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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obnoxious loud-talkers who sit at bars, rank right up there with dogs who lift their legs on your welcome mat. Take, for instance, the fella at the bar beside me. He launched into a well-rehearsed speech about his world travels. First, the Alps. Then, Belgium, France, Italy, South Africa, Timbuktu. By then, people at the bar had cleared out. He asked me, “You done much traveling?” I shook my head and said, “No, but I’ve woken up in a cattle pasture.” Loud-Talker rolled his eyes. “See?” he went on. “Now THAT’S your problem. You can’t find your true-self unless you TRAVEL!” So, I paid my tab and traveled my true-self outside. The truth is, I’ve never owned a passport, never stepped foot in Canada, and the closest I’ve come to self-discovery was South Texas in July, where I saw a real mirage. I’m uninteresting on paper. I concede. But I regret nothing. My life hasn’t been bad. After all, I’ve known exceptional people. Like my friend who I’ll call, Alan. Alan has no face. Nothing but eyes and pink flesh. This happened when he woke up in a burning mobile home. Pieces of the smoldering ceiling fell on his face while he slept. Alan taught me more about life than any passport could. I’ve also done fun things: I’ve fallen asleep in the Conecuh River—only to wake up half-naked, sunburned, and lost. I’ve climbed hundred-foot oaks. I’ve seen every Andy Griffith episode. I’ve worked construction with Mexicans who cooked lunch on their tailgates. I’ve watched the sunrise on the beach with Guillermo, Gehu, and Paco, who all missed their mamas. I’ve sat in Bryant-Denny stadium and gone deaf. I’ve visited nursing homes and heard stories from the elderly—who know exponentially more than I do. I’ve laid good dogs in the dirt. I’ve visited Lambert’s, in Foley, Alabama. You want more? Fine. I’ve known love. In fact, I know her so well, she took my last name. I’m also proud to say that at important dinners, I’m the guest of honor at the kids table. I’ve stood around a fire-pit with Mama, discussing the man whose ashes we scattered in the mountains. I’ve played the triangle-game in Cracker Barrel, and won. I’ve watched my buddy Alan strut into a supermarket, knowing full well that everyone would stare at him. And that some folks wouldn’t have the stomachs to look very long. And Alan has the gall not hold it against them. Loud-Talker told me he discovered his true-self on the streets of Kathmandu. Well. I just hope he realizes how lucky he is. Alan found himself the hard way. 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

Our gardens are nearly planted now; we’ve had to replant the corn, and we are into full-time weeding. Can you hear the creaking of our back bones and knee joints? I am reminded of the “Spinal Tap” t-shirt. 😊 This is the time when we hope Percy Bysshe Shelley *is right when he says “I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, from the seas and the streams. I bring light shade for the leaves, when laid in their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken the sweet buds, every one.” Our gardens need neither our recent down-pours nor last year’s weeks of sun. They want gentle showers and sunshine on days in between, so, we plant and hope for the best. Kerm and I disagree, slightly, regarding planting. He makes straight rows, measured, and with string. And he reads the back of each packet and plants things just as far apart as the blurb on the packet says. I measure nothing and make my rows straight according to my eyes. Well, you all know my eyes aren’t very good now, so the rows might wobble a bit. And it is my thinking that the closer together the plants are, the less room for weeds. We have had a few words about this in years past. 😊 This year, however, my energy being what it is, Kerm planted more of the garden than usual. And I mostly kept quiet; he who plants gets to do it his way. So, this year, anyone may come and admire straight, well-spaced potatoes, cucumbers, tomatoes, cosmos and sunflowers. The peas, green onions, lettuce, and zinnias --- my contribution ---- may wander a bit! On the 14th, we have a day for many things, but first and foremost, it is Flag Day - a neglected holiday, in recent years. Flag Day marks and celebrates the adoption of our stars and stripes banner in 1777. After my parents’ generation, flag information and protocol have been neglected. In fact, I would guess that very few in Congress or the White House are cognizant about Flag Day. The flag should never touch the ground or floor, or be wrapped around one’s shoulders or used to sit on. When it is presented, everyone should stand, and it is hats off for the men. There should be no fooling around or lack of attention when the Star-Spangled Banner is sung, and/or the Pledge is given. Many people have died to keep that flag flying and to keep our nation free of tyranny, and apparently, the struggle is not over. Awareness and respect are due to our national symbol regardless of whose politics you do not like. I’ve always thought that burning the flag is a bad way to indicate dissatisfaction with government. The flag represents all of us, not just those in power. It represents all of our originally fine ideals in the Constitution, the Bill of Rights. So, when destroying the flag, we are showing our rebellion against the very ideals upon which our nation was formed. I’m sharing here the last two stanzas of the poem, “George Washington” by Rosemary and Stephen Vincent Benet:** “Sing for Emperor Washington, the hero of renown, who freed his land from Britain’s rule to win a golden crown! No, no, that’s what George might have won but he didn’t, for he said: ‘there’s not much point about a king, they’re pretty but they’re apt to sting, and as for crowns -----the heavy thing would only hurt my head’ he said. Sing for our George Washington! (At last I’ve got it right!) the first in war, the first in peace, the goodly and the great. But when you think about him now, from here to Valley Forge, remember this ----- he might have been a highly different specimen. And where on earth would we be then? I’m glad that George was George!” George Washington is often called the “Father of our country,” and now, in June, we celebrate our own fathers. Father’s Day, early this year, June 15th. I’ve written about my father recently, so you all know about him; a man who was flawed but intelligent and caring. In addition to Dad, my three older brothers often had fatherly (and sometimes annoying) impact. My brother, Frank was 20 years older, so I grew up with some of his children and was underfoot. Later, he enabled my presence at NY State Fair for a couple of years; he was superintendent of the hog barn there and he allowed me to sleep in the back of his truck (on a soft bed of straw), so he could keep an eye on me. He subsidized my lunch money when I was running low, but not without a lecture on money-management. My middle brother, Donal, taught me to shoot and in later years, stopped by my office to chat. My third brother, Ken, took me on a couple of trips (when he was buying Berkshire pigs), supposedly to help keep him awake. He taught me to walk on the inside of the sidewalk, to order properly in a good restaurant and forgave me when I fell asleep and neglected my duties. My brother-in-law, Raymond, checked out my dates. He sat in our living room when a new one came to pick me up, and the next day, would give me his opinion. 😊 There are many excellent fathers in this world; men who are a role model for not only their children, but others too. Kermit is one of those. He worked with many, many kids through 4-H, and at home too; our house was usually full of teens. As for my father on this day? I wish I could share with him his favorite dessert; a dish of home-made vanilla ice cream with real maple syrup. June is full of special days, and on the 19th is Juneteenth. This is a celebration of the final enforcement of “no slavery in the United States.” After the Civil War, some places, at a distance from news and Washington, DC, apparently didn’t get the mandate, or ignored it. Juneteenth marks the day when finally, nation-wide, slavery was known to be illegal. I am quite sure if I had been a slave, I’d want to celebrate as loudly, as fully, and as long, as I could. This should have been a holiday decades ago, so there is a lot of celebrating due to make up for all those years of neglecting this occasion. We should all be rejoicing that we’ve become civilized enough to recognize that holding people as property is immoral and a contradiction to all of our principles. The Summer Solstice is a week away. And along with that comes Mid-summer Night’s Eve, a magical, pagan observance. Pixies, elves, faeries, and gnomes - all part of the legends surrounding this day and night. The days have stretched out to their limit, and from then on, until the Winter Solstice, the daylight will diminish. I keep thinking that I will go out on Mid-summer Night’s Eve, just to see if I can find an elf or two,or perhaps I will roll a burning wheel downhill as they did in some Celtic communities. But sadly, when night comes, I’m usually falling asleep by 10:00; staying awake until the wee hours is no longer so easy. And of course, since we have visiting bears who come unannounced, sitting outside in the dark doesn’t seem all that sensible. June brings haying season, which emits a more desirable aroma than the earlier spring processes of spreading barn waste on the fields. Growing up on a farm naturally included helping in the hayfields. Our farm had a round baler, not one of those huge things of today, but one that made bales of lighter weight than the square bales of the time. Bales that we girls (my nieces and I) could lift. Mostly we just tipped them from the wagon onto the elevator that then took them into the mow. In June, if the cows are lucky, they are out into the fields. Some cows are kept inside the barn 24/7 all year. They are the unlucky ones.) Animals should be treated kindly ---- and time outside in the fresh air with freedom to run is one of those things they deserve. Seeing cows released from the barn onto a green field is a delight; they kick up their heels and gallop in visible joy. There is a lot of work in June, but there must also be time to enjoy this month of peonies, roses, mock orange, iris and poppies. The fragrance floating around outside just has to be full of health-enhancing energy. Even the poets say: “What is so rare as a day in June?” *May your days, this month, be full of perfect sunshine, light rains and hours of peace. Carol Bossard writes from her hoime in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *Percy Bysshe Shelly –English poet who was known for his romantic poetry and his radical social and political views. 1792-1822 **Rosemary & Stephen Vincent Benet---American writers, poets. Stephen is also known for his writing :”The Devil and Daniel Webster” . ***James Russell Lowell ---American poet, editor, critic and diplomat. 1819-1891.

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

by Annie Holmquist Gallup just released its World Happiness Report and found – for the second year in a row – that the U.S. did not make the list of the top 20 happiest nations. Not many of us will be surprised by that result. In fact, we may even raise our hands and admit, “Yes, that’s me, I’m part of the unhappiness problem in America.” Discontentment and unhappiness hit even the most cheerful of us occasionally. We look at our jobs, our marriages, our houses, our social lives, our material possessions, and frankly, they aren’t what we hoped for or expected. Life gets monotonous, we begin looking at the greener grass on the other side of the fence, convincing ourselves that if we just move on and find something else, we’ll be satisfied. How do we fight this discontentment, this unhappiness that seems to plague every one of us at some time or another? One unexpected answer that recently came across my path is craftsmanship. Craftsmanship is something that I often think of in the realm of carpenters or others who create beautiful, high-quality products – something that we rarely see anymore. But in simplest terms, craftsmanship is defined as production – the quality of the labor that we put forth. In that sense, every one of us has the ability to be a craftsman, whether we’re in a high-end job or a menial one. Whether or not we are craftsmen in our jobs, however, depends on the effort and skill we put into our daily tasks. Author Bernard Iddings Bell recognized this in his mid-20th century work, “Crisis in Education: A Challenge to American Complacency.” “Man exists to do creatively, in the most craftsmanlike manner possible, all things that must be done,” Bell wrote, “great things like government, or mothering, or the healing of minds and bodies; small things like making beds, or hoeing corn, or driving a truck; things in the public eye like making speeches, or unleashing atomic energy, or making peace; obscure things like selling groceries, or running a bus, or teaching school.” In other words, even the lowliest jobs and tasks – the ones we feel are unimportant or unnoticeable – are ones at which we can each be a craftsman, excelling in our execution of them. And when we approach each task like a craftsman, that happiness – so lost and unattainable today – bubbles up within, Bell says. "He finds inner peace who works at whatever is in front of him, not for the pay he gets or for what he can buy with that pay, not for applause or gratitude, but for sheer joy in creativity. There are a vast number of tasks to be performed in this world, most of them not romantic. They may be done in one of two ways: just to get them over with as quickly and as painlessly as possible, in which case they become a monotonous burden hard to bear; or each as beautifully and thoroughly as possible, in which case life is good to the taste." And therein lies at least one secret to happiness. Inevitably, each of us will come to some point in time where the tasks in front of us are not what we envisioned ourselves doing, nor are they what we really want to do. We become, as Bell says, “restless, unreliable, combative, caught in a web of doubt and dismay.” When that happens, we have the choice to give into that dismay and despair, joining the ranks of the unhappy Americans, or we have the chance to be faithful, craftsmen determined to do our jobs – no matter how menial – to the best of our abilities. And we must do this not only for ourselves, but for our children as well, as an example of how to approach life when it doesn’t work out like we want. “There will be no recovery of serenity, no mutual patience sufficient for fraternity,” Bell explains, “until we learn ourselves and teach our boys and girls that unless human beings become creative artists [those craftsmen, doing their work wholeheartedly] they remain petulant children, dangerous, predatory.” The wisest man whoever lived once wrote: “Seest thou a man diligent in his business? He shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean [average] men.” Faithful craftsmanship has its eventual reward – and that is something which can bring joy to the heart of every American. Annie Holmquist served as the editor of Intellectual Takeout from 2018 to 2022. When not writing or editing, she enjoys reading, gardening, and time with family and friends. This article originally appeared on IntellectualTakeout.org and is is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Its entertaining and that's what a movie should be.

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

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

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

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