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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. .

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

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

The state rules should change. The school districts, by state law, must create a budget and submit it to a vote the first week of May. If NY State cannot pass a budget so districts don't know how much state funding they will receive by then, the voting should not be held. It is crazy voting on a budget before you know how much state aid you will receive.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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