Silver Bells
Ring-a-ling…It’s Christmas time in the city. The Salvation Army bell ringers are out in full force everywhere you go. The red kettles beckon us to give, and give again, for the less fortunate.
The work the Salvation Army does is well documented. 83 cents of every dollar collected goes directly to client services. This is one of the highest percentages of any non-profit in the world. They don’t just provide meals at holiday time; they provide disaster relief services, day care centers, summer camps, services for the aging, AIDS education, medical facilities, and shelters for battered women and children, among many other services. More than 30 million people a year are aided in some form of service provided by the Army.
The Salvation Army had been depicted in the movies as a soup kitchen, with sitting through a sermon preaching the evils of “demon rum” as the price of admission. They do in fact have an aggressive program devoted to defeating substance abuse. They run 120 rehabilitation centers across the country, treating those who can no longer cope with their addictions, supplying housing, meals, necessary medical care and work therapy.
The Army is not perfect. People run the organization on a local as well as national level, and people are not perfect. I’ve heard stories where a local head of the church picked clothes from the donation bin that were particularly nice for his own children, rather than sell them to the more needy of the community. I’m sure there are other similar tales of corruption, but overall, the good they do far outweighs any minor, local indiscretions.
The Salvation Army is a Christian religious organization, devoted to helping their fellow man. I know of people who refuse to donate because they are not their church. The charity the Salvation Army gives, the work they do, the causes they support, are given without prejudice.
My daughter and son-in-law have decided to make bell ringing an annual tradition. They stand outside their local Target and ring the bell. They smile and wish everyone, whether they give or not, a merry Christmas. The bell ringers come from all walks of life and from all religions; and they stand outside in the cold, the snow, the rain, and the wind, hoping to fill the kettle before the next shift comes around. I knew a bell ringer once, an elderly man, who stood outside and sang songs and rhymes of his own creation to the passersby. He was very entertaining and always had a kind word for those who stopped at his kettle. One year he wasn’t there. When I enquired about his absence I was told he was no longer at that location because he had offended some patrons with his pleas for donations. It’s a sad world when we can’t take a bit of good natured teasing about how we spend our money. Evidently he pricked a few consciences a little too hard.
When you pass a red kettle this year, pull out your wallet or fish for change, and give. I know it’s hard for me to not put money into every kettle I see, but hopefully the bell ringer will understand that I’ve already given or mailed in a contribution. Smile and wish them a Merry Christmas and thank them for the work they do. The money they raise may help you or someone you love some day.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Saying Goodbye
Such Sweet Sorrow
It seems I’ve spent most of my adult life saying goodbye to the people I love. I moved away from home to Columbus, Ohio when I was 20. It was an adventure then, moving away from the small town where I’d grown up to the big city. I don’t remember it clearly anymore, but I’m sure I blithely packed up and waved goodbye with a smile on my face, anxious to get on with my life. I soon learned that I’d miss my folks and siblings more than I thought imaginable. But it was only a 4 ½ hour drive, so I was able to visit several times a year. Each passing year seemed to take me further and further from home, however; first to New Hampshire, then on to Minnesota. Visits got less frequent, once a year, maybe twice in a good year. And as my parents got older and I got wiser, each parting was harder than the last. I’d try to smile, assure us all that I’d be back soon, then hop in the car and drive away. I always insisted on me being the driver. That way I couldn’t cry as long or as hard because I had to pay attention to the road. I always knew I’d cry the whole way back if I was just a passenger.
The hardest goodbye was when I came home from Minnesota for good. I left two adult children behind, and it broke my heart to leave them. We tried to go out for a “goodbye dinner” the night before we left, but nobody could eat. We tried to talk about normal things, but nobody felt like talking. The next morning we pulled away from the home my children had grown up in, my husband driving the U-Haul truck, me driving the car. I sobbed for the first two hours on the road, my heart alternately screaming, “Don’t go!” or “Come with me!” I felt like someone had ripped my heart in two.
I’ve only been back to Minnesota once since then. The goodbyes that visit were easier than the initial one, but still wrenching. Then, this Thanksgiving my son came to Ripley for the week. I longed to see him, but dreaded the newest farewell to come. My son is divorced and his little girl, six year old Abby, lives near Ithaca, New York now. We both looked forward to driving out for a short visit with her, but dreaded that goodbye. Abby hasn’t seen her dad in quite awhile and he wasn’t sure how she’d react to him. Several months can be a lifetime to a six year old. Abby answered the door and saw me first. “Grandma!” she cried with arms outstretched. But as she started toward me she saw her dad and pivoted on the spot and ran to his arms. My heart soared to see her excitement.
She pulled us inside to tell us all about her day at school, learning about Thanksgiving, pilgrims and how she learned another word for Indians was Native Americans. The joy my son and his daughter felt during that visit was palpable. Abby was going to a friend’s birthday party that night, so we took her. She and “Daddy” played in the maze and slide of the play place. When it came time for us to leave he asked her if she wanted us to take her home or did she want to stay at the party a bit longer and go home with her friend’s mother. Abby opted for her friend’s mom so we put on our happy faces and hugged and kissed her goodbye, saving our tears for later. But when we got outside I remembered the booster seat had to be transferred to the other car, so I suggested my son go back and say a final goodbye while I took care of it. He came back to the car a few minutes later, Abby clinging to him. He had found her sitting in the corner of the ball pit, crying, because she’d changed her mind and wanted to be with her dad.
I watched from the rear view mirror as they held each other, whispering, “I love you, Daddy,” and “I love you too, Abby.” She fell asleep in his arms as we drove. When we got to her house, they shared a final I love you, then he handed her to her mom as she waved a sleepy little hand goodbye. I knew the pain my son was feeling. I felt it too. A few days later I said goodbye to my baby, my son. Even though we know there will be other visits, albeit infrequent, it’s never easy saying goodbye.
It’s officially the Christmas season now. The season for sharing…giving…loving. Give your loved ones a special hug this year, tell them you love them, cherish every moment you can be with them. Life is too short and the world needs more love as we wait for the next goodbye.
It seems I’ve spent most of my adult life saying goodbye to the people I love. I moved away from home to Columbus, Ohio when I was 20. It was an adventure then, moving away from the small town where I’d grown up to the big city. I don’t remember it clearly anymore, but I’m sure I blithely packed up and waved goodbye with a smile on my face, anxious to get on with my life. I soon learned that I’d miss my folks and siblings more than I thought imaginable. But it was only a 4 ½ hour drive, so I was able to visit several times a year. Each passing year seemed to take me further and further from home, however; first to New Hampshire, then on to Minnesota. Visits got less frequent, once a year, maybe twice in a good year. And as my parents got older and I got wiser, each parting was harder than the last. I’d try to smile, assure us all that I’d be back soon, then hop in the car and drive away. I always insisted on me being the driver. That way I couldn’t cry as long or as hard because I had to pay attention to the road. I always knew I’d cry the whole way back if I was just a passenger.
The hardest goodbye was when I came home from Minnesota for good. I left two adult children behind, and it broke my heart to leave them. We tried to go out for a “goodbye dinner” the night before we left, but nobody could eat. We tried to talk about normal things, but nobody felt like talking. The next morning we pulled away from the home my children had grown up in, my husband driving the U-Haul truck, me driving the car. I sobbed for the first two hours on the road, my heart alternately screaming, “Don’t go!” or “Come with me!” I felt like someone had ripped my heart in two.
I’ve only been back to Minnesota once since then. The goodbyes that visit were easier than the initial one, but still wrenching. Then, this Thanksgiving my son came to Ripley for the week. I longed to see him, but dreaded the newest farewell to come. My son is divorced and his little girl, six year old Abby, lives near Ithaca, New York now. We both looked forward to driving out for a short visit with her, but dreaded that goodbye. Abby hasn’t seen her dad in quite awhile and he wasn’t sure how she’d react to him. Several months can be a lifetime to a six year old. Abby answered the door and saw me first. “Grandma!” she cried with arms outstretched. But as she started toward me she saw her dad and pivoted on the spot and ran to his arms. My heart soared to see her excitement.
She pulled us inside to tell us all about her day at school, learning about Thanksgiving, pilgrims and how she learned another word for Indians was Native Americans. The joy my son and his daughter felt during that visit was palpable. Abby was going to a friend’s birthday party that night, so we took her. She and “Daddy” played in the maze and slide of the play place. When it came time for us to leave he asked her if she wanted us to take her home or did she want to stay at the party a bit longer and go home with her friend’s mother. Abby opted for her friend’s mom so we put on our happy faces and hugged and kissed her goodbye, saving our tears for later. But when we got outside I remembered the booster seat had to be transferred to the other car, so I suggested my son go back and say a final goodbye while I took care of it. He came back to the car a few minutes later, Abby clinging to him. He had found her sitting in the corner of the ball pit, crying, because she’d changed her mind and wanted to be with her dad.
I watched from the rear view mirror as they held each other, whispering, “I love you, Daddy,” and “I love you too, Abby.” She fell asleep in his arms as we drove. When we got to her house, they shared a final I love you, then he handed her to her mom as she waved a sleepy little hand goodbye. I knew the pain my son was feeling. I felt it too. A few days later I said goodbye to my baby, my son. Even though we know there will be other visits, albeit infrequent, it’s never easy saying goodbye.
It’s officially the Christmas season now. The season for sharing…giving…loving. Give your loved ones a special hug this year, tell them you love them, cherish every moment you can be with them. Life is too short and the world needs more love as we wait for the next goodbye.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Waves on the Beach
Autumn Comes In Like a Lion
Autumn is my favorite season; the cooler temperatures that come in on the wind, the changing colors of the trees. I love clouds when they have character. None of this blanket of gray overcast; give me towering thunderheads and scuttling cumulus ahead of the wind. The peek-a-boo of blue sky between the clouds is like finding a treasure.
The entire summer here on Lake Erie has been a mixture of feast or famine; weeks on end without rain, followed by one deluge after another. The first day of autumn came in blustery and rainy. The wind has persisted for days now, along with showers and downpours. I spent this morning at Barcelona harbor watching the massive waves roll to the shore, throwing themselves with explosive force against the break wall and then exploding once again when the retreating wave met another incoming. The force of nature is always awe inspiring and a bit frightening.
The crashing waves have taken over the beach. The gulls scurry to find any tidbit that might be washed up, then scatter when the next wave rolls in. A few brave, or perhaps foolhardy, gulls were aloft being buffeted by the winds straight out of the west, trying to make headway only to be held in position like kites. I wish I were a painter, I’d love to put the violence of the wind and waves on canvas. Photos don’t do it justice, but I’ll share a few with you anyway. Happy autumn everyone. Enjoy the fleeting season for the beauty it holds. Carpe diem.
Autumn is my favorite season; the cooler temperatures that come in on the wind, the changing colors of the trees. I love clouds when they have character. None of this blanket of gray overcast; give me towering thunderheads and scuttling cumulus ahead of the wind. The peek-a-boo of blue sky between the clouds is like finding a treasure.
The entire summer here on Lake Erie has been a mixture of feast or famine; weeks on end without rain, followed by one deluge after another. The first day of autumn came in blustery and rainy. The wind has persisted for days now, along with showers and downpours. I spent this morning at Barcelona harbor watching the massive waves roll to the shore, throwing themselves with explosive force against the break wall and then exploding once again when the retreating wave met another incoming. The force of nature is always awe inspiring and a bit frightening.
The crashing waves have taken over the beach. The gulls scurry to find any tidbit that might be washed up, then scatter when the next wave rolls in. A few brave, or perhaps foolhardy, gulls were aloft being buffeted by the winds straight out of the west, trying to make headway only to be held in position like kites. I wish I were a painter, I’d love to put the violence of the wind and waves on canvas. Photos don’t do it justice, but I’ll share a few with you anyway. Happy autumn everyone. Enjoy the fleeting season for the beauty it holds. Carpe diem.
Tidbits from 1939
Ripley in Review
While perusing the papers this week, I came across some bits and pieces in the October 26, 1939 issue of the Ripley Review you might find interesting. I’m amused by the style of writing back then. This is all in good humor, with no intent to antagonize, criticize or in any other manner upset any of my readers.
Gambling House Raided
Andy Arkielpane, Jamestown, was arrested Thursday afternoon on a charge of operating a gambling house. Arkielpane was the only man in the place at the time the police raided it. The place had been chartered by the state as the Chadakoin club.
(Bad timing on the part of the police – they couldn’t raid during, say, the evening when there may have been some customers?)
Aged Woman Fractures Hip
Mrs. Florrie Benedict, aged 79 years, received a fractured left hip when a heavy truck tire and rim fell on her while she was in the garage in the rear of her home Monday afternoon.
(Couldn’t she have refused receipt?)
Pulling Up Street Car Rails
A specially designed machine has been in use in removing street car rails from Central Avenue in Fredonia, and a company is to be formed to promote the use of the machine which is now operated by man power. Four men are required to operate the machine and they can take up 400 to 480 feet of rails a day.
(Good luck with promoting that! Can you imagine getting someone to do that today? Sounds like hard work.)
Farm Buildings Destroyed
The large barn and three farm buildings on the Clayton Kelly farm in North Clymer were destroyed by fire last Thursday night during the electrical storm which swept over the section last week Thursday night.
(Wait, when was that? Last Thursday?)
Silver Fox Sighted
A large silver fox made its appearance on the Frank Thayer farm which is located on the Frewsburg-Kennedy road. The animal sauntered across the road, proceeded in a leisurely manner across the yard and disappeared into the woods back of the house.
(Now there’s a nice use of descriptive words. Cocky little devil…)
Yessir, Another Bigger Yam
That this has been an exceptionally good year for the raising of sweet potatoes, or more properly, yams, was proven again Monday when Ross Wolf brought to The Review office one of the big tubers he raised right here in Ripley. The tuber weighed 4 ¾ pounds when dug.
(So what did the yam weight after it was dug?)
And my personal favorite:
County to Get Prisoner
When John J. Burke is released from Albany county jail after serving his sentence, he will be met by John J. Warren of Dunkirk with a warrant for his arrest on a charge of second degree larceny. The man is alleged to have rifled a poor box at Holy Trinity church in Dunkirk, the amount obtained having been about $95. According to Police Chief Warren, Burke has served about 25 years of his life in jail and that he is on record as having confessed to about 15,000 burglaries involving 7000 churches.
(Does this mean God doesn’t help those who help themselves?)
While perusing the papers this week, I came across some bits and pieces in the October 26, 1939 issue of the Ripley Review you might find interesting. I’m amused by the style of writing back then. This is all in good humor, with no intent to antagonize, criticize or in any other manner upset any of my readers.
Gambling House Raided
Andy Arkielpane, Jamestown, was arrested Thursday afternoon on a charge of operating a gambling house. Arkielpane was the only man in the place at the time the police raided it. The place had been chartered by the state as the Chadakoin club.
(Bad timing on the part of the police – they couldn’t raid during, say, the evening when there may have been some customers?)
Aged Woman Fractures Hip
Mrs. Florrie Benedict, aged 79 years, received a fractured left hip when a heavy truck tire and rim fell on her while she was in the garage in the rear of her home Monday afternoon.
(Couldn’t she have refused receipt?)
Pulling Up Street Car Rails
A specially designed machine has been in use in removing street car rails from Central Avenue in Fredonia, and a company is to be formed to promote the use of the machine which is now operated by man power. Four men are required to operate the machine and they can take up 400 to 480 feet of rails a day.
(Good luck with promoting that! Can you imagine getting someone to do that today? Sounds like hard work.)
Farm Buildings Destroyed
The large barn and three farm buildings on the Clayton Kelly farm in North Clymer were destroyed by fire last Thursday night during the electrical storm which swept over the section last week Thursday night.
(Wait, when was that? Last Thursday?)
Silver Fox Sighted
A large silver fox made its appearance on the Frank Thayer farm which is located on the Frewsburg-Kennedy road. The animal sauntered across the road, proceeded in a leisurely manner across the yard and disappeared into the woods back of the house.
(Now there’s a nice use of descriptive words. Cocky little devil…)
Yessir, Another Bigger Yam
That this has been an exceptionally good year for the raising of sweet potatoes, or more properly, yams, was proven again Monday when Ross Wolf brought to The Review office one of the big tubers he raised right here in Ripley. The tuber weighed 4 ¾ pounds when dug.
(So what did the yam weight after it was dug?)
And my personal favorite:
County to Get Prisoner
When John J. Burke is released from Albany county jail after serving his sentence, he will be met by John J. Warren of Dunkirk with a warrant for his arrest on a charge of second degree larceny. The man is alleged to have rifled a poor box at Holy Trinity church in Dunkirk, the amount obtained having been about $95. According to Police Chief Warren, Burke has served about 25 years of his life in jail and that he is on record as having confessed to about 15,000 burglaries involving 7000 churches.
(Does this mean God doesn’t help those who help themselves?)
Monday, September 28, 2009
The New Fall Season
The new fall season line up on television has started. Such perennial favorites as The Biggest Loser, The Simpsons and CSI Miami, Las Vegas, New York, ad infinitum once again grace our big flat screens with their version of reality “ripped from the headlines.” Or do they?
If you’re one of the lucky people who subscribe, at exorbitant prices, to one of the satellite dishes or cable TV, no worries; you’re getting your favorite shows in high definition and living color with interruptions only when it rains, snows or the cable “goes out.” However, if you are throw- back to another time, or just plain stubborn and you’re using an old fashioned antenna, well my friends, that’s a horse of a different color.
First, the government warned us for months that as of February 2009 we would no longer be able to watch our old TV sets with just an antenna on the roof. But, oops, not enough of us were buying (literally) into the switch, so the date for us old fogeys to get it in gear was changed to June 2009. As of that date we had to have either cable, satellite, or a digital converter box set up and ready to go in order to view our much beloved boob tubes. Don’t get me wrong, there ARE some intelligent, thought provoking, uplifting shows on television. I personally have access to over 300 channels, but I just can’t seem to find them very often.
We find our old antenna from 1965 isn’t good enough, so we buy a new one, making sure the distance ranges will get us to Buffalo and Erie. Okay, we have our vouchers from the government to get our magical converter boxes to hook onto our antennas. But before we can do that, we have to find a young person who understands the mumbo jumbo that explains how to set up the converter box. Got it hooked up? Good!
It doesn’t work.
It wasn’t enough that we had a remote for the television, another for the VCR, a third for the DVD, now we have another for the converter box AND the antenna rotor as well! But when the new antenna and converter box still don’t bring in the channels we want, we need an antenna booster to amplify the signal. Gone are the days of channel 2, 7 and 12; now we have channels 2.1, 2.3, 2.5 etc. and can’t find any of our old shows on any of them.
I think it’s all a plot by the cable and satellite companies to get more customers.
New antenna: $114
Power booster: $59
Turning off the TV and curling up with a good book: Priceless
If you’re one of the lucky people who subscribe, at exorbitant prices, to one of the satellite dishes or cable TV, no worries; you’re getting your favorite shows in high definition and living color with interruptions only when it rains, snows or the cable “goes out.” However, if you are throw- back to another time, or just plain stubborn and you’re using an old fashioned antenna, well my friends, that’s a horse of a different color.
First, the government warned us for months that as of February 2009 we would no longer be able to watch our old TV sets with just an antenna on the roof. But, oops, not enough of us were buying (literally) into the switch, so the date for us old fogeys to get it in gear was changed to June 2009. As of that date we had to have either cable, satellite, or a digital converter box set up and ready to go in order to view our much beloved boob tubes. Don’t get me wrong, there ARE some intelligent, thought provoking, uplifting shows on television. I personally have access to over 300 channels, but I just can’t seem to find them very often.
We find our old antenna from 1965 isn’t good enough, so we buy a new one, making sure the distance ranges will get us to Buffalo and Erie. Okay, we have our vouchers from the government to get our magical converter boxes to hook onto our antennas. But before we can do that, we have to find a young person who understands the mumbo jumbo that explains how to set up the converter box. Got it hooked up? Good!
It doesn’t work.
It wasn’t enough that we had a remote for the television, another for the VCR, a third for the DVD, now we have another for the converter box AND the antenna rotor as well! But when the new antenna and converter box still don’t bring in the channels we want, we need an antenna booster to amplify the signal. Gone are the days of channel 2, 7 and 12; now we have channels 2.1, 2.3, 2.5 etc. and can’t find any of our old shows on any of them.
I think it’s all a plot by the cable and satellite companies to get more customers.
New antenna: $114
Power booster: $59
Turning off the TV and curling up with a good book: Priceless
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Do Good Anyway
"Noblesse oblige." With great wealth comes great responsibility. This sentiment has been paraphrased, reworked and oft quoted. The best example of the spirit of "noblesse oblige" in recent years has been that of Senator Edward Kennedy. While watching parts of his funeral last week, I was struck once again by the public service he performed during his almost 50 years in government. The Kennedy family, love 'em or hate 'em, were born to privilege and power. Joe Sr. groomed his boys, Joe Jr., Jack, Bobbie and Teddy, for power. Their mother, Rose, groomed them for service. In the end, it was Ted Kennedy who served his country the longest. But it's not his "official" service I want to address. It is his private contributions with which I am most impressed.
Without fanfare or publicity, Ted Kennedy went about doing what he could, individually, for hundreds, if not thousands, of people who crossed his path. News stories are abundant now that he has died about how he read weekly to inner city school children, most of whom did not know him as "Senator", but rather "friend." I heard about how he personally called each family in his home state of Massachusetts who were victimized by 9/11, not once but several times, checking up, seeing how they coping with that unspeakable tragedy, a tragedy he understood all too well. Time and again he used his position of privilege and power for people less fortunate than he. His legislation was always aimed at helping people, whether it was civil rights or health care reform. He reached out to the "common" people around him, not just his rich and powerful cronies. Kennedy admitted himself he was not a perfect man, far from it, but he persevered, he kept trying. Politics aside, Senator Kennedy was a great humanitarian and as such, an example for all of us.
I have often used this column to exhort people to get involved in the community, give back, help their fellow citizens, a sort of noblesee oblige for the working class. I fall far short of that which I could do, but I keep trying. I'm not a rich or powerful person, but occasionally I need to be reminded to be unselfish with my time and energy. During a particularly low point recently, a friend gave me a copy of some words Mother Teresa had on a wall in the children's home in Calcutta. Subsequently I followed up on the Internet and discovered they were written by a 19 year old Harvard student in 1968. The original is from a booklet written by Kent Keith for college leaders. Now posted at my desk, The Paradoxical Commandments urge me on and give me impetus to continue when I feel no one is listening or cares. Perhaps you will find them inspirational as well.
The Paradoxical Commandments
by Dr. Kent M. Keith
People are illogical, unreasonable, and self-centered.
Love them anyway.
If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish ulterior motives.
Do good anyway.
If you are successful, you will win false friends and true enemies.
Succeed anyway.
The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway.
Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable.
Be honest and frank anyway.
The biggest men and women with the biggest ideas can be shot down by the smallest men and women with the smallest minds.
Think big anyway.
People favor underdogs but follow only top dogs.
Fight for a few underdogs anyway.
What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight.
Build anyway.
People really need help but may attack you if you do help them.
Help people anyway.
Give the world the best you have and you'll get kicked in the teeth.
Give the world the best you have anyway.
Without fanfare or publicity, Ted Kennedy went about doing what he could, individually, for hundreds, if not thousands, of people who crossed his path. News stories are abundant now that he has died about how he read weekly to inner city school children, most of whom did not know him as "Senator", but rather "friend." I heard about how he personally called each family in his home state of Massachusetts who were victimized by 9/11, not once but several times, checking up, seeing how they coping with that unspeakable tragedy, a tragedy he understood all too well. Time and again he used his position of privilege and power for people less fortunate than he. His legislation was always aimed at helping people, whether it was civil rights or health care reform. He reached out to the "common" people around him, not just his rich and powerful cronies. Kennedy admitted himself he was not a perfect man, far from it, but he persevered, he kept trying. Politics aside, Senator Kennedy was a great humanitarian and as such, an example for all of us.
I have often used this column to exhort people to get involved in the community, give back, help their fellow citizens, a sort of noblesee oblige for the working class. I fall far short of that which I could do, but I keep trying. I'm not a rich or powerful person, but occasionally I need to be reminded to be unselfish with my time and energy. During a particularly low point recently, a friend gave me a copy of some words Mother Teresa had on a wall in the children's home in Calcutta. Subsequently I followed up on the Internet and discovered they were written by a 19 year old Harvard student in 1968. The original is from a booklet written by Kent Keith for college leaders. Now posted at my desk, The Paradoxical Commandments urge me on and give me impetus to continue when I feel no one is listening or cares. Perhaps you will find them inspirational as well.
The Paradoxical Commandments
by Dr. Kent M. Keith
People are illogical, unreasonable, and self-centered.
Love them anyway.
If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish ulterior motives.
Do good anyway.
If you are successful, you will win false friends and true enemies.
Succeed anyway.
The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway.
Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable.
Be honest and frank anyway.
The biggest men and women with the biggest ideas can be shot down by the smallest men and women with the smallest minds.
Think big anyway.
People favor underdogs but follow only top dogs.
Fight for a few underdogs anyway.
What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight.
Build anyway.
People really need help but may attack you if you do help them.
Help people anyway.
Give the world the best you have and you'll get kicked in the teeth.
Give the world the best you have anyway.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
A Visit from the County Executive
Ripley, the once forgotten child of New York State, on the outskirts of civilization, more a part of Pennsylvania than New York due to the proximity to shopping, lower taxes and job opportunity; left in the dust, literally, with its country roads; strangled by high New York State taxes and a $54 million state deficit, unwilling or unable to entice business to stay; collapse of the school merger and needed solutions to educate the children of the community; these were some of the issues Greg Edwards, Chautauqua County Executive, faced when engaging the Meeder’s Restaurant crowd on Tuesday morning this week.
With small groups of people around tables, drinking coffee, eating breakfast, Mr. Edwards addressed the concerns and sometimes anger of the Ripley community. “Why hasn’t anything been done to build up Shortman Road,” local resident Ray Williams asked. Mr. Edwards replied, “I’ve been pushing for a Welcome Center at the Shortman Road exit. Pennsylvania has one for less than 50 miles of their state along the I-90 corridor. New York State has almost 400 miles on Interstate 90. We should have a Welcome Center here.” When asked why people would stop at a welcome center with no restaurants, motels or businesses in the area, he talked about the business project that has been in the works for some time now. “One hundred fifty acres of land has been secured behind Regal Trucking on Shortman Road,” he said. “An enormous amount of effort has been invested in this project. The DEC (Department of Environmental Conservation) and archeological studies have been completed, water and sewer is being put in. The land will be “shovel ready” by the end of summer, and that’s important to prospective businesses, to have the site ready for development.” Although a firm offer has not been made for the prime property, distribution and transportation businesses have expressed interest. Business like this will bring other businesses to the town, building up the Shortman Road interchange, and eventually the village itself, Edwards believes.
When questioned about property taxes in the area, Mr. Edwards pointed out that our property tax has decreased for the past several years. “How will the wind mill project impact me,” asked local businessman Bob Bentley. “It will create a direct cash influx to the property owners,” explained Edwards, “as well as substantially lower property taxes.” As to how much the wind mill project would lower taxes, he deferred to Town Supervisor, Peter Ryan, who stated, “We’re being very careful about the process, making sure it’s done right. If the project is approved, and we’re a ways from that, it could result in a significant tax reduction for property owners.” A lighter tax burden would not be the only benefit to the town. In order to bring the component parts of the wind mills into position, roads would need to be widened, strengthened, and in some cases rebuilt. “Cross road intersections will need to be built up in order for the trucks to make the turns,” Edwards stated. As for roads in general in Chautauqua County, he said some tough decisions need to be made on the delivery of services to the roads in the county. “Who should be in the business of highway construction, maintenance and plowing is one of the issues that is being analyzed,” he said.
The fate of Ripley’s school is still in the balance. “Only two school mergers have happened in New York State in the last 10 years,” commented Mr. Edwards. In discussion with Ripley School Superintendent John Hogan and Business Manager, John Frey, he learned that options are still being pursued for Ripley’s students, even though the Westfield/Ripley merger was voted down. “Mergers aren’t on the horizon and tuitioning out our students was not approved,” commented Mr. Hogan. “We’re exploring other opportunities for our high school students at this time.”
Greg Edwards briefly addressed the crowd by saying his folks regularly go to Meeder’s on Friday nights and that he has long enjoyed the village as a fisherman. “With the addition of the Wine Trail, Quincy Cellars has become one of the places I regularly suggest people go to have a unique winery-dinner experience,” he added. “The pride this town has taken in the Veterans’ Monument was almost overwhelming as evidenced by the emotions I expressed at the dedication ceremony.” He went on to say the Memorial Day parade this year was one of the most well attended and delivered he has seen to date. He concluded by saying, “The town has tremendous potential due to its location and I have been working hard to capitalize upon [that potential] for the residents and the county.”
It’s hard to solve a community’s problems in just over an hour, but Greg Edwards tried his best to assure the people of Ripley that progress is being made on a number of fronts. “It was one of the liveliest groups and most informative community conversations I have had to date.”
With small groups of people around tables, drinking coffee, eating breakfast, Mr. Edwards addressed the concerns and sometimes anger of the Ripley community. “Why hasn’t anything been done to build up Shortman Road,” local resident Ray Williams asked. Mr. Edwards replied, “I’ve been pushing for a Welcome Center at the Shortman Road exit. Pennsylvania has one for less than 50 miles of their state along the I-90 corridor. New York State has almost 400 miles on Interstate 90. We should have a Welcome Center here.” When asked why people would stop at a welcome center with no restaurants, motels or businesses in the area, he talked about the business project that has been in the works for some time now. “One hundred fifty acres of land has been secured behind Regal Trucking on Shortman Road,” he said. “An enormous amount of effort has been invested in this project. The DEC (Department of Environmental Conservation) and archeological studies have been completed, water and sewer is being put in. The land will be “shovel ready” by the end of summer, and that’s important to prospective businesses, to have the site ready for development.” Although a firm offer has not been made for the prime property, distribution and transportation businesses have expressed interest. Business like this will bring other businesses to the town, building up the Shortman Road interchange, and eventually the village itself, Edwards believes.
When questioned about property taxes in the area, Mr. Edwards pointed out that our property tax has decreased for the past several years. “How will the wind mill project impact me,” asked local businessman Bob Bentley. “It will create a direct cash influx to the property owners,” explained Edwards, “as well as substantially lower property taxes.” As to how much the wind mill project would lower taxes, he deferred to Town Supervisor, Peter Ryan, who stated, “We’re being very careful about the process, making sure it’s done right. If the project is approved, and we’re a ways from that, it could result in a significant tax reduction for property owners.” A lighter tax burden would not be the only benefit to the town. In order to bring the component parts of the wind mills into position, roads would need to be widened, strengthened, and in some cases rebuilt. “Cross road intersections will need to be built up in order for the trucks to make the turns,” Edwards stated. As for roads in general in Chautauqua County, he said some tough decisions need to be made on the delivery of services to the roads in the county. “Who should be in the business of highway construction, maintenance and plowing is one of the issues that is being analyzed,” he said.
The fate of Ripley’s school is still in the balance. “Only two school mergers have happened in New York State in the last 10 years,” commented Mr. Edwards. In discussion with Ripley School Superintendent John Hogan and Business Manager, John Frey, he learned that options are still being pursued for Ripley’s students, even though the Westfield/Ripley merger was voted down. “Mergers aren’t on the horizon and tuitioning out our students was not approved,” commented Mr. Hogan. “We’re exploring other opportunities for our high school students at this time.”
Greg Edwards briefly addressed the crowd by saying his folks regularly go to Meeder’s on Friday nights and that he has long enjoyed the village as a fisherman. “With the addition of the Wine Trail, Quincy Cellars has become one of the places I regularly suggest people go to have a unique winery-dinner experience,” he added. “The pride this town has taken in the Veterans’ Monument was almost overwhelming as evidenced by the emotions I expressed at the dedication ceremony.” He went on to say the Memorial Day parade this year was one of the most well attended and delivered he has seen to date. He concluded by saying, “The town has tremendous potential due to its location and I have been working hard to capitalize upon [that potential] for the residents and the county.”
It’s hard to solve a community’s problems in just over an hour, but Greg Edwards tried his best to assure the people of Ripley that progress is being made on a number of fronts. “It was one of the liveliest groups and most informative community conversations I have had to date.”
Friday, August 21, 2009
Tribute to Carlyle Neckers
Carlyle Neckers, music teacher in Ripley during the 1960s, recently passed away at the age of 96. I hadn’t thought much about him until I saw his obituary in the Jamestown paper. Then of course the memories started floated back.
I’ve searched the old yearbooks, at least the ones I have, and he appears in 1961 as the chorus teacher. I would have been 10 years old then, and not yet exposed to his rich and salty sense of humor. But three years later, in February 1964 the Beatles hit America and Mr. Neckers broadside. It wasn’t music he assured us, it wouldn’t last. He went so far as to state, “They won’t last 10 years.” The girls all clamored they would last forever! Yeah, yeah, yeah… We were all right. In ten years the group disintegrated, and yet their music lives on. I wonder if he ever remembered that prediction.
I remember Mr. Neckers as a fun guy, making musical notes easy to understand and chorus a pleasure. He would tease and cajole us into singing his choice of songs for concerts, songs I later recognized from Broadway shows or classic movies. “Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little, cheep, cheep, cheep, talk-a-lot-pick-a-little-more…” with the counterpoint Good Night Ladies from a hilarious scene from The Music Man. Ridiculous in the 9th grade, but a classic I later learned. He introduced to me to a whole world of music that I didn’t understand at the time. I vaguely remember a music history class of his, but I wasn’t paying much attention I guess. But over the years, bits and pieces come back to me.
He appears in the RCS yearbooks from 1961 until 1968. He guided us through dozens of Christmas and Spring concerts, and trips to Chautauqua Institute to compete with the other local schools. Like most of the teachers I had, I never thought of them as whole people. They were one-dimensional, without history or substance outside the school day. Mr. Neckers life is a study in a life well lived. From having a grandpa who served in the Civil War, to operator of a general store, to semi-pro basketball player, he was an interesting man in all respects it seems.
I’m saddened by his death, even though I didn’t know him well. He touched my young life briefly, dropped some pearls of learning, and went on to bigger and better things. I’m glad he passed my way. Rest in peace Mr. Neckers. You made this world a better place.
To read more about his life, go to http://www.lifestorynet.com/memories/50124/.
I’ve searched the old yearbooks, at least the ones I have, and he appears in 1961 as the chorus teacher. I would have been 10 years old then, and not yet exposed to his rich and salty sense of humor. But three years later, in February 1964 the Beatles hit America and Mr. Neckers broadside. It wasn’t music he assured us, it wouldn’t last. He went so far as to state, “They won’t last 10 years.” The girls all clamored they would last forever! Yeah, yeah, yeah… We were all right. In ten years the group disintegrated, and yet their music lives on. I wonder if he ever remembered that prediction.
I remember Mr. Neckers as a fun guy, making musical notes easy to understand and chorus a pleasure. He would tease and cajole us into singing his choice of songs for concerts, songs I later recognized from Broadway shows or classic movies. “Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little, cheep, cheep, cheep, talk-a-lot-pick-a-little-more…” with the counterpoint Good Night Ladies from a hilarious scene from The Music Man. Ridiculous in the 9th grade, but a classic I later learned. He introduced to me to a whole world of music that I didn’t understand at the time. I vaguely remember a music history class of his, but I wasn’t paying much attention I guess. But over the years, bits and pieces come back to me.
He appears in the RCS yearbooks from 1961 until 1968. He guided us through dozens of Christmas and Spring concerts, and trips to Chautauqua Institute to compete with the other local schools. Like most of the teachers I had, I never thought of them as whole people. They were one-dimensional, without history or substance outside the school day. Mr. Neckers life is a study in a life well lived. From having a grandpa who served in the Civil War, to operator of a general store, to semi-pro basketball player, he was an interesting man in all respects it seems.
I’m saddened by his death, even though I didn’t know him well. He touched my young life briefly, dropped some pearls of learning, and went on to bigger and better things. I’m glad he passed my way. Rest in peace Mr. Neckers. You made this world a better place.
To read more about his life, go to http://www.lifestorynet.com/memories/50124/.
Pride and a Bit of Prejudice
Pride and a Bit of Prejudice
Thomas Wolfe wrote “You Can’t Go Home Again,” and while, unlike his character, I don’t write about the warts and blemishes of my home town, I will concede it is hard to go home again. After a forty year absence, people change. Or do they? I draw upon memories of my school years in Ripley. By the age of 20 I had left the area, only to return for the annual visits to family. My experiences of my hometown were colored by a teenager’s perspective. After the roller rink closed down, after the movie theaters in Westfield and North East ceased to exist, there wasn’t much to do here. We hung around Meeder’s, gossiped and made plans for bright futures. We instinctively separated into groups: the “in crowd”, the in-crowd wannabes, the jocks and their girls, the brainiacs, the geeks, etc. You get the picture. There was nothing worse than wanting to be a part of one group and realizing you probably wouldn’t break out of the caste system you were in.
I thought things would be different when I got to be an adult. I thought people would move beyond the petty distinctions of their youth. I thought adults would be more willing to put aside their differences and work together for the “common good.” Sounds kind of like Utopia, doesn’t it? Or maybe I’m just being idealistic.
The nice thing about having been away, besides gaining a new perspective on the world, is my new appreciation of home when I came back. Of course there are problems here, and it’s not perfect, and not everybody cooperates and works together; but this town has potential. After the heyday of the 40s, 50s and 60s were over, and the rapid exodus of businesses began, people thought, and still do to some extent, that this town was dead. Au contraire! This town is coming to life again! Now I admit, I am an incurable Pollyanna, and I choose to concentrate on the good, but look around you. The veterans drew hundreds of people together in creating the monument in the center of town; the churches have programs to help everybody from the elderly, to the kids, to the down-and-out; the fireman’s auxiliary, Project Love, Community Development Corporation, the library, the scouts, and etc. etc. etc. are ALL working to make this a better place to live. Now it’s true that sometimes they work at cross purposes, and sometimes they are working for the same thing, but separately, but these organizations and more are clearly interested in making this town a better place. Healing the divisions of the past, groups of people are making herculean efforts to improve our lives. All we have to do is participate and take advantage of what’s being offered.
Now, there are people who will always point out the problems, but very rarely do they offer solutions. Unless we’re willing to actually DO something about the shortfalls of the community, perhaps we should be less judgmental of the people who are trying the best they know how to make improvements. There are personalities and ideas that just seem to clash, but I’m seeing progress here in my hometown. I’m working toward that progress in my own small way. Wherever you are, I hope you’re doing the same.
A thought to leave you: Work harder, be better, love more. If we all got what we deserved, we wouldn’t get much.
Thomas Wolfe wrote “You Can’t Go Home Again,” and while, unlike his character, I don’t write about the warts and blemishes of my home town, I will concede it is hard to go home again. After a forty year absence, people change. Or do they? I draw upon memories of my school years in Ripley. By the age of 20 I had left the area, only to return for the annual visits to family. My experiences of my hometown were colored by a teenager’s perspective. After the roller rink closed down, after the movie theaters in Westfield and North East ceased to exist, there wasn’t much to do here. We hung around Meeder’s, gossiped and made plans for bright futures. We instinctively separated into groups: the “in crowd”, the in-crowd wannabes, the jocks and their girls, the brainiacs, the geeks, etc. You get the picture. There was nothing worse than wanting to be a part of one group and realizing you probably wouldn’t break out of the caste system you were in.
I thought things would be different when I got to be an adult. I thought people would move beyond the petty distinctions of their youth. I thought adults would be more willing to put aside their differences and work together for the “common good.” Sounds kind of like Utopia, doesn’t it? Or maybe I’m just being idealistic.
The nice thing about having been away, besides gaining a new perspective on the world, is my new appreciation of home when I came back. Of course there are problems here, and it’s not perfect, and not everybody cooperates and works together; but this town has potential. After the heyday of the 40s, 50s and 60s were over, and the rapid exodus of businesses began, people thought, and still do to some extent, that this town was dead. Au contraire! This town is coming to life again! Now I admit, I am an incurable Pollyanna, and I choose to concentrate on the good, but look around you. The veterans drew hundreds of people together in creating the monument in the center of town; the churches have programs to help everybody from the elderly, to the kids, to the down-and-out; the fireman’s auxiliary, Project Love, Community Development Corporation, the library, the scouts, and etc. etc. etc. are ALL working to make this a better place to live. Now it’s true that sometimes they work at cross purposes, and sometimes they are working for the same thing, but separately, but these organizations and more are clearly interested in making this town a better place. Healing the divisions of the past, groups of people are making herculean efforts to improve our lives. All we have to do is participate and take advantage of what’s being offered.
Now, there are people who will always point out the problems, but very rarely do they offer solutions. Unless we’re willing to actually DO something about the shortfalls of the community, perhaps we should be less judgmental of the people who are trying the best they know how to make improvements. There are personalities and ideas that just seem to clash, but I’m seeing progress here in my hometown. I’m working toward that progress in my own small way. Wherever you are, I hope you’re doing the same.
A thought to leave you: Work harder, be better, love more. If we all got what we deserved, we wouldn’t get much.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Newspaper Column
Character Assassination
Slander, libel, defamation, malign, malicious gossip – all with the intent to damage a person’s reputation. I have been a victim myself, but worse, I have done the same to other people. Everyone makes mistakes; I presume everyone has done something in their life that they wish they could take back, something they’re ashamed of having done. There is one school thought that says a leopard can’t change his spots, meaning he can’t change. There is also a lovely quote by none other than Marilyn Monroe, “People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they’re right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.” The operative words are “people change.” I’m betting most of you reading this aren’t the same person you were 20, 30 or 40 years ago. What a terrible world this would be if we all still carried the petty hurts and anger we felt in our youth. If we’re lucky we learn, we grow, we change, we become better people as we age; perhaps not all of us, but many of us.
I am guilty of “mob mentality,” following the crowd and joining in on the tearing apart of a person’s character. Sounds a bit like ancient Rome, Christians and lions. When I was a kid and going to Sunday school, there was a term used, “backbiting.” To be a backbiter was a sin. I can remember older women at church picnics looking at someone who was backbiting and showing and voicing their disapproval. Bless their hearts. They learned something it has taken me decades to understand. I have a friend who lives by the old creed, “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” When I’m around her I know when I’m not being nice, I can tell by the look on her face. She is my inspiration to be a better person, my role model. I don’t expect I’ll change my opinion about certain people, but I can learn to keep it to myself.
A few days ago I was ready to retire from society, disappear, quit writing, quit the organizations I’d joined, quit being who I am, all because of some vicious words spoken about me. I was deeply hurt and angry. But then a very wise person pointed out to me all the friends I have, all the people who think I’m a good and worthy person. Why should the words of one person destroy me? Human nature I suppose. But everything happens for a reason, even this. I owe a debt of gratitude to the person who tried to destroy my reputation. It pointed out to me how nasty I can be at times, and how I need to mend my own life. It has brought me closer to being a better person.
Slander, libel, defamation, malign, malicious gossip – all with the intent to damage a person’s reputation. I have been a victim myself, but worse, I have done the same to other people. Everyone makes mistakes; I presume everyone has done something in their life that they wish they could take back, something they’re ashamed of having done. There is one school thought that says a leopard can’t change his spots, meaning he can’t change. There is also a lovely quote by none other than Marilyn Monroe, “People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they’re right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.” The operative words are “people change.” I’m betting most of you reading this aren’t the same person you were 20, 30 or 40 years ago. What a terrible world this would be if we all still carried the petty hurts and anger we felt in our youth. If we’re lucky we learn, we grow, we change, we become better people as we age; perhaps not all of us, but many of us.
I am guilty of “mob mentality,” following the crowd and joining in on the tearing apart of a person’s character. Sounds a bit like ancient Rome, Christians and lions. When I was a kid and going to Sunday school, there was a term used, “backbiting.” To be a backbiter was a sin. I can remember older women at church picnics looking at someone who was backbiting and showing and voicing their disapproval. Bless their hearts. They learned something it has taken me decades to understand. I have a friend who lives by the old creed, “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” When I’m around her I know when I’m not being nice, I can tell by the look on her face. She is my inspiration to be a better person, my role model. I don’t expect I’ll change my opinion about certain people, but I can learn to keep it to myself.
A few days ago I was ready to retire from society, disappear, quit writing, quit the organizations I’d joined, quit being who I am, all because of some vicious words spoken about me. I was deeply hurt and angry. But then a very wise person pointed out to me all the friends I have, all the people who think I’m a good and worthy person. Why should the words of one person destroy me? Human nature I suppose. But everything happens for a reason, even this. I owe a debt of gratitude to the person who tried to destroy my reputation. It pointed out to me how nasty I can be at times, and how I need to mend my own life. It has brought me closer to being a better person.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Culture Shock
We are all aware that there are different cultures: Spain has a culture, South Africa has a culture, Australia, Japan, Brazil all have their own cultures. There are sub-cultures, the Cultural Revolution and even Boy George had his Culture Club; but have you ever stopped to think about the American culture? If you’re like me, you don’t often think about our own culture. We live it. It’s the way we live, the things we do, the things we buy, the way we eat, it’s instant gratification. Cultures vary across the United States, but many of the essentials are the same.
I don’t give the American culture much thought, until I see it through the eyes of someone visiting from another country. We have friends from England visiting later this week. Hazel and Donno have been in the United States for a week already, experiencing the places and events we have to offer here in Western New York, but mostly they wanted to meet the people. We’re the last stop in a three-family visit and each family will show them different aspects of our little sub-culture right here in and around Ripley.
Americans eat out – a lot. The British tend to eat more meals at home. Americans eat – a lot. Every person from England I’ve spoken with who has visited America has made the same comment: our portion size for meals is huge compared to theirs. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to equate portion size with body size. Americans are notoriously overweight. As a society we eat less fruits and vegetables and consume more meat and fat than most other nations. Our friends went to a McDonald’s their first day here, and commented later on how large the regular hamburger was compared to their burgers from McDonald’s in England.
Americans are known for their mantra, “everything is bigger and better here.” Just ask anybody. We have bigger houses, bigger yards, bigger bodies of water, bigger bugs. You name it; we can find something about our country that is bigger or better than theirs. It’s the innate braggart in us. (Of course, in Texas it’s even bigger still. They were once their own country you know. Just ask ‘em.) We are a nation founded on political and religious malcontents. We built a nation better than the one from which we broke free – or so we think. The pioneer spirit is inherent in our culture. The desire pull up stakes and move on to new adventure is typically American. Not that any of these things are solely American traits, but they seem to be more prevalent here.
Hazel and Donno will be shown Niagara Falls, the largest waterfall by volume; they will visit Lake Erie, the second smallest of the five largest fresh bodies of water in the world. One of the largest dams in the United States east of the Mississippi River, Kinzua Dam, will also be on their agenda, as will Panama Rocks which began forming over 300 million years ago. We’ll do our best to entertain and impress our guests. It’s what we do in America. In a big way.
We are all aware that there are different cultures: Spain has a culture, South Africa has a culture, Australia, Japan, Brazil all have their own cultures. There are sub-cultures, the Cultural Revolution and even Boy George had his Culture Club; but have you ever stopped to think about the American culture? If you’re like me, you don’t often think about our own culture. We live it. It’s the way we live, the things we do, the things we buy, the way we eat, it’s instant gratification. Cultures vary across the United States, but many of the essentials are the same.
I don’t give the American culture much thought, until I see it through the eyes of someone visiting from another country. We have friends from England visiting later this week. Hazel and Donno have been in the United States for a week already, experiencing the places and events we have to offer here in Western New York, but mostly they wanted to meet the people. We’re the last stop in a three-family visit and each family will show them different aspects of our little sub-culture right here in and around Ripley.
Americans eat out – a lot. The British tend to eat more meals at home. Americans eat – a lot. Every person from England I’ve spoken with who has visited America has made the same comment: our portion size for meals is huge compared to theirs. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to equate portion size with body size. Americans are notoriously overweight. As a society we eat less fruits and vegetables and consume more meat and fat than most other nations. Our friends went to a McDonald’s their first day here, and commented later on how large the regular hamburger was compared to their burgers from McDonald’s in England.
Americans are known for their mantra, “everything is bigger and better here.” Just ask anybody. We have bigger houses, bigger yards, bigger bodies of water, bigger bugs. You name it; we can find something about our country that is bigger or better than theirs. It’s the innate braggart in us. (Of course, in Texas it’s even bigger still. They were once their own country you know. Just ask ‘em.) We are a nation founded on political and religious malcontents. We built a nation better than the one from which we broke free – or so we think. The pioneer spirit is inherent in our culture. The desire pull up stakes and move on to new adventure is typically American. Not that any of these things are solely American traits, but they seem to be more prevalent here.
Hazel and Donno will be shown Niagara Falls, the largest waterfall by volume; they will visit Lake Erie, the second smallest of the five largest fresh bodies of water in the world. One of the largest dams in the United States east of the Mississippi River, Kinzua Dam, will also be on their agenda, as will Panama Rocks which began forming over 300 million years ago. We’ll do our best to entertain and impress our guests. It’s what we do in America. In a big way.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
July 4th weekend, Independence Day, is upon us; a day to commemorate the Declaration of Independence from foreign powers, adopted by the Continental Congress in 1776. It took this new nation eleven more years to come up with the United States Constitution, ratified in 1787, and another four years to realize some of the things they left out of the original constitution. Hence, the Bill of Rights, or the first ten Amendments to the Constitution, was ratified. Our founding fathers were not infallible, but they were pretty darn smart. The very first amendment they drafted prohibited the government from messing with religion, either for or against, (Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof); it also contained what we now call “freedom of speech,” (Congress shall make no law… abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press); as well as “the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.” Now, there’s a lot of fodder for discussion, mostly heated discussion, in just that First Amendment, but it is the freedom of speech I want to address.
Whether you agree with the ACLU (American Civil Liberties Union) or not, their function is to be the watchdog of the Constitution, insuring your rights as an American citizen as guaranteed by that Constitution. “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it,” penned by Evelyn Beatrice Hall describing Voltaire’s attitude, sums up how I feel about a some of our “civil liberties.”
I do not agree with some of my friends and acquaintances politically. I do not agree with some of my relatives regarding religion. But I fully believe they have a right to believe, and express those beliefs, as they see fit. What bothers me is some people want to take that right away from me. In so saying “congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech” the government of my country has afforded me the right to believe as I will, and to express those beliefs.
Let me be clear. Having the right to do something and exercising that right is a matter of discretion. I am as guilty as anyone of speaking out when I should have kept my mouth shut. In fact, I’m probably more guilty than some. I’m sorry, it’s in my nature. But there is an expression of freedom of speech that I totally abhor; foul language. Call it cussing, cursing, swearing or whatever you will, it offends me. I suppose those people who use excessively foul language in public do it unconsciously. They are so immured in their own little worlds, they fail to see or care that people around them may be offended by their language. For instance, I was in the local hardware store the other day. While waiting my turn, there were two young men talking to the clerk about some parts they wanted. Every second or third word out of their mouths was a foul expletive. I’m not sure why some people feel it necessary to punctuate their speech with offensive language. To me it only shows lack of intelligence and self respect; say nothing of respecting others around them. I know some of the language I routinely hear from the younger generation comes from culturally accepted norms of movies and television. I’m not sure how that came about, but it has.
I will defend your right to say what you will, but please, temper it with discretion, courtesy and self respect.
Whether you agree with the ACLU (American Civil Liberties Union) or not, their function is to be the watchdog of the Constitution, insuring your rights as an American citizen as guaranteed by that Constitution. “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it,” penned by Evelyn Beatrice Hall describing Voltaire’s attitude, sums up how I feel about a some of our “civil liberties.”
I do not agree with some of my friends and acquaintances politically. I do not agree with some of my relatives regarding religion. But I fully believe they have a right to believe, and express those beliefs, as they see fit. What bothers me is some people want to take that right away from me. In so saying “congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech” the government of my country has afforded me the right to believe as I will, and to express those beliefs.
Let me be clear. Having the right to do something and exercising that right is a matter of discretion. I am as guilty as anyone of speaking out when I should have kept my mouth shut. In fact, I’m probably more guilty than some. I’m sorry, it’s in my nature. But there is an expression of freedom of speech that I totally abhor; foul language. Call it cussing, cursing, swearing or whatever you will, it offends me. I suppose those people who use excessively foul language in public do it unconsciously. They are so immured in their own little worlds, they fail to see or care that people around them may be offended by their language. For instance, I was in the local hardware store the other day. While waiting my turn, there were two young men talking to the clerk about some parts they wanted. Every second or third word out of their mouths was a foul expletive. I’m not sure why some people feel it necessary to punctuate their speech with offensive language. To me it only shows lack of intelligence and self respect; say nothing of respecting others around them. I know some of the language I routinely hear from the younger generation comes from culturally accepted norms of movies and television. I’m not sure how that came about, but it has.
I will defend your right to say what you will, but please, temper it with discretion, courtesy and self respect.
Friday, June 26, 2009
CatTails
I’m angry, and here’s my rant… Some people have trouble relating to animals and don’t seem to realize those animals we call pets may not be able to survive without us. There are people who have pets and shouldn’t. Besides the abuse and/or neglect some animals suffer, here’s another reason why they shouldn’t be allowed to have an animal. I live next door to a dairy farm, as most of you know. Barns have cats. For the most part these cats were born in the barn, have been taught to hunt and fend for themselves by their mothers. These cats generally aren’t sociable; their survival depends on the job they do. They catch the mice and other critters that would otherwise decimate the grain needed for the farm animals.
A house cat is not a barn cat. It is cruel and thoughtless to dump a house cat at a farm because its owner no longer wants or cares for it. There is a pecking order amongst cats, and a new cat often has to fight its way to acceptance. A house cat may or may not know how to catch mice. And some cats are unable to catch a mouse even if they wanted to. One such cat appeared at our door last week. She was a lovely and loving black kitty, not even a fully grown cat, and she was starving. We sat on the deck and she came right up to us, winding around our feet as best she could. She could hardly walk, she was so emaciated. We debated whether or not to put out food because we really didn’t want another cat, but she seemed so pathetic we couldn’t help but feed her. Two days later she showed up with four kittens in tow; not newborn kittens, these were perhaps four weeks old, still nursing. It takes a lot of calories to nurse babies, and it takes everything a mother cat has to feed herself and those kittens. She had hidden them in the dry creek bed near our house and they were definitely wild. If we came anywhere near them they’d run back into the weeds and hide. So we put out food near the “nest” and watched as the starving kittens fought over the food dish.
After much discussion about whether or not we should permanently take in the mama cat, we gathered her up and took her to the local veterinarian to be checked out. Much to my surprise, she had no ear mites, no fleas, and did not have feline leukemia. She was a healthy cat, except for the fact that at some time in her short life she suffered a broken pelvis and her hips had healed unevenly. She can hardly climb steps, and when she eats, she lies down so as to not put more stress on her hips. She can’t jump on furniture and she can’t pounce. This cat was starving because she couldn’t catch mice to survive. Please tell me who would dump a cat like that to fend for itself! On second thought, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know the kind of person who does such a thing. Just don’t do it again!
I personally know two individuals who take in stray cats, and the number of homeless cats and dogs are mounting every year. I’m sure there are others in the area who take in stray animals and I want to say thank you to them. Their hearts are in the right place. These special people are devoted to keeping these cats and dogs as safe as possible, giving them a warm place to sleep and food to eat. But it is expensive to care for them and they can’t possibly manage this problem on their own. Westfield is blessed with stray cat and stray dog rescue groups, but they too are overwhelmed with the number of animals needing good homes. It breaks my heart to see these unwanted animals. The kittens we found will be turned over to Westfield Stray Cat Rescue, where they will be spayed or neutered when they are old enough. The mama cat will remain with us for the time being, and will also be spayed as soon as possible. We must be responsible for the animals humans domesticated. Please, spay or neuter your pets to help control the animal population. Adopt from the shelters or rescue centers if you can, rather than from breeders. Call these numbers for more information: Northern Chautauqua Canine Rescue – 716-326-7297; Westfield Stray Cat Rescue – 716-581-0463; Chautauqua County Humane Society – 716-665-2209
I’m angry, and here’s my rant… Some people have trouble relating to animals and don’t seem to realize those animals we call pets may not be able to survive without us. There are people who have pets and shouldn’t. Besides the abuse and/or neglect some animals suffer, here’s another reason why they shouldn’t be allowed to have an animal. I live next door to a dairy farm, as most of you know. Barns have cats. For the most part these cats were born in the barn, have been taught to hunt and fend for themselves by their mothers. These cats generally aren’t sociable; their survival depends on the job they do. They catch the mice and other critters that would otherwise decimate the grain needed for the farm animals.
A house cat is not a barn cat. It is cruel and thoughtless to dump a house cat at a farm because its owner no longer wants or cares for it. There is a pecking order amongst cats, and a new cat often has to fight its way to acceptance. A house cat may or may not know how to catch mice. And some cats are unable to catch a mouse even if they wanted to. One such cat appeared at our door last week. She was a lovely and loving black kitty, not even a fully grown cat, and she was starving. We sat on the deck and she came right up to us, winding around our feet as best she could. She could hardly walk, she was so emaciated. We debated whether or not to put out food because we really didn’t want another cat, but she seemed so pathetic we couldn’t help but feed her. Two days later she showed up with four kittens in tow; not newborn kittens, these were perhaps four weeks old, still nursing. It takes a lot of calories to nurse babies, and it takes everything a mother cat has to feed herself and those kittens. She had hidden them in the dry creek bed near our house and they were definitely wild. If we came anywhere near them they’d run back into the weeds and hide. So we put out food near the “nest” and watched as the starving kittens fought over the food dish.
After much discussion about whether or not we should permanently take in the mama cat, we gathered her up and took her to the local veterinarian to be checked out. Much to my surprise, she had no ear mites, no fleas, and did not have feline leukemia. She was a healthy cat, except for the fact that at some time in her short life she suffered a broken pelvis and her hips had healed unevenly. She can hardly climb steps, and when she eats, she lies down so as to not put more stress on her hips. She can’t jump on furniture and she can’t pounce. This cat was starving because she couldn’t catch mice to survive. Please tell me who would dump a cat like that to fend for itself! On second thought, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know the kind of person who does such a thing. Just don’t do it again!
I personally know two individuals who take in stray cats, and the number of homeless cats and dogs are mounting every year. I’m sure there are others in the area who take in stray animals and I want to say thank you to them. Their hearts are in the right place. These special people are devoted to keeping these cats and dogs as safe as possible, giving them a warm place to sleep and food to eat. But it is expensive to care for them and they can’t possibly manage this problem on their own. Westfield is blessed with stray cat and stray dog rescue groups, but they too are overwhelmed with the number of animals needing good homes. It breaks my heart to see these unwanted animals. The kittens we found will be turned over to Westfield Stray Cat Rescue, where they will be spayed or neutered when they are old enough. The mama cat will remain with us for the time being, and will also be spayed as soon as possible. We must be responsible for the animals humans domesticated. Please, spay or neuter your pets to help control the animal population. Adopt from the shelters or rescue centers if you can, rather than from breeders. Call these numbers for more information: Northern Chautauqua Canine Rescue – 716-326-7297; Westfield Stray Cat Rescue – 716-581-0463; Chautauqua County Humane Society – 716-665-2209
Sunday, May 17, 2009
A Tribute to My Mother
Tribute to My Mother
Mother’s Day was last Sunday and, amongst my all-too-many time commitments, I managed to squeeze in some (hopefully quality) time with my mother. I’ve been blessed to have my mom for 57 years and each year I grow to appreciate her more and more. She’s long past the stage where I can buy something simple, like another potted plant or piece of jewelry, to commemorate “her” day and I racked my brain trying to think of an appropriate gift for this year. Then it occurred to me, I’m a writer. So here is my tribute to my mother.
Mom loves holidays and making every one special was one of her many talents. Christmas found her decorating every room of the house with some festive detail, from the Christmas tree in the living room, to centerpieces on the tables, holiday candles and knick-knacks everywhere, and a little red and white mouse she hid in a nook or cranny somewhere in the house for us to find. Every Halloween she made costumes for each of us, from fairy dresses to crepe paper pumpkins. Easter meant new dresses, hats and shiny patent leather shoes and baskets full of toys and candy hidden on stairs, in the clothes dryer or on top of the refrigerator. Thanksgiving dinner, Memorial Day picnics, 4th of July parades, every event was special because of her.
A fair number of my prom and Homecoming dresses were hand made by my mom. Craft projects were another of her strong suits. Years ago the school had end-of-the-year barbeques. There was an art and pet fair as well, and one year Mom helped me make a flower in a jar project. In retrospect, she probably made the whole thing but we pretended it was my work. It was a beautiful thing, a flower anchored on the lid of the jar filled with water and turned upside down. I was sure it was a first prize winner. I dropped it before I got it to school. It was devastating then, but I see now it served to remind me once again how much time and love was invested in me.
She baked cookies or cupcakes to take to school on our birthdays, each one individually decorated, often with each classmate’s name written on them. Mom made pancake “men” for breakfast and still makes the best homemade cinnamon rolls. And I know she won’t appreciate this, but quite often when making supper she’d scorch the potatoes. There’s nothing better than the smoky flavor of a slightly scorched potato. I’ve tried for years to do it but just can’t seem to manage.
Mom has had a flower garden for as long as I can remember. Years ago an elderly neighbor woman complained that she spent hours on her garden and my mother spent hardly any time tending her own, yet Mom’s garden outshone the other year after year. I inherited a bit of that green thumb. Every spring and summer she would pick flowers from her garden and just throw them together in the perfect arrangement, a talent I have yet to master.
She’s one of the supermoms – she did it all. But I’ll stop here with a little poem and just say, I love you Mom.
My Mother
A maker of memories, molder of dreams,
A hand to hold, a smile that beams.
Chauffeur, seamstress, nursemaid, cook,
A listening ear, a knowing look.
Fun and laughter, wisdom and wit,
Did I ever thank you for any of it?
A mother is these and so many things
I’m blessed in the gifts my mother’s love brings.
Mother’s Day was last Sunday and, amongst my all-too-many time commitments, I managed to squeeze in some (hopefully quality) time with my mother. I’ve been blessed to have my mom for 57 years and each year I grow to appreciate her more and more. She’s long past the stage where I can buy something simple, like another potted plant or piece of jewelry, to commemorate “her” day and I racked my brain trying to think of an appropriate gift for this year. Then it occurred to me, I’m a writer. So here is my tribute to my mother.
Mom loves holidays and making every one special was one of her many talents. Christmas found her decorating every room of the house with some festive detail, from the Christmas tree in the living room, to centerpieces on the tables, holiday candles and knick-knacks everywhere, and a little red and white mouse she hid in a nook or cranny somewhere in the house for us to find. Every Halloween she made costumes for each of us, from fairy dresses to crepe paper pumpkins. Easter meant new dresses, hats and shiny patent leather shoes and baskets full of toys and candy hidden on stairs, in the clothes dryer or on top of the refrigerator. Thanksgiving dinner, Memorial Day picnics, 4th of July parades, every event was special because of her.
A fair number of my prom and Homecoming dresses were hand made by my mom. Craft projects were another of her strong suits. Years ago the school had end-of-the-year barbeques. There was an art and pet fair as well, and one year Mom helped me make a flower in a jar project. In retrospect, she probably made the whole thing but we pretended it was my work. It was a beautiful thing, a flower anchored on the lid of the jar filled with water and turned upside down. I was sure it was a first prize winner. I dropped it before I got it to school. It was devastating then, but I see now it served to remind me once again how much time and love was invested in me.
She baked cookies or cupcakes to take to school on our birthdays, each one individually decorated, often with each classmate’s name written on them. Mom made pancake “men” for breakfast and still makes the best homemade cinnamon rolls. And I know she won’t appreciate this, but quite often when making supper she’d scorch the potatoes. There’s nothing better than the smoky flavor of a slightly scorched potato. I’ve tried for years to do it but just can’t seem to manage.
Mom has had a flower garden for as long as I can remember. Years ago an elderly neighbor woman complained that she spent hours on her garden and my mother spent hardly any time tending her own, yet Mom’s garden outshone the other year after year. I inherited a bit of that green thumb. Every spring and summer she would pick flowers from her garden and just throw them together in the perfect arrangement, a talent I have yet to master.
She’s one of the supermoms – she did it all. But I’ll stop here with a little poem and just say, I love you Mom.
My Mother
A maker of memories, molder of dreams,
A hand to hold, a smile that beams.
Chauffeur, seamstress, nursemaid, cook,
A listening ear, a knowing look.
Fun and laughter, wisdom and wit,
Did I ever thank you for any of it?
A mother is these and so many things
I’m blessed in the gifts my mother’s love brings.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
RIPLEY in REVIEW
I was talking with some family members, reminiscing about Ripley, and we recalled there used to be something like five or six grocery stores in town, as well as four gas stations, a dress shop, hardware store and photography studio, among other thriving businesses. That got me to wondering about Ripley of the past, so I visited the Ripley Library and asked if there were any copies of the old newspaper, The Ripley Review. Jackpot! There are years, whole decades, of Ripley Reviews stored in boxes and boxes, forgotten and crumbling. So with the gracious permission of librarian Nancy McIntosh, I carefully took a look at some of the 1940s editions.
I was specifically looking for an April copy of the news back then and found an April 2, 1942 issue. In it were advertisements for the following grocery/food stores: Red & White Store, owned by Curley Grover; C. A. Patterson; H. D. MacNee; and Ross D. Wolf. Now this was back in 1942. In the mid 1950s, when I was a young child, I remember another store called Johnson & Day, located out West Main Street, past the Hamilton estate. We lived on North State Street at the time, opposite Ross Street, and when I was four years old (although my mother swears she can’t believe she’d do this) Mom would send up uptown, with a note in my hand, to get a few things from the store. I’d walk in and the owners would greet me and ask what I wanted. I would ask for some “Shep BoyRDee please,” they’d put the groceries on our tab, and I’d walk back home. Parents wouldn’t dream of letting their young children walk that far to a store these days. It was a simpler time.
Ripley had The Hat Shop, run by Mrs. Greeley, and Parlor Millinery & Gift Shop, run by Viola Jones as well. I have vague memories of one of those stores being located in a green house next to what was Rice’s Hardware. And I was amazed to see an ad in the paper for the Ripley Telephone Company. I hadn’t realized we once had our own phone company, but I chuckled as I saw, placed at the bottom of some ads, “phone 88” or “phone 7.” The price of goods was unbelievable of course.
There are lists of Ripley’s men being called for military service, and small snippets about the war, like “Ripley may have another scrap iron day sometime this month once the snow allows farmers to gather up their scrap iron lying about. Uncle Sam needs it because he sold too much of it to Japan before we got into the war” and “A 40 inch rainfall in New Guinea retarded and drove back the Japanese advance and rendered the terrain unusable for two months, which may help the Allied cause some.” My favorite part of perusing that old paper, however, was the personal articles. “Shower for Bride to Be – A miscellaneous bridal shower was given by Mrs. Winston O’Dell at her home at East Ripley in honor of Miss Beatrice Post whose marriage to Richard O’Dell will take place in the near future.” It’s interesting to note that Winston O’Dell’s name was on the list of men to be called up in May or June of that summer. I had the pleasure of meeting Bea O’Dell when I first moved back to Ripley, and it made the article in the 1942 paper all that more meaningful.
I’m hoping to research more of the treasure trove of information those old Ripley Reviews hold. Perhaps I’ll make bits and pieces of the old newspaper articles a regular part of my column. Let me know what you think.
I was talking with some family members, reminiscing about Ripley, and we recalled there used to be something like five or six grocery stores in town, as well as four gas stations, a dress shop, hardware store and photography studio, among other thriving businesses. That got me to wondering about Ripley of the past, so I visited the Ripley Library and asked if there were any copies of the old newspaper, The Ripley Review. Jackpot! There are years, whole decades, of Ripley Reviews stored in boxes and boxes, forgotten and crumbling. So with the gracious permission of librarian Nancy McIntosh, I carefully took a look at some of the 1940s editions.
I was specifically looking for an April copy of the news back then and found an April 2, 1942 issue. In it were advertisements for the following grocery/food stores: Red & White Store, owned by Curley Grover; C. A. Patterson; H. D. MacNee; and Ross D. Wolf. Now this was back in 1942. In the mid 1950s, when I was a young child, I remember another store called Johnson & Day, located out West Main Street, past the Hamilton estate. We lived on North State Street at the time, opposite Ross Street, and when I was four years old (although my mother swears she can’t believe she’d do this) Mom would send up uptown, with a note in my hand, to get a few things from the store. I’d walk in and the owners would greet me and ask what I wanted. I would ask for some “Shep BoyRDee please,” they’d put the groceries on our tab, and I’d walk back home. Parents wouldn’t dream of letting their young children walk that far to a store these days. It was a simpler time.
Ripley had The Hat Shop, run by Mrs. Greeley, and Parlor Millinery & Gift Shop, run by Viola Jones as well. I have vague memories of one of those stores being located in a green house next to what was Rice’s Hardware. And I was amazed to see an ad in the paper for the Ripley Telephone Company. I hadn’t realized we once had our own phone company, but I chuckled as I saw, placed at the bottom of some ads, “phone 88” or “phone 7.” The price of goods was unbelievable of course.
There are lists of Ripley’s men being called for military service, and small snippets about the war, like “Ripley may have another scrap iron day sometime this month once the snow allows farmers to gather up their scrap iron lying about. Uncle Sam needs it because he sold too much of it to Japan before we got into the war” and “A 40 inch rainfall in New Guinea retarded and drove back the Japanese advance and rendered the terrain unusable for two months, which may help the Allied cause some.” My favorite part of perusing that old paper, however, was the personal articles. “Shower for Bride to Be – A miscellaneous bridal shower was given by Mrs. Winston O’Dell at her home at East Ripley in honor of Miss Beatrice Post whose marriage to Richard O’Dell will take place in the near future.” It’s interesting to note that Winston O’Dell’s name was on the list of men to be called up in May or June of that summer. I had the pleasure of meeting Bea O’Dell when I first moved back to Ripley, and it made the article in the 1942 paper all that more meaningful.
I’m hoping to research more of the treasure trove of information those old Ripley Reviews hold. Perhaps I’ll make bits and pieces of the old newspaper articles a regular part of my column. Let me know what you think.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Meeder’s - Where Everybody Knows Your Name
I’ve become a semi-regular at Meeder’s Restaurant. The real regulars are there every day, at the same time, with the same people, at the same table. There are those of us who frequent the place often enough that the waitresses recognize us by name and usually know what we’re going to order before we say a word, but we’re not hard-core regulars. It seems most of the serious regulars are men. I love watching “the boys” at their usual tables, laughing, joking with each other, exchanging insults or advise. It occurred to me the other day that they probably haven’t changed all that much from high school. Sure, they’re older, grayer, maybe a bit heavier, but they love hanging out just like they did back then.
There isn’t much secret at Meeder’s. If you want a private conversation you sit at the far sides of the restaurant, away from the crowd, but most people, and especially “the regulars, “ sit where they can see and be seen, hear and be heard. Their conversations range from politics to farming to the weather to cars and back again. There’s a great deal of shooting the bull at these morning confabs but a fair amount of wisdom as well. They help solve each other’s problems, give each other support and, most of all, friendship. Sometimes I watch these guys and smile, picturing them young again, excited about their cars, their exploits, and their adventures.
I find myself looking for the child within all the people I see, like the movie “Hook” with Robin Williams. Williams plays Peter Pan and in one scene a Lost Boy is holding Pan’s face, looking intently into it, and finally bursts into a smile and says, “Oh, THERE you are Peter!” That’s how I feel when I see someone I haven’t seen since high school, some 40 years ago, and recognize the person I once knew. No matter how many years have passed, no matter what life paths we’ve taken, there is still a kernel of familiarity we share. I’ve tried very hard to remain young at heart, full of wonder at the world around me, and not take life too seriously. After all, none of us are getting out alive, so we may as make the most of the time we have and enjoy it. Sit long, talk much, laugh often.
I’ve become a semi-regular at Meeder’s Restaurant. The real regulars are there every day, at the same time, with the same people, at the same table. There are those of us who frequent the place often enough that the waitresses recognize us by name and usually know what we’re going to order before we say a word, but we’re not hard-core regulars. It seems most of the serious regulars are men. I love watching “the boys” at their usual tables, laughing, joking with each other, exchanging insults or advise. It occurred to me the other day that they probably haven’t changed all that much from high school. Sure, they’re older, grayer, maybe a bit heavier, but they love hanging out just like they did back then.
There isn’t much secret at Meeder’s. If you want a private conversation you sit at the far sides of the restaurant, away from the crowd, but most people, and especially “the regulars, “ sit where they can see and be seen, hear and be heard. Their conversations range from politics to farming to the weather to cars and back again. There’s a great deal of shooting the bull at these morning confabs but a fair amount of wisdom as well. They help solve each other’s problems, give each other support and, most of all, friendship. Sometimes I watch these guys and smile, picturing them young again, excited about their cars, their exploits, and their adventures.
I find myself looking for the child within all the people I see, like the movie “Hook” with Robin Williams. Williams plays Peter Pan and in one scene a Lost Boy is holding Pan’s face, looking intently into it, and finally bursts into a smile and says, “Oh, THERE you are Peter!” That’s how I feel when I see someone I haven’t seen since high school, some 40 years ago, and recognize the person I once knew. No matter how many years have passed, no matter what life paths we’ve taken, there is still a kernel of familiarity we share. I’ve tried very hard to remain young at heart, full of wonder at the world around me, and not take life too seriously. After all, none of us are getting out alive, so we may as make the most of the time we have and enjoy it. Sit long, talk much, laugh often.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
They say a writer should write about what they know, which is why I write mostly about what happens in my little corner of the world; and I know a little about hometown pride. Ripley was always my home, no matter where I happened to be living at any given time. Ripley was where my heart was, and I was proud to tell people I grew up in a little village in western New York – “no, not near New York City which is 400 miles away” (forgive the estimated distance, I’m not even sure how far NYC is from us, guess it depends on which route you take to get there) – in a very rural agricultural setting. However, I am painfully aware that some folks in neighboring towns, even some who have lived their whole lives in Ripley, view the town with distain. When I moved home some people asked my why would I want to move back here!
Now, I don’t pretend to understand the politics and factions that exist in Ripley. In fact, I don’t care to know. I’d rather go merrily along in my ignorance of who the “right” or “wrong” people are. What I do know is that it is the people in any town or city that make it what it is, both the good and the bad. I’ve had the opportunity to meet some people in this town who exemplify what “hometown spirit” is all about. These are men and women who are so filled with pride in their community that even though they recognize the drawbacks and foibles, they are willing to put forth herculean efforts to make it a better place. These are men and women, who even though the population is declining, continue to run their businesses year after year in the face of a disastrous economy. These are people who organize and build monuments, and parks, and playgrounds and civic pride. There are people in this town who never left; some because they couldn’t, some because they had no desire to be anywhere else. Then there are folks who came here for whatever reason, made it their home, and contributed what they could to the community. We’re all part of the fabric of what makes us unique.
I have heard it said Ripley is a dying community. The center of our social activity, the school, is in imminent danger of ceasing to exist as we know it. It is understandably upsetting to face the loss of this icon of our existence. What happens to it remains to be seen. I’ve heard it asked, without the school what do we have? Granted, we don’t have much in the way of gathering places, no bowling alley, no movie theater, and no book stores. But what we do have is a library that is underutilized and yet utterly devoted to benefit us all. There are several events planned each month by our library board, from computer classes to “dinner theater” to lectures given by local notables. The face of our town is changing, and we need to change with it. Folks, we have each other. Get involved. Volunteer your time to our many organizations, be it the fire department, the Veteran’s Roll of Honor committee, the library, or any of the many other endeavors that exist here for the benefit of the town and US. Be a part of your community. Be proud.
Now, I don’t pretend to understand the politics and factions that exist in Ripley. In fact, I don’t care to know. I’d rather go merrily along in my ignorance of who the “right” or “wrong” people are. What I do know is that it is the people in any town or city that make it what it is, both the good and the bad. I’ve had the opportunity to meet some people in this town who exemplify what “hometown spirit” is all about. These are men and women who are so filled with pride in their community that even though they recognize the drawbacks and foibles, they are willing to put forth herculean efforts to make it a better place. These are men and women, who even though the population is declining, continue to run their businesses year after year in the face of a disastrous economy. These are people who organize and build monuments, and parks, and playgrounds and civic pride. There are people in this town who never left; some because they couldn’t, some because they had no desire to be anywhere else. Then there are folks who came here for whatever reason, made it their home, and contributed what they could to the community. We’re all part of the fabric of what makes us unique.
I have heard it said Ripley is a dying community. The center of our social activity, the school, is in imminent danger of ceasing to exist as we know it. It is understandably upsetting to face the loss of this icon of our existence. What happens to it remains to be seen. I’ve heard it asked, without the school what do we have? Granted, we don’t have much in the way of gathering places, no bowling alley, no movie theater, and no book stores. But what we do have is a library that is underutilized and yet utterly devoted to benefit us all. There are several events planned each month by our library board, from computer classes to “dinner theater” to lectures given by local notables. The face of our town is changing, and we need to change with it. Folks, we have each other. Get involved. Volunteer your time to our many organizations, be it the fire department, the Veteran’s Roll of Honor committee, the library, or any of the many other endeavors that exist here for the benefit of the town and US. Be a part of your community. Be proud.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
I finally found a wallpaper border for my kitchen that I like, and as importantly, it fits! I never realized until I started looking, the majority of wallpaper borders are 6" wide or wider. The space I have to cover can't take more than 51/4". Ever since we moved here I've wanted to paint the kitchen and get away from the pepto-bismol pink. It's not really that bright, but it's not my first choice in kitchen colors. Now a year later (can you believe we've been here a YEAR?!) I'm finally getting closer to painting and papering. Bob, of course, sees no reason to change the colors, mostly because he hates to paint and he can't visualize the new scheme, but we've got all kinds of company coming this summer and I want to change things so they reflect us, not the previous owners.
I'm still swamped with writing projects and the video production of the vets monument. I'm hoping by the end of May it will let up some. I'm not sure I can, or want to, keep up this pace.
I'm still swamped with writing projects and the video production of the vets monument. I'm hoping by the end of May it will let up some. I'm not sure I can, or want to, keep up this pace.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Where the deer and the antelope (used) to play
Every evening Bob looks out the back windows for deer in the pasture behind us. Last night there were a total of 23 of them! They just seemed to keep coming out of the woods. We watched for quite awhile and about 10 of them wandered right up into the corn field directly behind us. I couldn't sleep well last night and about 3 in the morning I heard coyotes howling out back. They weren't right up by the house, but close enough that I could make out about four of them yipping and howling. God that's an eerie sound. I'm sure they were after the deer, and now this evening there wasn't a deer to be seen. Creepy.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Ruminations - 3/26/09
Not that I have a lot of time on my hands, but I was looking at the Title Abstract to our house the other day. It’s fascinating reading. I don’t understand all the “land belonging to (so-and-so) thence westerly on the center of said road 2 chains and 7 links…” but the litany of names is interesting to look through, and occasionally a partial will is included in the abstract. This property was originally sold by the Holland Land Company (the same Holland Land Company I found boring in U.S. History in school) to a Joseph Ellicott in 1811. It was a pretty decent size piece of land back then, and either there was something wrong with it, or it was a really good investment property because in the following 50 years it was resold a total of twelve times! It’s unclear to me on first perusal when a house was actually built here, but it seems likely sometime between 1840 and 1864. I’ve heard talk that the house here was a one room affair with an attic for sleeping, and a three-seater outhouse. (Don’t ask me why someone would build a three-seater; perhaps they were an extremely close family.) I can see the original house from the attic, which is more like a tall crawl space, and I can visualize the one room below it, mostly where the floors take their roller-coaster ride under my feet. Most fascinating to me however, is the stone basement. It’s positively beautiful, or could be with some money and imagination. I wish I had the wherewithal to renovate it, keeping the sparkling pinks, grays and blacks of the granite. As it is, it will simply remain a haven for mice and voles to explore.
I love stories about old houses. There’s a book called Dreaming in the Dust by Katherine Chrisman that I found when living in Minnesota. It recounts the renovation of a lovely old place on Lake of the Isles in Minneapolis and you can tell the author loved that house. I’m sure hundreds, if not thousands, of poems and stories have been written about houses and homes. You may recognize Joyce Kilmer as the author of “Trees” (“I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree…”) but he also wrote a rather lengthy poem about an empty house, “The House with Nobody in It.” When I was very young, two or three years old, I can remember my mother holding me in a big wicker rocker and reciting that poem… “Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track…” and it wasn’t long before I could recite it word for word myself. It always brought tears to my eyes when we got to the part about the house with a broken heart. My siblings had the same experience and at one time or other we could all recite it.
But there’s another poem, not famous, that is very near and dear to my heart. My great-great-grandmother, Lucinda Shaw Near, lived here in Chautauqua County in Ellicott (isn’t that interesting, the same name as the man who first owned my property) in the mid to late 1800s in a big rambling farmhouse. And as things are wont to happen, the porch on the house needed repair, or perhaps demolition. Many hours were spent on porches back then, when the world was a slower place, and that old porch meant a lot to her. Generations of family shared that porch; she raised seven children there, and lost a young daughter to one of the many deadly childhood diseases. She wrote the following poem about her beloved porch and I want to share it with you.
The Old Porch Floor by Lucinda Shaw Near
They have torn up the boards in our old porch floor.
They have scattered them near and far;
And never thought as they threw them aside,
How dear to me they are.
And now, tonight, with my work all done,
As I sit by the open door,
I think with a sigh of the years that are gone
Since we laid that old porch floor.
There grandpa sat in the summer time,
And I fancy I almost hear
The sound of his feeble step, as he goes
O’er the porch to his old arm chair.
Then in after years, when the babies came,
Some less than half a score;
They laughed and played with their dolls and toys
And romped on the old porch floor.
I love every one of those old pine boards,
Every inch of that dear old floor,
From the place where the matching is all worn through,
To the knot by the kitchen door.
But alas! One day that knot fell through,
And left a hole in the floor;
And knives, forks, spoons and clothes pins
Went through it by the score.
And there today we have found them,
Old and rusty they look;
But to me they tell a tale of the past
As plain as a printed book.
But now my darlings have all grown up,
And gone from their parent’s door;
And one has gone to never return
Over the old porch floor.
Now as I sit alone tonight,
I wonder o’er and o’er,
Who will think of me kindly when I am gone,
As I do of The Old Porch Floor.
And I fancy I almost hear
The sound of his feeble step, as he goes
O’er the porch to his old arm chair.
Then in after years, when the babies came,
Some less than half a score;
They laughed and played with their dolls and toys
And romped on the old porch floor.
I love every one of those old pine boards,
Every inch of that dear old floor,
From the place where the matching is all worn through,
To the knot by the kitchen door.
But alas! One day that knot fell through,
And left a hole in the floor;
And knives, forks, spoons and clothes pins
Went through it by the score.
And there today we have found them,
Old and rusty they look;
But to me they tell a tale of the past
As plain as a printed book.
But now my darlings have all grown up,
And gone from their parent’s door;
And one has gone to never return
Over the old porch floor.
Now as I sit alone tonight,
I wonder o’er and o’er,
Who will think of me kindly when I am gone,
As I do of The Old Porch Floor.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Busy, busy, busy
News Flash! I Am A Procrastinator!
Okay, now that I've got that off my chest...I finally got the last article written for the Blue Eagle and got it proofed with Dawn and sent to the powers that be. They'd better not want it redone! After I get it back from the printer next week I can take a breather for a couple days.
I spent last evening video taping Bob McIntosh for the veteran's production. We did three takes and then figured we had enough to get by on. Hope so. I haven't seen the video on a screen yet. I have Roger Testrake coming over tonight to video in my "blue" room. I think he's a little more prepared, but we'll see.
I talked to the editor at the Westfield Republican today as well. Finally got a pay scale for my submissions to the paper. Three different amounts depending on whether it's my column, a news article or a photo. I'm happy. It's not much, but it's paid work.
My summer is shaping up to be pretty busy. Bob's daughter and family are coming for a week long visit in mid-June. It'll be fun to see Max again (he's almost 7 years old), although I don't know what I'm going to do about entertaining him for a week. Then in July a friend from England and his wife are coming over, visiting three different families. I will host Stephen and Hazel for the last leg of their visit. And I'm still awaiting word on my third visitor, also from England. I can't wait to see them all!
Monday, March 23, 2009
Ripley Veteran's Roll of Honor
The Ripley Veteran's Roll of Honor memorial was dedicated last November (Veteran's Day) and lists the names of those men and women from Ripley who served in the military since WWII. I went to cover a meeting and the memorial service for the newspaper and I'm not sure how it happened, but I ended up being responsible for the making of a dvd of the event. As some of you know, I'm a complete idiot when it comes to computers, so I convinced Bill to do the production work.
Well, we spent 6 hours last Saturday cutting 2 camera angles of video for what is supposed to be a 45 minute production. We ended up with 47 minutes without even touching on the picture montage and the two speeches that will be included. So I went to the committee and viewed the rough draft with them, and we made more cuts. Now it's back to the "cutting room" with Bill.
I'm excited about this project though. I think when it's done it's going to be awesome. The music I suggested to the committee was overwhelming approved and will include Jay Unger's tune "Ashokan Farewell." If it goes as planned, all 700+ names on the memorial will scroll at the end of the video, first to Amazing Grace, played by a local bagpiper, then to a full orchestra version, then to Ashokan Farewell. I think it might be quite emotional in the end.
Anyway, thats what I've been up to lately, along with working on the school's newsletter, The Blue Eagle Express. Dawn's helping me with that one. Our biggest problem now is that my computer crashed with the blue screen of death and all the files I sent to her are unreadable by her computer. sigh I guess it's just gonna be a little late this month.
Well, we spent 6 hours last Saturday cutting 2 camera angles of video for what is supposed to be a 45 minute production. We ended up with 47 minutes without even touching on the picture montage and the two speeches that will be included. So I went to the committee and viewed the rough draft with them, and we made more cuts. Now it's back to the "cutting room" with Bill.
I'm excited about this project though. I think when it's done it's going to be awesome. The music I suggested to the committee was overwhelming approved and will include Jay Unger's tune "Ashokan Farewell." If it goes as planned, all 700+ names on the memorial will scroll at the end of the video, first to Amazing Grace, played by a local bagpiper, then to a full orchestra version, then to Ashokan Farewell. I think it might be quite emotional in the end.
Anyway, thats what I've been up to lately, along with working on the school's newsletter, The Blue Eagle Express. Dawn's helping me with that one. Our biggest problem now is that my computer crashed with the blue screen of death and all the files I sent to her are unreadable by her computer. sigh I guess it's just gonna be a little late this month.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Spring is Sprung
Ruminations - Spring is sprung 3/12/09
Step outside and take a deep breath. Smell it? Spring is trying to break the back of winter. I opened the bedroom window a crack last night, and the smell of rain and wet earth filled the house. I haven't been outside much recently, no more than to walk from the car to the store and back, but I ventured out today. The crocus's are poking their heads up and the willow trees are budding. I can see the buds on the tree outside my window starting to swell, as the raindrops glisten on the fine lace branches like so many diamonds. The wonder of early spring is so easy to miss. Our brains are still sluggish from the cold and dreariness of winter, we're still focused on the chill of the wind, and the knowledge that winter hasn't lost its grip altogether. There will certainly be more snows, and more cold north winds; but the geese are coming back, flocks of seagulls gather in the field behind my house, and the cardinals are calling forth their territory, all sure signs that spring isn't far away.
The lake is an endless source of fascination for me. Being gone for so long, it's been decades since I've seen it frozen over. The ice formations are constantly on the move, forming and reforming as the winds blow from different directions. Some days Lake Erie appears frozen solid, the next will reveal a wide swath of open water, only to be swallowed up again by ice. But the open water is ocurring more often and in larger areas. It won't be long before the ice breaks up, finds its way to Niagara Falls, and the north winds, when they blow, won't be further chilled by the frozen water. Spring WILL come. It's not far off. I can smell it.
We're not long from Fat Tuesday and the first Friday of Lent, and already St. Patrick's Day is next Tuesday, unless the Catholic Church decides to change the date again. I think we're safe this year though. I haven't a drop of Irish blood in me (that I know of), but I'll don something green, pay homage to the leprechaun's and fairies, and pray for warm weather. I've seen St. Paddy's days of the past as warm as 78 degrees, and I've watched parades in St. Paul, Minnesota, which is predominately Irish and German, in freezing sleet and snow. The Irish are an affable lot as a whole, friendly but stubborn, feisty yet poetic by nature. I'm sure these are stereo-types, but I've become acquainted with a few Irishmen and women and they seem to fit this pattern. I don't know what the Irish makeup of this area is, but to the Irish everywhere - May the Irish hills caress you. May her lakes and rivers bless you. May the luck of the Irish enfold you. May the blessings of Saint Patrick behold you.
Step outside and take a deep breath. Smell it? Spring is trying to break the back of winter. I opened the bedroom window a crack last night, and the smell of rain and wet earth filled the house. I haven't been outside much recently, no more than to walk from the car to the store and back, but I ventured out today. The crocus's are poking their heads up and the willow trees are budding. I can see the buds on the tree outside my window starting to swell, as the raindrops glisten on the fine lace branches like so many diamonds. The wonder of early spring is so easy to miss. Our brains are still sluggish from the cold and dreariness of winter, we're still focused on the chill of the wind, and the knowledge that winter hasn't lost its grip altogether. There will certainly be more snows, and more cold north winds; but the geese are coming back, flocks of seagulls gather in the field behind my house, and the cardinals are calling forth their territory, all sure signs that spring isn't far away.
The lake is an endless source of fascination for me. Being gone for so long, it's been decades since I've seen it frozen over. The ice formations are constantly on the move, forming and reforming as the winds blow from different directions. Some days Lake Erie appears frozen solid, the next will reveal a wide swath of open water, only to be swallowed up again by ice. But the open water is ocurring more often and in larger areas. It won't be long before the ice breaks up, finds its way to Niagara Falls, and the north winds, when they blow, won't be further chilled by the frozen water. Spring WILL come. It's not far off. I can smell it.
We're not long from Fat Tuesday and the first Friday of Lent, and already St. Patrick's Day is next Tuesday, unless the Catholic Church decides to change the date again. I think we're safe this year though. I haven't a drop of Irish blood in me (that I know of), but I'll don something green, pay homage to the leprechaun's and fairies, and pray for warm weather. I've seen St. Paddy's days of the past as warm as 78 degrees, and I've watched parades in St. Paul, Minnesota, which is predominately Irish and German, in freezing sleet and snow. The Irish are an affable lot as a whole, friendly but stubborn, feisty yet poetic by nature. I'm sure these are stereo-types, but I've become acquainted with a few Irishmen and women and they seem to fit this pattern. I don't know what the Irish makeup of this area is, but to the Irish everywhere - May the Irish hills caress you. May her lakes and rivers bless you. May the luck of the Irish enfold you. May the blessings of Saint Patrick behold you.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Paris, I promise the newspaper will be on its way in a day or two.
Well, I'm out of the frying pan and into the fire! I'm done with the Republican and started on the Blue Eagle Express last Thursday. Dawn and I got it done and to the printer by Wednesday! and I distributed it that same day. I can see some things we left out, but hey, it was my first attempt.
I've been talking to Nancy McIntosh, the town librarian, and I have a plan in the back of my head to combine a newsletter for the library with the school publication. We'll see how that flies a bit down the road.
It's really dreary today, warm but overcast.
Well, I'm out of the frying pan and into the fire! I'm done with the Republican and started on the Blue Eagle Express last Thursday. Dawn and I got it done and to the printer by Wednesday! and I distributed it that same day. I can see some things we left out, but hey, it was my first attempt.
I've been talking to Nancy McIntosh, the town librarian, and I have a plan in the back of my head to combine a newsletter for the library with the school publication. We'll see how that flies a bit down the road.
It's really dreary today, warm but overcast.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Column from February 19, 2009
(with no repercussions from Meeder's I might add)
I love small towns. What you see is what you get. Walk into any restaurant and an egg salad sandwich comes two ways - on white bread or on wheat bread. Roast beef and gravy comes with mashed potatoes or fries. There are no menu items with fricassee or flambe in them. Chicken is chicken, beef is beef, pork is pork, and most generally you can identify them by sight. And coffee comes regular or decaf.
Things are more complicated in larger towns and cities where there are Olive Gardens, Perkins Restaurants, or Tim Horton's, or more exotic places like El Torito, Fuji Ya and Buca di Beppo. The choices there are overwhelming and the food sometimes unrecognizable. Don't get me wrong, I love Fuji Ya and Buca di Beppo, and I miss them, but sometimes you wonder what it is under all that sauce and noodles. Don't even get me started on Starbucks or other designer coffee places. A double grande, split shot, extra hot, dark chocolate mocha with no foam, one extra raw sugar and whipped cream is just not my thing. I like my coffee simple, hot and black.
That being said, I've discovered I'm a high maintenance kinda girl. My husband has claimed to know this for years, but I'm just now realizing it. We've had occasion to eat out several times lately and I find I'm not content to order a plain BLT (bread untoasted, crisp bacon, mayo on the side, please), or salad (no onion, sliced not chopped tomatoes, Thousand Island AND French dressing, both on the side), or burger (lettuce, tomato, no onion, what? no avocado?, okay just pickles, and ketchup). I have an annoying tendency to order things special made, not how they come out of the kitchen. I've given up asking if the "wheat" bread is really whole wheat or just white bread colored with caramel. I just smile and order wheat bread and eat whatever comes. I quite often order mayonaisse or salad dressings on the side so I can control the portion size. It rarely comes on the side regardless of how I order. I just figure if I'm paying good money for someone else to prepare my food, I ought to get what I want. It's Burger King's fault - "have it your way."
I'm sure servers find me annoying. I apologize for this. I tip well though. When my friends are in town and try to order a "mocca chocca decaf skinny with vanilla and a sleeve" I'll just smile sweetly and say, "Coffee, black please." It won't matter to me whether I get regular or decaf.
Honest.
(with no repercussions from Meeder's I might add)
I love small towns. What you see is what you get. Walk into any restaurant and an egg salad sandwich comes two ways - on white bread or on wheat bread. Roast beef and gravy comes with mashed potatoes or fries. There are no menu items with fricassee or flambe in them. Chicken is chicken, beef is beef, pork is pork, and most generally you can identify them by sight. And coffee comes regular or decaf.
Things are more complicated in larger towns and cities where there are Olive Gardens, Perkins Restaurants, or Tim Horton's, or more exotic places like El Torito, Fuji Ya and Buca di Beppo. The choices there are overwhelming and the food sometimes unrecognizable. Don't get me wrong, I love Fuji Ya and Buca di Beppo, and I miss them, but sometimes you wonder what it is under all that sauce and noodles. Don't even get me started on Starbucks or other designer coffee places. A double grande, split shot, extra hot, dark chocolate mocha with no foam, one extra raw sugar and whipped cream is just not my thing. I like my coffee simple, hot and black.
That being said, I've discovered I'm a high maintenance kinda girl. My husband has claimed to know this for years, but I'm just now realizing it. We've had occasion to eat out several times lately and I find I'm not content to order a plain BLT (bread untoasted, crisp bacon, mayo on the side, please), or salad (no onion, sliced not chopped tomatoes, Thousand Island AND French dressing, both on the side), or burger (lettuce, tomato, no onion, what? no avocado?, okay just pickles, and ketchup). I have an annoying tendency to order things special made, not how they come out of the kitchen. I've given up asking if the "wheat" bread is really whole wheat or just white bread colored with caramel. I just smile and order wheat bread and eat whatever comes. I quite often order mayonaisse or salad dressings on the side so I can control the portion size. It rarely comes on the side regardless of how I order. I just figure if I'm paying good money for someone else to prepare my food, I ought to get what I want. It's Burger King's fault - "have it your way."
I'm sure servers find me annoying. I apologize for this. I tip well though. When my friends are in town and try to order a "mocca chocca decaf skinny with vanilla and a sleeve" I'll just smile sweetly and say, "Coffee, black please." It won't matter to me whether I get regular or decaf.
Honest.
If I could save time in a bottle...
Okay, okay! DRR is nagging me to post. I don't really have 50 things to blog about, but a couple things have happened recently. I got my letter of approval to become the new editor for the Ripley school newsletter, The Blue Eagle Express. I think I may have bitten off more than I can chew with this one. I've not used a publishing program before. The writing, getting stories and photos thing won't be bad, but I'll have to learn an entire program to get the thing laid out. They tell me Pam Boll will be available to help/teach me. Hope this old brain can assimilate everything.
Yesterday (Friday the 20th) was my last official day at the Westfield Republican. My replacement seems really nice and fun and I'm sad I won't be there to work with her, although that wouldn't have been an option anyway. I'll go back Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday to train her. After that I'll pop in every few weeks to bug Alex the editor and I'll email in my column and any stories that I write about Ripley. I'm going to enjoy the writing part, that's what I always wanted to do anyway. They're going to pay me for my column, a pittance, but it's something.
Nancy McIntosh at the Ripley library had asked me a couple weeks ago if I'd consider being on the "Friends of the Library" board, and we had our first information meeting this morning. The wish list of what Nancy would like the board to accomplish is huge and daunting, but we're going to meet again in two weeks and break down the list into manageable pieces and timelines. Again, I don't know where I'm going to find the time. Maybe it won't be as much of a time commitment as I'm afraid it will.
Bill and I are working on the Ripley Veteran's Roll of Honor (RVRH) video. So far we've taken over 500 photos and whittled it down to 82 (I think). And Bill's got the two video tapes that were taken and put them on his computer. We've got until Memorial Day to get them done. Another huge time commitment.
Okay, now I'm overwhelmed. I've commmitted to too many things. It all sounded so good at the time though... lol
Yesterday (Friday the 20th) was my last official day at the Westfield Republican. My replacement seems really nice and fun and I'm sad I won't be there to work with her, although that wouldn't have been an option anyway. I'll go back Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday to train her. After that I'll pop in every few weeks to bug Alex the editor and I'll email in my column and any stories that I write about Ripley. I'm going to enjoy the writing part, that's what I always wanted to do anyway. They're going to pay me for my column, a pittance, but it's something.
Nancy McIntosh at the Ripley library had asked me a couple weeks ago if I'd consider being on the "Friends of the Library" board, and we had our first information meeting this morning. The wish list of what Nancy would like the board to accomplish is huge and daunting, but we're going to meet again in two weeks and break down the list into manageable pieces and timelines. Again, I don't know where I'm going to find the time. Maybe it won't be as much of a time commitment as I'm afraid it will.
Bill and I are working on the Ripley Veteran's Roll of Honor (RVRH) video. So far we've taken over 500 photos and whittled it down to 82 (I think). And Bill's got the two video tapes that were taken and put them on his computer. We've got until Memorial Day to get them done. Another huge time commitment.
Okay, now I'm overwhelmed. I've commmitted to too many things. It all sounded so good at the time though... lol
Thursday, February 5, 2009
New Direction
I'm turning in my resignation at the Westfield Republican tomorrow (Friday). I've been contemplating it for awhile now, and the final straw came yesterday when I was told I wasn't doing my job. I've been bustin' my butt, working all kinds of hours and not getting paid for them, but I'm not doing my job. Evidently my job consists of cold calling people to see if they'll advertise in our classified ad section, and doing three or four more reports, and taking on the advertising inserts for the papers, blah blah blah. In essence they want to take away the only part of the job I love (writing) and have me do twice again the amount of work I do, all for $7.75 an hour. The stress just isn't worth it.
I never intended to work full time, but couldn't pass up working for a newspaper and maybe getting my foot in the door to do some writing. With any kind of luck I'll continue to write my Ruminations column, and hopefully get paid for it. I'm not holding my breath, but I'm going to see if they'll pay me something for it. In the meantime, the school has already made calls to tell people I'm on the list for available substitute teacher's aid. And I've been asked to be on the "Friends of the Library" board, so I won't lack for things to do. I just need to make a little money each month so I don't have to beg from Bob.
I'm excited about handing in my notice tomorrow, but a little nervous too. I know it's not going to be taken well. I'll keep you posted.
I never intended to work full time, but couldn't pass up working for a newspaper and maybe getting my foot in the door to do some writing. With any kind of luck I'll continue to write my Ruminations column, and hopefully get paid for it. I'm not holding my breath, but I'm going to see if they'll pay me something for it. In the meantime, the school has already made calls to tell people I'm on the list for available substitute teacher's aid. And I've been asked to be on the "Friends of the Library" board, so I won't lack for things to do. I just need to make a little money each month so I don't have to beg from Bob.
I'm excited about handing in my notice tomorrow, but a little nervous too. I know it's not going to be taken well. I'll keep you posted.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Watch What You Say
Watch What You Say
I'm hearing a lot of "I wish it was spring," and "I can't wait til it warms up," as well as other sentiments from disgruntled citizens of the realm. I know I commented earlier in the winter about wanting more snow, and even my need for the white stuff has been satiated, but I won't wish for anything else. I refuse to wish my life away. Time flies too quickly as it is.
When my son was an infant and colicky I heard myself saying I wished he were older so he'd outgrow that stage, and then I realized I was wishing his little life would progress faster than it already was! I resolved then that I would not wish for time to be anything other than what it was at that moment. Life is too short to not experience each and every moment.
Another comment I hear is, "Been there, done that." What an insidious remark that is. In four little words it manages to diminish and trivialize the sentiments or feelings of another. A few years back I was sharing the trials and tribulations of taking care of my invalid mother-in-law to a friend. Without even listening to everything I was saying, his reply was, "Been there, done that." Immediately I felt as if my challenges and problems were totally inconsequential, and my feelings had no merit. It's a nasty little phrase that tells the person it's said to that they don't matter.
"Duh," is another commonly used put-down. Want to make someone feel stupid? Just respond with "duh" when they point out a fact or situation of which you're already aware. A sarcastic "no kidding" fits the same category. People love to share their knowledge and discoveries. Is it really necessary for us to put them down for it?
Ever notice we tend to be meaner and nastier to family members? We would never say some of the things we do if we were talking to a friend, acquaintance or stranger. Well, maybe some people would, but those people need special help anyway. Why do we talk to our children or spouses as if they have no feelings? Some of the wounds we inflict with our words last a lifetime. Who was it who said, "the pen is mightier than the sword?" Actually several famous people said it, but they all meant you could do more damage by writing something (or saying something) about a person than you could by piercing them with a sword.
So watch what you say! I'll be listening.
I'm hearing a lot of "I wish it was spring," and "I can't wait til it warms up," as well as other sentiments from disgruntled citizens of the realm. I know I commented earlier in the winter about wanting more snow, and even my need for the white stuff has been satiated, but I won't wish for anything else. I refuse to wish my life away. Time flies too quickly as it is.
When my son was an infant and colicky I heard myself saying I wished he were older so he'd outgrow that stage, and then I realized I was wishing his little life would progress faster than it already was! I resolved then that I would not wish for time to be anything other than what it was at that moment. Life is too short to not experience each and every moment.
Another comment I hear is, "Been there, done that." What an insidious remark that is. In four little words it manages to diminish and trivialize the sentiments or feelings of another. A few years back I was sharing the trials and tribulations of taking care of my invalid mother-in-law to a friend. Without even listening to everything I was saying, his reply was, "Been there, done that." Immediately I felt as if my challenges and problems were totally inconsequential, and my feelings had no merit. It's a nasty little phrase that tells the person it's said to that they don't matter.
"Duh," is another commonly used put-down. Want to make someone feel stupid? Just respond with "duh" when they point out a fact or situation of which you're already aware. A sarcastic "no kidding" fits the same category. People love to share their knowledge and discoveries. Is it really necessary for us to put them down for it?
Ever notice we tend to be meaner and nastier to family members? We would never say some of the things we do if we were talking to a friend, acquaintance or stranger. Well, maybe some people would, but those people need special help anyway. Why do we talk to our children or spouses as if they have no feelings? Some of the wounds we inflict with our words last a lifetime. Who was it who said, "the pen is mightier than the sword?" Actually several famous people said it, but they all meant you could do more damage by writing something (or saying something) about a person than you could by piercing them with a sword.
So watch what you say! I'll be listening.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Bitch session
I've had another "bad" day at the office. Seems like there are more of those than not, although I try to not let the b******s get me down. I'm just sick to death of working for a paper where it is obvious nobody really cares about the content as long as we get lots of ads in there. I have a feeling I/we (Alex, the editor, and me) could write anything we wanted and nobody in the parent company would know or care, unless of course they got letters from people in outrage. The Westfield Republican used to be a great paper, a small, locally owned information source for the people of the surrounding communities. Not so anymore. It is owned by a conglomerate of papers and probably looked at as a tax write off. It's such a stinkin' shame. There are so many things that could be done to make it better. Alex has some good ideas, but mostly he's too young and inexperienced to really know what direction it should be taken. He doesn't understand demographics, and he certainly doesn't understand quality and pride in workmanship. The only enjoyment I get from it is writing my column, an ocassional article or editorial. I don't plan to be there much past summer, but I'm hoping my column will still be accepted. Who knows, perhaps they'll even pay me for it, like they do their other columnists (who can't spell or construct a sentence).
Monday, January 26, 2009
Back to work....
Dawn wanted something besides my articles to read, so here goes... WHY is it when you leave work for a few days off you have twice as much work waiting for you when you get back, even though two people were doing my job! I worked until 6:20 pm tonight, just trying to get caught up, and tomorrow I start looking for classified ads people placed that didn't actually run in last week's paper! Not to mention the billing that didn't get done. And the reports that weren't right. It's gonna be a month before everything comes to the light of day and gets corrected. Was the time off worth it! (Well of course it was... but I'm feeling rather put out at the moment.)
Friday, January 23, 2009
TRAINS, PLANES and…well you know the rest
As you read this, I am sitting in the frozen tundra known as Minnesota. I’m here all week, and so far it isn’t bad. It’s above zero, the snow is falling in big, fat fluffy flakes; in short, perfect winter weather, not like the 25 below zero temps they had here a week or two ago.
I love flying, although I’m always nervous upon take off. My flight left Buffalo on time with not even a de-icing needed. I few from Buffalo to Atlanta, Georgia and then Atlanta to Minneapolis. I blame UPS for this. They determined that all packages must first go to Memphis, and then be routed to their proper destinations. Evidently the airlines assume this to be expedient as well, so I flew 750 miles to fly another 900 miles to make a 730 mile trip. Sounds logical to me.
Most of the flight to Atlanta was clouded over, but as we reached Tennessee and northern Georgia the clouds broke and I could look down on the Appalachian Mountains. WHAT a wonderful sight. The world from 20,000 feet is a beautiful thing. The earth looks like a crazy quilt from that height, all kinds of angles and colors put together. While the Midwest looks like an orderly set of blocks joined together, the eastern United States is more abstract in nature. Triangular fields of grass abut densely wooded areas which adjoin mountainous terrain. The mountains from that altitude look like puffs of brown wool. It’s easy to imagine the earth undulating in its creation, land mass against land mass, smashing into each other and finally coming to rest as mountain peaks. Looking down, the towns and villages are strung along the valleys, sometimes meandering up the side of the mountain for a short distance. One particular string of civilization caught my attention as it continued along an ever narrower valley, right to the base of three ranges coming together.
I’ve never been to Atlanta but I’d heard it’s a big airport, with five separate concourses. But not to fear, my ticket said I arrived in Terminal A and departed from Terminal A, the gates right next to each other! How convenient as I had only 45 minutes between my connections. So I walked up the gangway into the airport, gate A-17. My connection was at A-18. I looked at the departure gate – going to Costa Rica. I looked on the other side of my arrival gate. Nope, that one was going to La Guardia. I looked up and down concourse A, no flights to Minneapolis. I finally asked a gate attendant where my connecting flight was. Concourse E, gate 36. Good grief!
So I took off down the concourse, down the escalator to the underground train system. After looking at the train stops and distances I did some fast math and realized my concourse was almost a mile away! With time a wasting I jumped on the next train and headed that way. We stopped at Concourse B. We stopped at Concourse C. Departure for Concourse D was announced and I waited for the doors to close. And waited. And waited. There began a mass exodus from the train cars, and yet I waited. Finally after 8 minutes I realized the train wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. So I exited and hoofed it the last 2000 feet to Concourse E. I made it as they were boarding my flight. Exhausted and somewhat wired I found my seat and settled in for another uneventful leg of my trip.
I’m here with my son and daughter for the week, enjoying the big-city life and the bounty it offers. I’ll let you know next week what I’ve been up to. In the meantime, I’m looking forward to shopping, dining out, and museums. See you next week.
As you read this, I am sitting in the frozen tundra known as Minnesota. I’m here all week, and so far it isn’t bad. It’s above zero, the snow is falling in big, fat fluffy flakes; in short, perfect winter weather, not like the 25 below zero temps they had here a week or two ago.
I love flying, although I’m always nervous upon take off. My flight left Buffalo on time with not even a de-icing needed. I few from Buffalo to Atlanta, Georgia and then Atlanta to Minneapolis. I blame UPS for this. They determined that all packages must first go to Memphis, and then be routed to their proper destinations. Evidently the airlines assume this to be expedient as well, so I flew 750 miles to fly another 900 miles to make a 730 mile trip. Sounds logical to me.
Most of the flight to Atlanta was clouded over, but as we reached Tennessee and northern Georgia the clouds broke and I could look down on the Appalachian Mountains. WHAT a wonderful sight. The world from 20,000 feet is a beautiful thing. The earth looks like a crazy quilt from that height, all kinds of angles and colors put together. While the Midwest looks like an orderly set of blocks joined together, the eastern United States is more abstract in nature. Triangular fields of grass abut densely wooded areas which adjoin mountainous terrain. The mountains from that altitude look like puffs of brown wool. It’s easy to imagine the earth undulating in its creation, land mass against land mass, smashing into each other and finally coming to rest as mountain peaks. Looking down, the towns and villages are strung along the valleys, sometimes meandering up the side of the mountain for a short distance. One particular string of civilization caught my attention as it continued along an ever narrower valley, right to the base of three ranges coming together.
I’ve never been to Atlanta but I’d heard it’s a big airport, with five separate concourses. But not to fear, my ticket said I arrived in Terminal A and departed from Terminal A, the gates right next to each other! How convenient as I had only 45 minutes between my connections. So I walked up the gangway into the airport, gate A-17. My connection was at A-18. I looked at the departure gate – going to Costa Rica. I looked on the other side of my arrival gate. Nope, that one was going to La Guardia. I looked up and down concourse A, no flights to Minneapolis. I finally asked a gate attendant where my connecting flight was. Concourse E, gate 36. Good grief!
So I took off down the concourse, down the escalator to the underground train system. After looking at the train stops and distances I did some fast math and realized my concourse was almost a mile away! With time a wasting I jumped on the next train and headed that way. We stopped at Concourse B. We stopped at Concourse C. Departure for Concourse D was announced and I waited for the doors to close. And waited. And waited. There began a mass exodus from the train cars, and yet I waited. Finally after 8 minutes I realized the train wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. So I exited and hoofed it the last 2000 feet to Concourse E. I made it as they were boarding my flight. Exhausted and somewhat wired I found my seat and settled in for another uneventful leg of my trip.
I’m here with my son and daughter for the week, enjoying the big-city life and the bounty it offers. I’ll let you know next week what I’ve been up to. In the meantime, I’m looking forward to shopping, dining out, and museums. See you next week.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Nostalgia vs. Change
Nostalgia vs. Change
Nostalgia is a wonderful thing. We can look back and remember any number of places, people and events, often erasing the negative aspects of those memories. Such is the case for me and Ripley Central School. My earliest memories are of looking forward to the day I could go to school like the big kids. I remember being a bit scared the first day when my mother dropped me off. But I also remember having a crush on a fellow kindergartner along with another girl in the class. In typical little girl fashion we called each other names and staked our claim on poor Mark, who was probably oblivious to the entire episode anyway. He didn’t stay in Ripley long, so we moved on to other things.
Every so often, usually during class reunion years, I wax nostalgic about the events I attended at the school. I liked basketball and was a cheerleader for awhile. I never understood football, but went to the games anyway, usually hanging out under the bleachers with friends or near the snack stand. The best, though, were the dances. Walking into the dimly lit gym, the smell of sweaty bodies, and the anticipation of being asked to dance –wow – what a walk down memory lane.
Much of my identity was built around school. Good student, feisty, root for the underdog, flirt; these attributes identified me during my high school years. Some things I’m proud of, others not so much. I collected memorabilia throughout school, not only yearbooks, but I still have my basketball bracelet with R-I-P-L-E-Y spelled out, two seat warmers (plastic covered cushioned pads) I bought for those cold football games, and of course my class ring. I have years’ worth of signed yearbooks because I didn’t want to forget anybody. School was my refuge, my "safest shelter" as is sung in the school song.
Now there is talk of merging Ripley and Westfield schools. The school population of Ripley, and I presume Westfield, is a fraction of what it was when I attended classes. In fact, I was shocked at being told the enrollment is down to 400 students, with projections of 250 students in 10 years. It saddens me to know how many programs and classes have been cut that I enjoyed. The sports program is minimal at best. The memories I love so well won’t be the memories of recent graduating classes, for they never experienced those events, classes, or trips like I did.
But time moves on. It is time to think of the quality of the education our children are receiving. It is time to think of how well or ill prepared they are to enter colleges and the workforce. The competition out there is intense, and the economy suffering. Tax bases and transportation issues aside, the main focus for all of us ought to be giving our children a quality education, wherever that education takes place. A building is just a building. It is the teachers, staff and students who create the memories and identity of a student body, not where they are located. Our kids, both Ripley and Westfield, deserve the best we can give them. The memories we have of our school are precious, but they are just that, memories, and no one can take them away.
Nostalgia is a wonderful thing. We can look back and remember any number of places, people and events, often erasing the negative aspects of those memories. Such is the case for me and Ripley Central School. My earliest memories are of looking forward to the day I could go to school like the big kids. I remember being a bit scared the first day when my mother dropped me off. But I also remember having a crush on a fellow kindergartner along with another girl in the class. In typical little girl fashion we called each other names and staked our claim on poor Mark, who was probably oblivious to the entire episode anyway. He didn’t stay in Ripley long, so we moved on to other things.
Every so often, usually during class reunion years, I wax nostalgic about the events I attended at the school. I liked basketball and was a cheerleader for awhile. I never understood football, but went to the games anyway, usually hanging out under the bleachers with friends or near the snack stand. The best, though, were the dances. Walking into the dimly lit gym, the smell of sweaty bodies, and the anticipation of being asked to dance –wow – what a walk down memory lane.
Much of my identity was built around school. Good student, feisty, root for the underdog, flirt; these attributes identified me during my high school years. Some things I’m proud of, others not so much. I collected memorabilia throughout school, not only yearbooks, but I still have my basketball bracelet with R-I-P-L-E-Y spelled out, two seat warmers (plastic covered cushioned pads) I bought for those cold football games, and of course my class ring. I have years’ worth of signed yearbooks because I didn’t want to forget anybody. School was my refuge, my "safest shelter" as is sung in the school song.
Now there is talk of merging Ripley and Westfield schools. The school population of Ripley, and I presume Westfield, is a fraction of what it was when I attended classes. In fact, I was shocked at being told the enrollment is down to 400 students, with projections of 250 students in 10 years. It saddens me to know how many programs and classes have been cut that I enjoyed. The sports program is minimal at best. The memories I love so well won’t be the memories of recent graduating classes, for they never experienced those events, classes, or trips like I did.
But time moves on. It is time to think of the quality of the education our children are receiving. It is time to think of how well or ill prepared they are to enter colleges and the workforce. The competition out there is intense, and the economy suffering. Tax bases and transportation issues aside, the main focus for all of us ought to be giving our children a quality education, wherever that education takes place. A building is just a building. It is the teachers, staff and students who create the memories and identity of a student body, not where they are located. Our kids, both Ripley and Westfield, deserve the best we can give them. The memories we have of our school are precious, but they are just that, memories, and no one can take them away.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Font choices
Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed it doesn't seem to matter what font I choose, it all comes out the same? Oh well.
There's No Place Like Home
They call Chicago the Windy City. I've been to Chicago. They've got nothing on windy Western New York. The winds here lately have been incredible. I have a huge old maple tree in my back yard, right up by the house, and I wonder sometimes if it isn't going to be blown right through the roof one of these days.
I am in the unique position of being a native to this area, and yet able to look at things from a newcomer's perspective. While I was born and raised here, I moved away over 35 years ago, and since I’ve come back a lot of things are "new" to me again. You tend to take for granted the sights and sounds of a place if you've never been anywhere else for any length of time. When I was gone, I missed hearing the waves lap against the shore of Lake Erie on a calm day, and the sound of waves rolling in on a rough day. I love the wind. I love the way it moans and whistles and the way it can make a low roar as it rushes over the lake. You never realize how much the wind moves a place until you don't feel it anymore. I lived in tornado country for a couple decades and while the prospect of a tornado heading my way was a bit scary, it was exciting too. It meant it was windy, much like home. I’ve never seen a tornado up close, but it kicks up a powerful wind before and after the event. The wind we had here a week or so ago was absolutely awesome! The waves against the breakwall in Westfield were like explosions, flying high into the air and spreading out like a bomb exploding, as if they'd beat the wall down with their sheer force. The beach, such as it is, in Ripley is practically nonexistent now. The ice has built up against the cliff, making its own breakwall before the waves as they try to hit the cliff face. The spray from the crashing breakers reached 30 feet high, soaking us while standing at the top. This display of nature's potency was magnificent.
The lake and the wind; the two most powerful forces here along the lakeshore. They had become a part of me without my even knowing it. The lake was my compass, albeit an inaccurate one, always pointing me north. When I moved to the Great Plains I was lost. There was no large body of water to guide me. It took me years to figure out what direction I was going since I never was much good at using the sun as an indicator. It keeps changing position, you see, and hence is an unreliable source. I am easily confused… I did have one natural body of water to help me along my way however, the Mississippi River. Generally the river runs north and south, so if you’re in Minneapolis you are west of the Mississippi, and if you’re in St. Paul you’re east of the river. Unless of course, you lived in the bow of the river that runs through the city of St. Paul, as I did, then you were east, west and north of the river. I’m so glad to be back home where north is really northwest and south is over the hill. There’s no place like home…there’s no place like home.
I am in the unique position of being a native to this area, and yet able to look at things from a newcomer's perspective. While I was born and raised here, I moved away over 35 years ago, and since I’ve come back a lot of things are "new" to me again. You tend to take for granted the sights and sounds of a place if you've never been anywhere else for any length of time. When I was gone, I missed hearing the waves lap against the shore of Lake Erie on a calm day, and the sound of waves rolling in on a rough day. I love the wind. I love the way it moans and whistles and the way it can make a low roar as it rushes over the lake. You never realize how much the wind moves a place until you don't feel it anymore. I lived in tornado country for a couple decades and while the prospect of a tornado heading my way was a bit scary, it was exciting too. It meant it was windy, much like home. I’ve never seen a tornado up close, but it kicks up a powerful wind before and after the event. The wind we had here a week or so ago was absolutely awesome! The waves against the breakwall in Westfield were like explosions, flying high into the air and spreading out like a bomb exploding, as if they'd beat the wall down with their sheer force. The beach, such as it is, in Ripley is practically nonexistent now. The ice has built up against the cliff, making its own breakwall before the waves as they try to hit the cliff face. The spray from the crashing breakers reached 30 feet high, soaking us while standing at the top. This display of nature's potency was magnificent.
The lake and the wind; the two most powerful forces here along the lakeshore. They had become a part of me without my even knowing it. The lake was my compass, albeit an inaccurate one, always pointing me north. When I moved to the Great Plains I was lost. There was no large body of water to guide me. It took me years to figure out what direction I was going since I never was much good at using the sun as an indicator. It keeps changing position, you see, and hence is an unreliable source. I am easily confused… I did have one natural body of water to help me along my way however, the Mississippi River. Generally the river runs north and south, so if you’re in Minneapolis you are west of the Mississippi, and if you’re in St. Paul you’re east of the river. Unless of course, you lived in the bow of the river that runs through the city of St. Paul, as I did, then you were east, west and north of the river. I’m so glad to be back home where north is really northwest and south is over the hill. There’s no place like home…there’s no place like home.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Redistricting the Snow Belt
Ruminations - 12/11/08
After a 30-year absence, I’ve just moved back to Ripley from Minnesota. Most people think Minnesota is blanketed with snow 9 months of the year, and while true that winter does seem to last a long time there, in fact they get very little snow. I was really looking forward to the snow I remembered from my youth! My husband claims to hate snow. He doesn’t really, but it gives him something about which to complain. I’ve noticed a definite pattern with the snow so far this year along the lakeshore. We get an inch or so, then it rains; another inch or so, more rain. This is very depressing. I may regret this comment later in the season, but I WANT SNOW!
When we were house hunting we considered a house "up on the hill." We never looked at the inside of the house in which we were interested, but it was lovely outside; acres and acres of land, open fields, wooded areas, a creek running through it, the real wide open spaces after years of city living. The one factor that held us back was the drive through Palmer’s Gulf in the wintertime. The twisting, winding road down the hill was daunting to my husband, who is from Iowa. There are no hills in Iowa, contrary to what he may try to tell you. Let me tell you a short story about Iowa hills. One winter, early in our marriage, we were in his hometown of Clear Lake, Iowa. (Yes, the site of "where the music died" Buddy Holly’s death.) I wanted to take the kids to the local skating rink, so Bob gave me directions: turn right, go two blocks turn left, about a quarter mile go up the hill and turn right into the parking lot. The kids and I got there fine, no problem, but when we pulled into the parking lot we looked at each other and wondered where the hill was. We hadn’t seen a hill. We returned after an hour or so of skating and questioned Bob as to where we’d missed the hill. He was incredulous that we didn’t see it! We drove up it, didn’t we realize that? Turns out, an Iowa hill is about as steep as a driveway coming off the highway around here. Miniscule, practically, non-existent. We still tease him about it.
My point being, that I would have been fine with living on the hill, but we chose a house on Route 20 instead. And it doesn’t snow much on Route 20. We went for a drive the other night and headed up State Street in Ripley. At Side Hill Road it was snowing hard. Three hundred yards to the north, from whence we’d come, it wasn’t snowing at all! It snowed all across Side Hill Road, but when we turned north again on Brockway Road, nothing. I want to know who drew the snow belt around here! It simply isn’t fair that points south, and not all that much further south at that, get snow and I don’t. I demand a redistricting! Who do I see about that?
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