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

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

@Elizabeth Whitehouse: While I wouldn’t necessarily think “this kind of comment” should get you expelled from a site, I do wonder what purpose you intended for it to accomplish. Long before Social Media facilitated “instant reaction” to written material, we all managed to be exposed to ideas that may or maynot fit our own beliefs....through radio, TV, magazines, newspapers and books et al. And, since the invention of Guttenburg’s printing press, there has never been (and still is not) any imperitive to challenge the author(s) directly. We are fortunate in some nations (like the US) to have the choice of what media we want to consume (or choose not to). It seems like a tragic waste of ones time to seek out content we disagree with for the sole purpose of offering an antagonistic response. I’m curious how you felt that your reply was beneficial to anyone. It’s doubtful you will gain any understanding of Linda’s perspective by replying as you did. Nor is it likely that your curt and disparaging remark will sway Linda or any of her readers to your perspective.

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

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

by Jeff Minick Actress, mother of two, and school activist Sophie Winkleman began her recent address on children at the 2025 Alliance for Responsible Citizenship Conference in London by describing a recent scene from a packed London bus. Standing over a young man and a young woman, both intent on their smartphones, Winkleman noticed that each was on a dating site, “reading profiles of men and women who presented as extremely similar to the two of them.” She concluded: "Our bus reached Piccadilly Circus and both happened to alight at this stop. I watched the two of them as they walked away from each other, one towards Shaftesbury Avenue and the other towards St. James’s. I don’t need to labour the point of what I witnessed with this couple never to be. They were side by side, both seeking companionship or love, but they didn’t even register each other’s existence." In the brilliant and passionate address that followed – I don’t use those adjectives lightly – Winkleman turned to the effects of smartphones and classroom technology on adolescents, which she called “the digital destruction of childhood.” She continued: "We left the doors to our children’s classrooms, their bedrooms and their minds wide open to the world. Perhaps we thought we were giving children the right to access everything which might be good out there, but instead we’ve given everyone else – the good and the bad, access to our children." Winkleman spends part of her talk examining data familiar to many parents: the horrifying rise in teen suicides and self-harm incidents, the massive increase of anxiety and depression among the young, the fact that 97% of Britain’s 12-year-olds now possess a smartphone, and that children ages eight to 18 now spend an average of over seven hours every day on one screen or another. She further notes, “Hospital admissions for children with eating disorders in the UK have risen sixfold in a decade, the ‘contagious influence’ of social media cited as a major factor.” Winkleman also cites mountains of evidence demonstrating that digital classrooms offer inferior education to those centered on teachers, books, paper, and pencils. “The Karolinska Institute in Sweden,” she told the audience, “recently published research concluding that, ‘there’s clear scientific evidence that tools impair rather than enhance learning.’ Sweden has taken note and been the first country to kick tech out of the classroom, reinvesting in books, paper and pens. They had the courage to admit that EdTech was a ‘failed experiment’.” So why, given this abundance of data and the visible harm screens bring to so many of the young – and to many adults as well – do parents and schools continue to pair the young with screens and smartphones? For parents, the social pressures felt by their children are a factor. “My friends all have iPhones, why can’t I?” Many parents also fail to understand that screens are addictive, electronic drugs in a plastic case designed to stimulate dopamine in the brain. As for classroom use, screens can reduce the duties of teachers while often better capturing the attention of students. Winkleman reminds her audience that childhood itself is at stake here. The playing fields of the imagination – books, backyard games, the engagement with others in face-to-face encounters, and so much more – are being rapidly replaced by digitalized games, social media, and the artifice of screens. Regarding education, she offers wise observations such as this one: "Reading books and handwriting work is a deeper, not to mention a calmer, way to learn. Screens manage to be both caffeinating and numbing – where books are decompressing and absorbing." Reading and handwriting are also harder in a good way. Friction and struggle are a necessary part of the learning process. Make everything too easy and it’s like feeding ten-year-olds puree when they need to chew. Jonathan Haidt is the author of the extraordinary bestseller, “The Anxious Generation: How the Great Rewiring of Childhood Is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness.” Haidt praises Winkleman’s address as “the best talk I’ve ever seen on what computers and tablets on the desktops of children do to the child’s education.” His article includes the full video of the talk and a transcript. At the end of her talk, Winkleman says: f we want to produce a generation of responsible citizens, we must flip the current argument on its head. "Rather than constantly having to prove that screen use is blighting childhood, we should ask simply: where is the evidence to prove that it’s safe?" I would up that question a notch and ask, “Where is the evidence to prove that it’s beneficial?” Jeff Minick lives in Front Royal, Virginia, and may be found online at jeffminick.com. He is the author of two novels, Amanda Bell and Dust on Their Wings, and two works of non-fiction, Learning as I Go and Movies Make the Man. This article appeared on IntellectualTakeout.org and is shared under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

At this point, what do we, as a county, have to lose? Simply look at what has happened to our beloved county in the last 50 years, businesses are leaving, people are leaving, Chemung County is turning into one big "ghost town"... Charlie Lechliter

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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