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).

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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?