frenzy an added burden to their already difficult lives. And this should probably include those who are currently trying to exist/survive amid disasters, war and revolution. We need to be aware of those who find the “Ho-Ho-Ho” and canned music grating on their ears as they deal with sadness, depression or are hurting in some way. Instead of urging “C’mon, be merry!” we might just take the time for more kindness and caring; time to simply be a friend who listens and accepts. There is a Japanese proverb that speaks to this: “Be an open bowl and opportunity may drop in.” One never knows what opportunities we might find for healing--- both ourselves and others --- if we are open and alert. Amid the ringing bells and rushing around, the natural world often restores my balance and perspective. In less than a week ---- the Solstice will be upon us -----thankfully! Our shortest hours of daylight will be December 21st and then the light comes dancing back little by little bit. Early civilizations celebrated this event with more awareness and enthusiasm than we do. Perhaps our electric lights have made us feel casual about daylight and dark. With no incandescent or florescent lamps, earlier people felt more of a kinship with the world around them and its rhythms, and were, perhaps, more wary of increasing darkness. Archeological digs have found sophisticated structures designed to mark the solstices and the equinoxes. Either those civilizations were going to take no chances on the capricious gods who might hold them longer in fearful darkness and so celebrated to propitiate them, or they felt a deep gratitude for the returning light and a responsibility to express their thanks. A bit more gratitude and celebration of our blessings, including returning daylight, might not be amiss. Whether we celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Yuletide and/or Kwanzaa, they all emphasize spreading Light. This is a reminder that we have access to spiritual resources which, if we choose to believe, reassure us that eventually, “all will be well and all will be well and all manner of things will be well,”** Many, many times, in Scripture, we are told to not be afraid; to fear not! And the Gospel of Luke goes so far as to say: “Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with …. the worries of the world.” Fear is a crippling emotion that leads to unwise behavior including hatred, racism, blind ignorance and a limiting life for those who fear. Fear is so pervasive that it takes an inner spiritual strength to erase it from our lives. Science is a good resource, but if one chooses to operate only on what can be proven scientifically, this reassurance may be null and void. For those individuals, I would ask that they consider this: “We live on a blue planet that circles around a ball of fire next to a moon that moves the sea ---- and you don’t believe in miracles?” *** Somehow, in spite of ourselves and often amid discouraging circumstances, this multi-cultural, celebratory season of light and good cheer brings the possibility that we can be better people; that we can live with open hearts eager to understand instead of shutting out our fellow humans. We can face the world, out-stretched arms ready to lift up and encourage, and caring hearts filled with a peace that is beyond all understanding. “For though my faith may not be yours and your faith may not be mine, if we are each free to light our own flame, together we can banish some of the darkness of the world.” Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks**** As we move toward December 24th, I recall previous Christmas Eves all of which seemed to hold a bit of magic for me. As a child, I accompanied my parents to 11 PM services. Being allowed to stay up that late plus the candles and music transported me to what felt like a wonderland --- even as I struggled to keep my eyes open for the carols and readings. Sometimes in later years, we joined my brother’s family in a house service ---- much earlier in the evening. My brother was a dairy farmer and could never stay awake for too late hours. (Actually, whenever he sat down his eyes closed.) Also, as a child, snow for Christmas seemed absolutely necessary, but now hearing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” or "Silent Night" is enough to bring back the magic felt as children, snow or no snow. The world is really full of wondrous things. It is true that there are wars, rumors of wars, and enough hair-raising disasters to keep our anxiety levels high. There is worrisome illness and the loss of people we love. There is stupidity, intentional ignorance, meanness and vice. But there is also the daily rising of the sun, the sparkle of frost on each needle of the fir trees, the song of a cardinal. There are joyously-playing puppies and kittens that turn into comforting pets. There are the immense and wondrous elephants, giraffes and then the tiny shrews and amazing honey-bees. There are hollyhocks, roses, peonies and all the vegetables that keep us fed. And there are “helpers”; thousands of people who go out of their way to encourage, assist, make life better for those in their paths, and also inspire each of us to observe the need in our own paths, and to take action to improve life where we are. My wish for you this season is that no matter what issues may be giving you sadness or discouragement, that you find an inner joy and unquenchable hope for the world in this December of stars, snowflakes and space. And may your Light shine out into a world that needs your gifts and your being your own unique self! And remember (Though this is a bit daunting!) --- “every time any one of us opens our mouth to speak, we are saying ‘Let there be light, or we are adding to the darkness.”****** Carol may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Edith Wharton---American novelist, writer of short stories and designer. 1862-1937. **Julian of Norwich ---- English anchoress of the Middle Ages whose visions and writings have become well-known in our own times. 1342-1416. ***Wisdom for Life & Living Well ---- Ginger Harrington--- writer on Christian spirituality. ****Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks---British Orthodox Rabbi, author, poet, theologian and Peer. 1948-2020. *****Glennon Doyle via a Max Lucado book via Dreisbach UCC newsletter --- Glennon Doyle is an American writer and activist. She is founder and president of “Together Rising” an all-woman organization that supports women and children in crisis. Max Lucado is an American writer and pastor. Dreisbach UCC is located in between Lewisburg, PA and Mifflinburg, PA.

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

Have you seen Jimi Hendrix? He’s in Elmira, NY. It’s a fact. I met him myself. At least he might think he is. And, over 5,000 people agree with him. I was in the mall, and there he was, bopping and grooving to some unheard music. He smiled. I said hey, and we talked for about five minutes. It was immediately apparent that this was an interesting man. Challenged and imaginative. Lighthearted and a bit enchanting. I admit it, the thought popped right into my head. I couldn’t help it. He had the smile, the eyes, the hair, the music, and the jean jacket! This guy was Jimi Hendrix, or at least he seemed to be. A few months later I’m crawling around on Facebook and find an entire page dedicated to this guy. To the Jimi Hendrix of Elmira, New York. I hadn’t just bumped into a character, I met a local Legend. Thousands of people recognize this man as Jimi Hendrix. They greet them on the street. They take their pictures with him. They talk with him and eat meals with him. And they share it online with each other. An entire community built around one simple, interesting man. I don’t know Jimi’s real name. And honestly, if I did I wouldn’t share it in this article. While this fandom of Elmira Jimi’s is a beautiful thing, it has a gray side. Some people feel like Jimi is treated like a “circus animal”. People using him for photo ops, and Facebook posts. Perhaps it’s not possible to have fame of any kind without some exploitation. A few years back a collective of people worked to connect Jimi with his lost son. I remember reading through the posts. The son himself was posting in the group. I remember another person saying to him “We love him, don’t expect too much.” I can’t pretend to know him as it seems many people do, but it seems evident in a quick conversation that Jimi has a fantastic perspective of the world. He sees things in a brilliant imagination of private planes, and cops and robbers. Wild stories and elaborate plans. There’s no doubt to me that it’s this dramatic perspective of Jimi’s that makes him so intriguing. Born and raised in Upstate New York, Mathew lives in a wooded valley north of the Susquehanna River with his wife and kids. His first book "Simple Sutras" was published in 2014

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