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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.

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

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

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

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

“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.

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

My Grandmother started me on my letter writing journey when she showed me a letter from her brother who still lived in Ireland. I was 10 years old and asked her if I could write to him too and she included my letter with her’s. I remember my surprise and joy at receiving his letter addressed to me and that was the beginning of 20 plus years of correspondence between Uncle Pete and I. Letters are sharing parts of yourself with others, your thoughts, dreams, hope, they are love, advice when needed. Letters are wonderful and I’ve missed writing them. I think it’s time to begin writing again. Thank you for this reminder.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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