I saw a bumper sticker the other day, “My pug is smarter than your honor student.” I’m not sure how smart the dog is, but it left no doubt in my mind as to the intelligence of the owner.

What kind of distain must this person have toward education? What kind of ignorance must they live in to put down children who are striving to be the best they can be?

In a country of dumbed-down education, where the lowest common denominator rules the rate and level of teaching, it’s a sad commentary where we vilify the more capable kids. Being a jock is held in highest esteem, particularly in some states, but being one of the “smart kids” is a cause for ridicule among some students and parents alike.

When I was a teen, if you were smart (and insecure), you hid your intelligence. Boys didn’t want to date smart girls. Hopefully we’ve gotten over that, although survey after survey still says girls don’t participate as much in the maths and sciences, don’t assert themselves for computer time in the classroom. Hopefully my information is old and behind-times.

I have nothing against dogs. I’ve known some very smart dogs. I’ve known some real dummies as well; kind of like people that way. Maybe we should come up with a bumper sticker that says, “My honor student is smarter than your dog’s owner.” Not particularly witty, but that’ll confuse ‘em for awhile.

Everywhere I look lately I see Wizard of Oz memorabilia - little tin men, miniature Dorothys, signs that say things like "Things just aren't the same since that house fell on my sister." I love the movie, The Wizard of Oz. I'm not sure if I'm seeing all these things because it's getting close to Halloween or if it's just the craze du jour and I'm really kind of sad about the whole thing.

The movie, The Wizard of Oz, was released in 1939. In the 1956 it became the first Hollywood movie to be shown on network television and it continued to be shown every spring for decades. You see, The Wizard of Oz is a story about a tornado taking little Dorothy far from her home in Kansas. Tornadoes occur primarily in the spring and hence, every spring they would show the movie and I would look forward to seeing that amazing film. I looked forward to it all year long. That all ended in 1980 when the movie became available on home video.

The anticipation is gone. The excitement of sitting down in front of the old black and white, and eventually color, television and watching the movie with friends and family is no longer there. Once again delayed gratification bites the dust. At the push of a button, or two, we can view Dorothy and Toto anytime of the day or night, all year long. It has lost its allure and it's a shame.

I'm sure the producers of The Wizard of Oz never dreamed it would still be going strong seventy two years later. And I'll bet they're rolling over in their graves at the continued profits from merchandizing they're missing out on. So fly on monkeys, go get 'em!

Insecta-cide

Should you be following me as I weave down the road, rest assured, I am not intoxicated. I’m dodging woolly bears. These lovely little caterpillars are making their annual pilgrimage to the perfect spot to spend the winter. Why they feel it necessary to cross the country roads and highways to find that spot is beyond me. Why can’t they just nestle down close to home?

Woolly bears, as is so often the case, are adorable youngsters with their beautiful brown and black bands of fuzz, and become rather unremarkable Isabella Tiger moths when they grow up. As a kid, I used to pick up the cute fuzzy things to inspect them more closely. They immediately roll up into a ball when so handled, which makes them even more intriguing. Trying to coax them to unfurl themselves was a challenge that could not be passed by.

As I drove down a particularly scenic five mile stretch of country road recently, I must have come across thirty or forty woolly bears in various stages of crawling across the road. So I dutifully swerved the avoid running over the little creatures whenever I could. Luckily there weren’t any other cars, or Amish buggies, on the road with me.

I’m sure I must have hit a few of them, and that saddens me. My parents instilled in me a great reverence for animal life. Or maybe it was just some misguided compulsion about killing. In either case, we didn’t kill beetles, moths, spiders, ants or other vagrant wildlife that found their way into the house. One side note: flies and mosquitoes were exempt from this act of mercy. Consequently, I am reluctant to kill any bugs I see in the house, or any animals, no matter how big or small, outside. This is a matter of great amusement and sometimes frustration to my husband, who will gladly squash anything that gets in his way.

While I don’t actually deliver the fatal blow to various insects or arachnids, I am not above condemning them to certain death by putting them outside on a night of certain frost or freeze. Infestations of box elder bugs have been removed en masse on chilly nights when they emerge by the hundreds in the sunlight of the day. My patience wears thin after gently placing the first fifty or so outside. After that, the broom is my weapon of choice.

Beauty has is merits in the animal kingdom. I have become more callous in my desire to save all creatures great and small. Ants, centipedes and some beetles are no longer guaranteed safety. Some spiders, especially those who remind me of Charlotte, are spared while others meet their doom. Anything beautiful; moths, attractive beetles, and particularly woolly bears, are gently placed in a dry warm spot to continue on with their day as best they can.

I can’t be held responsible for passing birds who spot a good meal.

The grape harvest is well underway. After a year of worry about not enough rain, too much rain, too cold, too hot, the grapes have ripened into a bumper crop. Running over seven tons to the acre, farmers are rushing to get in as many loads as possible before the processing plants stop receiving.

The harvesters and their sidekick tractors are busy all hours of the day and night and it's not unusual for the pickers to work until 9 at night, sleep for three or four hours and go back out at one or two in the morning. The drivers of the semi loads are under similar hours. Wake at 3 a.m., haul a load to the plant, wait in line for perhaps hours, return to the field and pick up another load and repeat the process. From the growers and their employees perspective, it is intensive labor for six weeks, going with little sleep.

There is something about seeing the harvesters and semi trucks loaded with grape bins that evokes ancient feelings of satisfaction and comfort in me. I feel an unexplained pride in each truck that passes by, knowing that it is loaded with a crop grown by local farmers, going to market to supply the world with grape products, from juice and wine to pastries and jellies.

I savor the aroma of ripened grapes in the air. It's a heady smell and I breathe deeply, almost hyperventilating in my urge to breathe it in again. The harvest will be over all too soon, but there is work to be done year 'round in order to insure next year's crop will be as good.

The following is my final column for the Westfield Republican newspaper. The editor has decided that my services are no longer required as a reporter, and has decided to eliminate my column as well. I'm sure this won't be the end of my writing ventures, but it will be some time before I appear in print. Thanks everybody for your interest and really nice comments.

Time Has Run Out

Remember that article I wrote a couple weeks ago about Time in a Bottle? Seems my time has run out with the Westfield Republican. The paper is moving in a different direction and my reminisces and ruminations are no longer part of the larger picture.

I will miss sharing news and views with you. Your feedback has been very gratifying and I want to thank each one of you who took the time to stop and tell me how much you enjoyed my columns. It’s been a fun run for almost three years – not nearly the longevity of some of the other columnists, but I’ve thoroughly enjoyed every minute.

My goal has always been to highlight the good in our town. The things I have written have largely had a positive slant. Several organizations and groups in Ripley have asked me over the years to write articles for them, or have cooperated greatly when I wanted to write something about the work they do. I have some special thanks to hand out. To the Ripley Veterans’ Roll of Honor, I wish you continued success in honoring our military here in Ripley. The Ripley volunteer fire department has been most kind in their cooperation regarding articles I’ve done about them, and they are a god-send in this small community.

Noah’s Ark from the Presbyterian Church, the anniversary celebration committee of the Methodist Church and the Ripley Senior Citizens have all asked me to help them out. Thank you for your confidence.

I’ve have covered events and stories from Ripley Central School as well as for the Town of Ripley. The Ripley Library and its support group, the Friends of the Library have provided me with ample opportunity to extol what’s good about this town.

To the many other organizations and people who have encouraged me, thank you as well.

For awhile I brought the Ripley Review back to life with reprints of the old articles. I had hoped to continue with that, but it’s not to be. But the Ripley bi-centennial is coming, and I’m sure I’ll have an opportunity to contribute to whatever is in the offing for the celebration. Ripley has a rich and interesting history, and we should be reminded from whence we came. We have a lot of which we can be proud.

I never intended to be a reporter, but rather just a columnist, writing whatever pleased me. You, the people, businesses and organizations of Ripley, allowed me the chance to stretch my writing skills. I am truly thankful to have talked and worked with each of you. Thank you for a great run. I’ll see you at Meeder’s.

Time in a Bottle

The words of the Jim Croce song, “If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I’d like to do, is to save every day until Eternity passes away, just to spend them with you,” resonate a great deal with me lately. It’s a love song, but it applies to many people in my life.

Time goes too quickly, and the older we get it seems the faster time goes by. Saying goodbye seems to be a big part of life. I’ve said goodbye to my children when they left home and again when I left them in Minnesota. I’ve said goodbye to dear friends who have visited, not knowing if I’d ever seen them again; and I’ve said goodbye to friends and relations who have gone on to a better life.

Every one of these goodbyes has been difficult and at times heart-wrenching. But with each goodbye I’ve come to realize how precious and short life is, and consequently, how important it is to live every day as if it were my last. Life is too short to hang onto real or imagined hurts or slights. It’s too short to hold grudges or not speak to people who were once friends. We don’t know if the last thing we said to a friend or loved one will be the last thing we ever say to them. Tomorrow is not guaranteed to any of us.

If I could have saved time in a bottle, I’d spend more time with people I love and make sure they knew they were loved. I’d spend more time listening and less time talking. I’d give more hugs and fewer frowns. I’d take the time to really get to know the people in my life, not just who they are on the surface or what they can do for me. I would make more time for living life and spend less time on the sidelines as a spectator.

If I could save time in a bottle, I’d certainly use it more wisely than I did many times in the past.

Attack Cat

You’ve all seen those cute signs that say Attack Cat! on them, haven’t you? I have my very own attack cat! I hadn’t realized that until I took him to be groomed. My apologies to the groomer.

I have four cats, two of whom are fairly long haired. Not wanting my summertime guests to see my scruffy looking cats, I took the two long hairs to a groomer to be brushed out and mats removed. Now Sadie, my senior citizen of eight years old, is usually quite content to be brushed; we do it quite often out on the deck and she just lies there and lets us detangle her. Pippin, our one year old kitten, whom we’ve only had for about five months, has never been groomed to my knowledge. Any time we’ve tried to brush him he thinks it’s a game and wiggles and squirms and tries to catch our hands with his claws and then tries to bite the brush.

Let me start at the beginning. I loaded both cats and carriers into the car for the trip to a grooming place in a not-to-be-mentioned city about 30 miles from here. (I’m trying to protect the groomers by withholding their name and location.) Sadie is a seasoned traveler and when let out of her carrier, curls up on the console beside me and sits there for the duration of the trip. Pippin’s only experience with a car is his two trips to the vet in Westfield. Pippin cries the entire trip. So with the sounds of meow, meooow, meOOOOW in my ears we took off on our adventure. To Pippin’s credit, he has a range of about seven miles for his crying; then he slacks off to an occasional whimper.

Upon reaching the groomers, I informed her that Sadie would be a sweetheart and that Pippin would likely try to bite her so an Elizabethan collar would be advisable. And I left them.

Two hours later a slightly frantic voice called me on my cell phone to inform me that my “little darlings” were done.

When I got there, the groomer who had worked on the cats was not there. In retrospect, I suspect she may have quit. I asked the other employee how they’d done. “They were awful,” she spat at me, to which I chuckled to myself and asked what had happened.

It seems Sadie did not like the environment or the groomer, not sure which. She hissed and spit and when that didn’t work, she growled and batted at the groomer. Because she was afraid of being bitten, the groomer brushed out Sadie’s side and back, but not her tummy.

Pippin, sitting in his carrier all this time, and listening to Sadie and the other animals, went ballistic when they removed him from his cage. He escaped the hold on him, raced around the room looking for escape, and according to the report, “bounced off the walls, all over the room.” The poor thing ran frantically back and forth the room, jumping up on counters and window sills, under tables and over people.

He was attracting a crowd outside the window of the room. As more people gathered to watch and laugh at the spectacle, one of the groomers said, “Get those people out of here! He’s ruining our reputation!”

During the mayhem of trying to catch the cat, we discovered something else about Pippin. He HATES dogs. There was a dog in the room, minding his own business, getting brushed out, and Pippin jumped onto his grooming table and attacked him! Well, he didn’t really attack him, just hissed and yowled and batted at him. But it sure scared the dog – and the groomers as well.

I’m not sure how they caught and restrained Pippin; they never said. But somehow he got most of the mats taken out of his coat. They didn’t say so, but I think my cats are not welcome there again. I quickly paid the bill and got my little darlings out of there.

I never heard a peep out of Pippin the whole way home. Poor Pip.

Honesty? Honestly!

While shopping at Wal-Mart the other day (evil mega-conglomerate that it is) we picked up several items, both big and small. In the process of checking out, Bob turned the two larger items so the clerk could scan them without removing them from the cart. Items bagged and paid for, we proceeded to the car, whereupon we realized that one small bottle of Calamine lotion had been hiding under the bathroom tissue and hadn’t been scanned. Without much comment, Bob turned around and took the item back into the store to tell the clerk we hadn’t paid for it. After laughing and saying she couldn’t believe he came back for that, he paid for it and left.

What kind of sad commentary is this on our sense of honesty? Not only do some of the customers think it is okay to walk out with unpaid items, even the store employees now see it as no big deal.

Shopping lifting, or an honest mistake like ours, gone unrectified, costs businesses money; they in turn, raise prices to cover the cost of lost revenue. According to some experts, the average family spends $300 a year more to subsidize the cost of what shoplifters steal. Higher prices mean customers may not support that business, impacting the store’s ability to stay in business.

It’s easy to say Wal-Mart, and similar large chain stores, can afford it when an item is stolen. Suppose their profit margin is 10%, only an example on my part. For every $2 that is shoplifted or slips through the check-out, they have to sell $20 in merchandise to make up for that loss. “Grocery stores typically operate with only a 1% profit margin. If someone steals a $7 steak, the store must sell goods worth $700 to recover the loss,” according to an article from Rutgers University. Seven hundred dollars is perhaps two or more week’s pay for a store employee. How long before stores start laying off workers to help defray the cost of these unpaid items?

When did we become so complacent about stealing? Back when the “mom and pop” stores were the norm it was just common sense that you didn’t shoplift from them. You knew these owners. They were your neighbors or belonged to your church, and you knew they would suffer from the lost income. How many of us as kids took something from the store and when our parents found out, were made to return it with full apology? Honesty was a part of our upbringing. Has that really gone by the wayside?

Shoplifting has become a cost of doing business. Stores plan for a certain percentage of loss. That should disturb all of us. It costs the stores and it costs us as consumers not only in higher prices, but in loss of integrity, and loss of credibility to our children. So in answer to the young lady at the checkout: yes, we returned for just that small item. Your job could depend on it.

June Cleaver I Ain’t

Several times in the last few days I’ve heard a variety of men complain that their wives don’t cook or bake; particularly they don’t cook “like my mother used to.” Now ain’t that somethin’.

“My mother’s kitchen always smelled like baked bread (or cookies or meatloaf, blah blah blah).” Have men given any consideration to the idea that maybe their wives don’t cook because they’re tired of being compared to mama? One woman’s story is that she had to make chicken soup like his mother made: cook the chicken in a pot of water, remove the chicken, pour the water/broth over noodles and voila, chicken soup with chicken on the side. She tried adding leftover shredded chicken in the broth one time and was told she had RUINED the soup.

I blame June Cleaver for this. Leave It To Beaver was quite popular in the 50s and 60s, what with the Beaver’s brushes with trouble and the iconic middle class lifestyle, it was a hit with even the men. Who could resist a wife who was always impeccable in the dresses and high heels she wore around the house, which was always perfectly clean and neat and always a full course meal ready on the stove?

Women in the 40s, 50s and 60s, by and large, stayed home with their children. Not all of them of course, but perhaps many of those that did became proficient at cooking, cleaning and sewing. Once they had spoiled their darlings with home cooked meals and fresh desserts, they turned them loose into an economy where women needed to work in order to make ends meet.

For a lot of years we women have tried to do it all. We worked full or part time, came home and picked up the dirty clothes, threw a load in the washer, started supper, made the bed, vacuumed the carpets, swept the floor, checked dinner, washed and dried the dishes after, sat down for ten minutes, then went to bed and started all over the next day. And that’s before the kids came along.

However, after ten or twenty years of trying to be super woman and being compared to how mama used to do it, many of us have given up. I have had my share of boyfriends and husbands (current one excluded) who criticized my cooking because it wasn’t like his mother used to make. Fortunately my husband’s mother was not known for her cooking skills. I do cook and bake, and I’m pretty good at it if I do say so myself. Contrary to popular opinion, just because I spend many of my mealtimes at Meeder’s doesn’t mean I am unable to put a meal on the table myself. It just means I simply haven’t the time.

Hi there,

I just wanted to touch base with you all and see if you're still interested in receiving this blog in your email. I know there are a couple of you who were just added so I'm assuming you want this.

If you really don't care about it, or don't have time to read my nonsense, let me know. I won't be offended in any way. I know there are a lot of things I get in email that I really don't have time for.

Thanks for you interest so far. I appreciate it. Drop me an email or respond here on the blog and let me know what ya wanna do.

Dear Politician

Are you stupid, or just incredibly arrogant? What kind of representatives of our government have we elected? Are you not aware that everything you do, say, post or send on the Internet is open to public scrutiny? Facebook, Twitter, Google Buzz and blogs are not private.

Another elected official bites the dust in Rep. Anthony Weiner, from New York (why are they always from New York?), who admitted he sent lewd photos on the Internet to women he had never met. I particularly love the headline, “Weiner admits he sent lewd picture; won’t quit.” That’s probably truer than we know.

What are these people thinking? They must know they’re going to get caught sooner or later. Do they not care? Are they trying to get caught? What goes through their minds? I certainly don’t know.

There isn’t a one of us who doesn’t have some sort of skeleton in our closet. But most of us aren’t exposed to the revealing light of the new media, and who would care anyway outside of our own little circle of friends and relatives. Gone are the days of public figures being protected by and from the press. Franklin D. Roosevelt had polio and was paralyzed from the waist down. This fact was kept from the American people however, by a media that was more sympathic with the delicacies of the disease.

John Kennedy, now exposed as having multiple affairs, was portrayed as the debonair, handsome young president, devoted to his wife and religion. Those were simpler times.

I’m not sure when or why our relationship changed with our rich, famous and political figures. The paparazzi have regular feeding frenzies when there is a hint of scandal in our public figures. If there isn’t enough blood being drawn from the current scandal, the new media is not adverse to making up some of their own.

So what part of this do our politicians not understand? Is power such a strong aphrodisiac that they think they’re above moral or judicial law? It’s a sad state of affairs, pardon the pun, when one after another of our politicians fall into disgrace over their desire to be thought a “hunk.”

I’m not sure whatever goes on in the private lives of politicians, actors, or other public figures is any of our business actually. Rock Hudson was gay, but generations of women didn’t know or care. Countless presidents have had secret trysts with women who were not their wives; and Arnold Schwarzenegger isn’t the first man to have fathered a child by his hired help. But it seems the current climate demands we be voyeurs into the lives of those who choose a public life.

If we’re looking for perfection in our public servants, we’re going to have to look a lot harder. Nobody is perfect, but our politicians are going to have to help us out a bit and not publically broadcast their indiscretions. Wise up gentlemen. You are NOT irreplaceable.

Shower Stall Blues

Ladies, have you taken stock of what is in your tub/shower lately? It seems what we deem necessary in our desire to have shiny, silky hair and smooth fresh-scented skin is a major annoyance to many of our husbands.

This revelation came to me when I overheard a conversation between men about how one husband, trying to be considerate of his wife, took a shower late one night after his wife had gone to bed. He inadvertently hit one of the bottles of shampoo sitting on the shower surround with his arm, sending it crashing down to the bottom of the tub. Needless to say, said husband was roundly abused, at least in his mind, by said wife for waking her out of a sound sleep; to wit he replied, in that loving way husbands have, “What the %*@ are all these bottles doing here anyway!?”

Indeed, what are all those bottles and tubes of hair and skin products? I, myself, have a very reasonable number of items in the shower. I have shampoo for taking the yellow out of my hair; I have a clarifying shampoo, which as close as I can tell, is to take the impurities and soap scum out of my hair. I’m not sure why “regular” shampoo doesn’t do this, but I’m told I need this special shampoo for shinier more manageable hair. Then I have cheap, store brand shampoo for my husband’s needs. There are also two bottles of conditioner; his and hers.

I have liquid soap and bar soap. I have an additional special liquid soap for moisturizing, body exfoliate scrub and special cleaners for my face. I’m not counting the spray bottle of Skin-So-Soft moisturizing oil spray that I keep on the shower caddy to keep my not-so-young skin from drying out when I’ve completed my ablutions. From time to time I also have a jar of sugar or salt scrub on the edge of the tub.

In my impromptu and unscientific survey of husbands who shall remain nameless, one husband ventured to comment as to the necessity of all “those poufy things on strings and brushes and that sandpaper kinda thing.” Another hapless husband could not understand why “there are at least seven bottles of stuff that are almost empty. Why can’t she use one up before she opens another?” He went on to suggest that a large pair of utility shears could be used to open the bottles from top to bottom and a basting brush placed in each in order to get every last drop out if his wife didn’t want to waste it. Another helpful spouse emptied all the bottles into one, thereby saving space by mixing all the shampoos and soaps together. His wife was not happy and he swears he’ll never do it again.

Now I admit, in addition to the various shampoos and soaps in our shower, I have a variety of sponges, poufs and brushes from which to choose. However, a particular sponge is mine, not to be used by my spouse; although his pouf (yes, real men use poufs) is fair game for us both to use. I used to stock a loofah until I caught “himself” using it on his feet.

In light of the overheard conversation about knocking things off the edge of the tub, I am considering installing an additional free standing shower caddy, although my husband graciously says I really don’t have too many things stocked in the shower. My husband is a very smart man.

Deadlines

Deadlines are the bane of my existence. I dislike being cornered into doing something by a specific time or day. I’m more of a “fly by the seat of my pants kind of girl” like Julia Roberts in the movie Pretty Woman. Julia amended that statement by saying she really liked to have things planned out, and so do I. I am just more lackadaisical about when I get those things done.

The Westfield Republican and Mayville Sentinel have a new editor, Jenna Loughlin, and the last couple weeks the paper has had a decidedly different look. Each editor puts their mark on the look and direction the paper takes. I’m sure there are more changes in store as Jenna gets more familiar with the community.

Having recently met Jenna, I can say she leaves a good impression as a professional woman who intends to make the most of this cozy little paper. My only complaint is that she insists that the deadline for article submission is noon on Friday! For the past several years, despite the fact the paper clearly states a deadline of noon Friday, I have worked under a noon Monday deadline for this column and other articles I’ve put together. Change is so hard…

I’m a Sunday night cruncher. Along about Friday night I realize I haven’t got a column written yet for the following week. By Saturday I’m usually frantically trying to think of a topic to tackle. Sunday afternoon rolls around and I’m sitting at my computer, tossing ideas around in my head, discarding a half dozen or so, and by Sunday night I sometimes have a passable start on what I’m going to say. More often than not I’m scrambling Monday morning to get something submitted by noon that day.

What have they done to me! Without the last minute weekend to fall back on I am now forced to think ahead an entire week! From the time I submit a column until it gets to your hands will be a week’s time. I’ll have forgotten what I wrote when you come up to me and say how much you enjoyed it because I’ll be scrambling to get another submitted the following day. I don’t know how I’m going to cope. It’s hard to teach an old writer new tricks.

My husband knows I’m a procrastinator. It irritates him when I don’t arrive on time. He sits and stews while waiting for me to show up at an appointed time. I really try to get places when I’m supposed to, but quite often I am distracted by other people. I love stopping to chat with someone. You never know what tidbits of information may come my way by just having a casual conversation. When it’s important, I get there on time. It’s just that my idea of what is important is often at odds with someone else’s.

My new hero is Elizabeth Taylor. Prior to her death, she arranged to have her body arrive at her funeral fashionably late. I’m thinking about having that done when my time comes. Talk about missing a deadline!

To quote Sam Levenson, humorist and writer, I’m going to stop putting things off, starting tomorrow.

Memorial Day 2011

As this Memorial Day approaches I’ve been drawn to East Ripley Cemetery where several of my ancestors have been laid to rest. As I tend to the graves, pulling weeds and planting flowers, I am once again full of curiosity about these men who went before me and served their country. The recent death of Sgt. Kevin White of Westfield has been more real to me than those of my uncle and great-grandfather. Sgt. White’s passing is immediate, current, drawing my attention to the present wars the United States is waging around the globe. I know several veterans who were deeply affected by the tribute paid to White. To them it’s personal.

I come from a long line of patriots, dating back to pre-Revolutionary War years. Conrad Near, a German immigrant and my sixth great-grandfather, fought in the Revolutionary War and was killed in the Battle of Klock’s Field, near Palatine, New York. Several great-grandfathers fought in the Civil War on both sides of the battlefield. But the one that piqued my interest this week was Bernard E. Manning, my mother’s grandfather, who was one of two Ripley residents who fought during the Spanish-American War.

Manning, mentioned briefly in Marie McCutcheon’s book, “Golden Glow of History Past,” was one of two Ripleyites who fought in the Spanish-American War, the other being Merle H. Cornell. Lasting only a matter of months, Spanish-American War veteran’s graves are difficult to find I’ve read. Because so few men were called to serve in Teddy Roosevelt’s “splendid little war” it is rare to have the opportunity to visit one of those graves, and we have one here in Ripley.

One of the saddest stories in my family’s history, to me anyway, is that of Harvey Lanphere, Jr. When he was a senior in high school here in Ripley, World War II broke out. He was due to graduate in June that year, but instead he and a friend decided to quit school in March of their senior year and enlist in the Navy. “It broke his mother’s heart,” I’ve often heard. Seaman 2nd Class Lanphere never made it to war, however. He contracted rheumatic fever shortly after signing up and was medically discharged before ever being shipped overseas. Not long after coming home to what I’m sure was his very relieved mother, he was killed in an auto accident. I never knew him, but I visit his grave and tend to its upkeep.

There are so many of our men and women who have fought and died for our country who are forgotten. Families have moved away or simply lost touch with their forebearers over the decades or centuries. A stroll through Quincy and East Ripley cemeteries will reveal 200 or more graves of servicemen who lived in Ripley, dating back to before Ripley was a town.

As you visit the cemeteries this Memorial Day weekend, give a thought to those American heroes who died in battle, as well as those who lived to tell the tale. And when you see a veteran, stop and shake their hand and thank them for their service. So few of them receive the gratitude they deserve for sacrifice they’ve made for our freedom.

Goin’ to Canada, eh?

On a whim, my ever-lovin’ and I decided recently to go to Niagara Falls, Ontario for the night. As we were packing the night before our jaunt, I reminded hubby to not forget the passports.

I do love traveling with my husband. It’s always an adventure. With everything loaded into the trunk early the next morning, we set off in the rain for our adventure. “Did you remember the passports,” I asked Bob, halfway to Buffalo. A look of horror appeared on his face. “NO! Did you?” was his reply. Of course I did. I know Bob. He relies on me for everything.

Somewhere along the way we decided to drive to Toronto to see the zoo there. I’ve heard it’s a good one, and I love zoos; good ones that is. Looking at the maps and calculating our route, we tried to figure out how long it would take to get there from Buffalo. (We don’t believe in GPS systems. We prefer to rely on the tried and true paper map system.) “I think it’s about two hours from Buffalo,” I say. “No, I think it’s more like three or four hours,” my long distance truck driver husband says. “We aren’t going to get there until almost 4 o’clock, Robyn! Are you sure you still want to go today?” Of course I’m sure. I KNOW it isn’t three or four hours away.

Bob has had some issues getting in and out of Canada in the past. He and his first family went to Canada, long before passports were required, and had a lovely time; until they returned to the United States, whereupon he realized he still had a pocketful of Canadian money. So they crossed back into Canada to exchange the money. Each passing of the border guard required questions about where they were from, where had they gone, how long had they been there. If you’ve ever traveled to Canada you know the routine. Upon crossing back into the United States for the second time within an hour, the border guard was a bit suspicious. Where are you from, he asked. Where have you been? Didn’t you just cross into the U.S. awhile ago? Are these children yours? Do you have proof of that? About an hour later they finally let poor Bob and his children reenter the homeland. I get a charge out of that story every time I hear it.

Consequently, I drive across the borders between the two countries and instruct Bob to keep quiet and let me do the talking.

After crossing the Queenston Bridge into Canada I suggested that Bob should look at our newly purchased map of Ontario to figure out the route to Toronto. There is much rustling of paper as he tried to unfold the map in the front seat of the car. I heard muttering coming from his side of the vehicle. “Stupid maps. Why can’t they make a map that’s simple to use? Which way is north on this stupid thing?!”

“Bob,” I said, “don’t fold the map backwards like that.” (I am a map aficionado, myself.) “Road maps are like an accordion,” I tell him. “You just unfold the tri-fold first, then it’s very simple if you just unfold the pleats you need to look at.” Something similar to “smart-alec” came from the other side of the car.

After finally finding the section of Ontario he wanted, he started spurting out route names and numbers all the way to Toronto. “Just give me the first road we’re looking for,” I told him. “Okay, you want to stay on 405 until you get to ‘Q E W’, what’s that, or 406,” he said. “The QEW is the Queen Elizabeth Way,” I told him. “So which is it, the 406 or QEW?” “I don’t know, it says both here!” is the flustered reply I got. “Bob,” I sweetly said, “you were a truck driver for over 40 years! How did you ever find your way around?”

“The speed limit is 100!” he said incredulously. “That’s Canadian, 100 kilometers per hour, dear, not 100 miles per hour,” I gently reminded him. “We’re going approximately 60 mph.” “Oh yeah, that’s right, I forgot,” replied my confused husband.

The U.S. dollar isn’t what it used to be. For the first time in MY memory the Canadian dollar is worth more. After stopping for a bite to eat and getting sticker shock with the bill, first converting American into Canadian and paying $1.05 for each dollar spent, then tacking on a thirteen per cent tax, we head back out mumbling about exchanging money at the border instead of using American money.

“Okay,“ I ask, “how far is it to Toronto?” A sign appears shortly, advising us that Toronto is 120k. “That’s gonna take us two more hours to drive, at least,” my darling told me. “It’s in Canadian kilometers, hun. Seventy five miles away, Bob. We’ll be there in about an hour and fifteen.” “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

The speed limit had dropped to 55 kph when Bob asked me why we were going so slowly. I explained 55 was Canadian, that it meant approximately 35 mph for us. Converting kilometers to miles is pretty easy when you have a speedometer that has both on it. It makes me look really smart.

Eventually we come to the outskirts of Mississauga, a suburb (really?) of Toronto, population 740,000. Wow! Is that in Canadian?

Starflight Mock DWI Crash Presented at RCS

On May 5th Ripley Central School high school students attended a mock crash scenario that could have taken place on a Prom night. The presentation by the Starflight Mock DWI Crash Team is a joint venture between the Chautauqua County Sheriff’s Department, WCA Foundation and WCS Services Corporation.

“Mock DWI crash scenarios are not new to school systems,” said Team Coordinator Ron Hasson. “We have been doing them in this area for almost fifteen years and have received numerous compliments from teachers, students and parents alike. Our greatest reward, however, is that there have not been any DWI accidents involving students that attended our programs in the year we presented at their school during our target times of Prom and Graduation.”

Surveys are sent to some classes and responses like one young lady’s is typical, “If my boyfriend drinks, I’m not riding with him.”

“We try to go to a school every four years so that all the students from 9 through 12 are given the message to not drink and drive,” continued Hasson. By combining educational and behavioral objectives, with emotion evoking music, audio tape recordings, and by developing a contrived “theatrical” approach to the event, the DWI Crash Team provide an effective message to students about drinking and driving.

Pre-Prom Wake Up Call

The headline would have gone something like this: Underage Drinking Causes Fatal Crash.

On May 5th, a sunny afternoon at Ripley Central School, high school students attended a Mock DWI Crash simulation, caused by drinking and/or drugs and driving. Just before upcoming prom night, the simulation was meant to present a strong message about what could, and does, happen when the partying goes too far and crosses the line into drinking and driving.

Here is what happened at the athletic field simulation that day: At 1:40 p.m. on May 5, 2011, a crash occurred at the intersection of Route 20 and Shortman Road in the town of Ripley. A call came over the loud speakers from Mayville citing a “personal injury accident.” The Ripley Hose Company fire whistle went off shortly thereafter. The Sheriff’s department arrived first on the scene and after a perimeter check, called in a Code 1041, a call for the County Coroner. Soon after, the Ripley fire department arrived. The EMT crew found a two car crash involving four Ripley students. RCS students Maggie Hammond, Becky Shioleno, Andrew Judd and Dan Dulong participated in the presentation.

The male driver, Dan Dulong, of the car that caused the accident was able to get himself out of his car, whereupon the Sheriff administered a field sobriety test, which the driver failed. He was arrested for DWI and taken away. The teen-aged driver never got to say goodbye to his friends as he was taken to jail.

Meanwhile, the EMTs assessed the situation. The jaws of life were needed to extricate one of the victims from the car and Andrew Judd was Starflighted to a trauma center. Another crash victim, Becky Shioleno, was taken by ambulance to an area hospital. The body of the single fatality, Maggie Hammond, a lovely young lady all dressed for the Prom, was removed from the vehicle and laid on the ground with a blood stained sheet draped over her. As the emergency crew worked to remove the injured teens from their cars, shocked and tear-streaked faces looked on from the student body.

Chautauqua County Coroner Warren Riles arrived at the scene to examine the body of the fatality victim, pronounced her dead and called for Mathews Funeral Home to pick up the last victim of this terrible crash. Students watched as she was placed in a blue body bag and then put into the hearse.

As the Sarah McLachlan song, “In the Arms of the Angels” played, Starflight Medevac Team Coordinator Ron Hasson explained to the students how the firefighters and police officers who had been at the scene were affected. “They’ll go to their own homes and hug their children, thanking God it was not their child. The hardest thing any of them have to do is call the parents of the victim and tell them their baby girl won’t be coming home.”

The RCS students were then directed to go back to the gymnasium for the completion of the program. Town Justice Vera Hustead appeared to “arraign” the young driver, finding him in violation of seven statutes, the most serious of which was vehicular manslaughter. Ms. Hustead explained the seriousness of the charges to the young driver, including the fact that his “rap” sheet (record of arrest and prosecution) would follow him for the remainder of his life. Any job application he filled out in the future would mean he had to divulge his arrest for vehicular manslaughter. Bail was set at $10,000 and our young driver was returned to jail to await trial, where, if found guilty, he would spend up to seven years of his life in a state prison. His life would never be the same and he would carry the guilt of that night with him for the rest of his life.

A funeral followed, complete with a casket and mourners. Kenzie Mencer gave the eulogy for her friend, and was choked with tears as the possible reality of the situation settled in. Students, teachers and staff sat in stunned silence or quietly shed tears of their own.

Chief Coroner Warren Riles addressed the teens, explaining how his job, after pronouncing the death, included determining the exact cause of death through autopsy and talking to the parents of the victim. Drugs and alcohol have always been around, and lives are lost when an impaired driver takes the wheel. A new threat to student’s safety has become popular and that is the misuse of prescription drugs. Drugs prescribed for the treatment of medical problems can be fatal when taken by others or not according to the directions. Mr. Riles tried to impress on each student how the results of their actions could cause a situation similar to the one they had just witnessed.

Photos of the “victims” are now on display in the school with the following quotes: “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.” “I killed my best friend.” “These weren’t the prom memories I wanted.” And “I didn’t get to say goodbye to my Mom.”

A representative of the Sheriff’s Department said, “We’ve made this as real as possible without taking you to an actual accident scene.” The message is a powerful one.

59 Mother’s Days

This Sunday marks my mother’s 59th Mother’s Day. As she often says, she couldn’t have done it without me. As this year’s tribute to her, I want to share a few of the special things she did for me and my siblings as we grew up.

Almost twenty years ago (has it been that long!) the five of us put together a little booklet recounting many of the memories we had of the special things she did; everything from the smell on her hands after cutting up onions that one of my sisters loved to creating fabulous award-winning Halloween costumes year after year.

Mom, still on occasion, makes homemade cinnamon rolls; Bisquick, sugar and cinnamon and butter rolled up and baked to perfection. There is no other cinnamon roll that compares in our minds. She also spoiled us terribly by making individual meals for anybody who didn’t like that evening’s fare. She became a short order cook in essence because we were a finicky bunch and she allowed it.

Mom was involved in all our school projects, from smoking volcanoes to art projects and she saved almost all our school papers. Sometime in my early thirties she gave me a box of school art papers and homework papers that she’d saved from Kindergarten on. It was like receiving a microcosm of my life to that point, and something I still cherish. I’ve added things to the box over the years, like a favorite dress when I weighed ninety-five pounds and doilies a favorite aunt crocheted.

Holidays were always an event with my mother. We went to countless “Breakfast with the Easter Bunny” or “Breakfast with Santa” outings at the Boston Store in Erie. We were the obnoxious kids who played on the escalator, riding it up and down until the last minute, although I don’t think we were loud or roughhoused. We were well behaved kids for the most part. She took us to performances of the Nutcracker and attended all our concerts, plays or sporting events.

Before the days of seat belts, one of our all-time favorite pastimes was to load up in the old DeSoto, four of us in the backseat, and Mom would drive real fast over the railroad tracks (the tracks at Loomis Street or Phillips Road were the best) so we’d fly up out of our seats and sometimes hit the roof of the car. At the very least, our stomachs would do a little flip-flop and we’d beg her to do it again. It took awhile for Dad to figure out why the car shocks were always shot.

Mom instilled a love of poetry in most of us. She’d recite bits and pieces of poems she had learned in school, bits of Shakespeare, and sad depression era poems her mother used to recite to her. She always said her mother taught her to put expression into the words, not just repeat them, and she’d demonstrate by reciting the last line of The Face on the Barroom Floor, by Hugh Antoine D’Arcy, “With a fearful SHRIEK,” she’d shriek, “ – he leaped and fell across the picture- DEAD!” She’d emphasis the words with fearful clarity.

Our love of reading didn’t end there. My sisters and brother and I were great road builders when we were young. We had two sets of encyclopedias at our house and they made excellent roads when placed flat, end-to-end across the living room. We’d spend hours crawling along the “road” pushing our cars and trucks to various destinations. Maybe she thought we’d pick up some knowledge by osmosis.

Mom spoiled us, she pampered us, she made us feel like we were the most important people in the world. They don’t make Moms like they used to it seems. Depending on the decade, she did all the wrong things according to the experts. But most of us turned out pretty well in spite of it.

Yes, Mom, I DO know how lucky I am to still have my mother. Every year grows more precious. I love you too.

Fairy Tale Princess

Friday morning at 4 a.m. Eastern Time the television coverage of the newest “wedding of the century” starts. Prince William, unlike his father Prince Charles, will marry the woman he loves and presumably they will live happily ever after.

There is a lot of speculation about who designed Kate Middleton’s dress. I’m just hoping it isn’t the same husband and wife team, David and Elizabeth Emmanuel, who designed Diana’s cacophony of styles represented in her dress. Diana’s dress, apologies to my British friends, was a mess. I’ve looked at dozens of photographs of the dress, and it just looks to me like the designers couldn’t make up their minds what to do, so they did it all.

The dress Diana wore must have weighed twenty or thirty pounds. Twenty five yards of silk taffeta that wrinkled like tissue paper on the trip to the church, ten thousand hand embroidered pearls and mother-of-pearl sequins, one hundred yards of tulle netting and twenty five feet of train were put together in what was hoped to be a fairy tale princess confection. Trouble is the design of the dress never quite came together. Mutton chop sleeves that never made it to the wrist and a frilly neckline with a cute little bow in the middle are only two of the mismatched styles the designers employed. Can you imagine how exhausting it must have been to wear that dress for hours on end? I could go on, but I promised friends I wouldn’t totally trash the dress. After all, we Americans loved Diana as much as the British, maybe more.

Although Diana grew to develop a great sense of style, she didn’t start out that way. Kate Middleton, on the other hand, has style and grace that comes naturally it seems. I hear the Royal family is calling the media together to ask that she be called Catherine, not Kate. Good luck with that. As bad as the American press and paparazzi are, the British seem to be worse. I don’t think “Kate” is going to go away anytime soon. I rather like it myself. Makes her more approachable, more lovable.

Do you know the British get a national holiday because Prince William is getting married? He’s not even the next in line to the throne. If I remember correctly, they not only get Friday, the day of the wedding, but the following Monday as well! I guess that’s for all those well wishers who didn’t get invited to the church, so they can celebrate the marriage of the future king and queen of England for days on end. It’s about time some new blood was introduced into the Royal lineage. I’d celebrate that too.

I’m hoping for the fairy tale ending for William and Catherine. It’ll restore my belief in happy endings.

Crystal

April 22 marks the 50th anniversary of the passing of a friend of mine, Crystal Hawker. Our mothers were friends, and consequently we became friends, playing at each other’s house, doing things little girls do. Crystal was ten years old at the time of her death and I months behind her at age nine. Nine year olds don’t have a real strong grasp of death, at least not back then. There weren’t any grief counselors brought in to help us understand and cope. In fact, it was almost as if she never existed; nobody spoke of what happened that caused her death, only that she had been sick. And nobody spoke of what became of Crystal after she died. She went to some mysterious place called Heaven, which was really kind of scary, because while we knew Heaven was supposed to be a good place, none of us wanted to go there and leave our families like Crystal did.

It has been fifty years since she left her dolls and hair ribbons behind and in all that time I never knew how she actually died. Until now. There are two accounts of her lost battle for life, one in The Ripley Review and one in The Westfield Republican. In honor and remembrance of Crystal, I will take a little literary license and combine the stories here.

“Crystal Jean Hawker Ten Years Old Dies After Brief Illness

“Little Crystal Jean Hawker, 10 year-old daughter of Harry and Jean (Pratt) Hawker, of 23 Maple Ave., Ripley, left her fifth grade class at the Ripley Central School only a few weeks ago. She will not be returning to her classroom where she was a bright little student and who loved her school work and was loved by her classmates. Crystal, one of five children of Mr. and Mrs. Hawker, died at 12:30 a.m. on Saturday morning at the Westfield Memorial Hospital after a last minute unsuccessful attempt to prolong her life was made when she was placed at 7 p.m. in the Iron Lung of the Westfield Emergency Corps of the Fire Department.

“Crystal, a pretty little girl with golden hair and a sweet smile, who had been a leading student in the fifth grade class at Ripley Central School, had been ill for about two weeks before she died. At first it was thought that she had pneumonia complicated by pleurisy. Some symptoms indicated polio but the cause of death, according to Dr. R.R. Northrup, was a deep seated rare infection which caused blood clots and the eventual brain hemorrhage which was pronounced as the cause of death.

“Adding to her parents grief was the fact that Friday afternoon Crystal rallied, seemed to be on the road to recovery and was able to sit up without use of the oxygen tent in which she had been placed for most of the hours she was in the hospital.

“Gay and eager to open the cards sent her by many friends, the little girl’s happy state brought her parents their first relief from anguish which they had lived through for several days. Then, suddenly, about 3 p.m. she complained of a headache, seemed to tire and fell asleep. She was placed back in the oxygen tent. Her decline was rapid and at 7 o’clock the iron lung was called for as a last measure to prolong her life.”

Crystal left behind her parents, a sister and three brothers, grandparents and countless cousins and friends. As children we were left to grieve and wonder why. Years later, when I had moved away, every time I came home to visit I would make a trip to Quincy Cemetery to stand at the stone angel that marks her grave, and remember a friend gone too soon. Never having said good bye to Crystal, I will say now, until we meet again my friend.

Alice Has Gone Home

My great aunt Alice has gone home. At two months short of one hundred and one years on this earth, she has at last gone to be with her friends and family. Although I never had the opportunity to get to know Alice Kearns well, I knew enough about her to know she was an extraordinary lady, full of grace and love. I learned a lot of new things about her at her funeral celebration; and it truly was a celebration. There were tears, how could there not be, but there were just as many smiles and laughter.

Rev. David Wickins of the Clymer United Methodist Church gave the eulogy for Alice, and it was the most lovely, personal tribute I’ve ever heard. Rev. Wickins spoke from the heart and from experience and he made the service a celebration of Alice’s life, with references to all the aspects of her long stay on this earth. I want to share with you a few stories that were told about Alice Kearns, and my apologies in advance for any information I have “misremembered” or gotten wrong.

Alice met her future husband on the basketball court. The story went something like this: Alice played basketball (that in itself amazes me since she was a very petite little woman) and the referee for the games kept calling fouls on her when she knew she hadn’t fouled. Turns out Albert “Bub” Kearns just wanted her to notice him; and he figured the easiest was to foul her out repeatedly until she got mad and confronted him. I guess it worked for they got married in 1928. Forty eight years later, in 1976, her beloved Bub passed.

Aunt Alice grew up on a farm in Sherman and was no stranger to hard work. Although I missed the details, one of the woman at the funeral stood up and told the story about how there was a child who’d gotten her boot stuck in the mud and couldn’t get it out. Another youngster ran for help and when Alice and a couple younger women heard the yelling, they set off at a run to rescue the “stick in the mud.” Upon coming to a fence, the two other women tried to climb over, but Alice, not young anymore at that time, simply lay down on the ground and rolled under it. I’m not sure that’s exactly how the story went, it was hard to hear, but that’s as close as I can come.

In her almost one hundred and one years, Alice thought the greatest invention of the century was the electric toaster. However, Alice’s toast had to be made to her exact specifications. The toast must go into the toaster the night before and then sit there overnight. She knew when it hadn’t been done properly and evidently the nursing home where she lived the last two weeks of her life just couldn’t get it right.

Although not the youngest of the family of eight children of Hercules and May Coxen Near, Alice May was the last of her generation to pass away. She was always busy with her knitting or canning, right up to the end of her long and fulfilling life. She embraced each new day, looking forward to what it might bring. She didn’t want to be the center of attention, and would probably scoff at this tribute to her. Her legacy is one of love and caring, and I can only hope, should I be blessed to live so long in such good health, that I can be remembered with such fond memories as those she has left behind. Not goodbye Aunt Alice, but until we meet again.

I apologize for the previous blog entry running together. I've reformatted it twice and each time I post all the paragraphs are omitted. C'est la vie.

WWJD What would Jesus do? Remember that catch phrase from awhile back? What would Jesus do in today’s world? He taught love and forgiveness; he taught turn the other cheek and do unto others as you would have them do unto you. I’m pretty sure he would not espouse violence and retaliation. But I’ve been wrong before. Politics and religion are two topics that are off-limits to most polite conversations. Discussing either can have lasting repercussions. But I’ve got to tell you, I am incensed beyond reason by the recent burning of the Koran by Dove World Outreach Center pastor Terry Jones. Once before Pastor Jones announced his plans to have a Koran burning, but the American government convinced him that to do so would jeopardize American lives overseas. But now he has done as he threatened and indeed, American lives were lost in protests in Afghanistan. Jones deliberately and with malice acted to incite violence in the Muslim world to justify his own hatred of Muslims. In an interview Jones said he was “devastated” by the killings but did not feel responsible for them. Really? Knowing there is a radical branch of Islam who hates Americans on general principle, he did not think his action would bring about more hatred? What would his reaction be if Muslims were burning Bibles? He now wants the United States and the United Nations to “stand up to the terrorists” and punish them for reacting to his sacrilege against their Koran. The Koran is the holy book of Islam. Muslims revere it, just as we revere the Bible. Luke Jones, 29 year old son of Terry Jones, said, “We’ve not studied the Koran, but we still have an opinion. We’re actually not educated.” Jones senior even goes so far as to state he would not consider himself an expert on the Bible. Since when does not being an expert mean you don’t understand the basic precepts of Jesus’ teachings? Thou shalt not kill. Love thy neighbor as thyself. The religion of Islam does not teach violence. It does not teach hatred. It does not teach annihilation of other religions. Islam is one of the three great religions that trace their common roots to Abraham, along with Judaism and Christianity. Muslim extremists have used their religion to justify their hatred of Christians; much like Christians during the Crusades used their beliefs to wipe out entire populations of Muslims. The culture of hate and violence that is being perpetuated sickens me. We don’t believe just what the Muslims believe, and they don’t believe as we do; so what? They cling as firmly to their religion and we do ours. Religion is a cultural and personal decision. The founding of the new world was based on the freedom to believe as we choose – for each to choose their own beliefs. I’m tired of every Muslim being lumped together as a terrorist. I’m tired of Christians of any denomination being viewed as radicals to other religions. How can we profess to believe in a God of love and forgiveness and yet call for the destruction of another religion? How can we believe in a God of mercy and yet condone the violence of one belief against another? Before anybody goes ballistic, I am not condoning terrorism, from ANY religious group. I am not saying there aren’t violent Muslims in the world. Of course there are, just as there are radical violent Christians in the world. I’m just saying, live and let live. It is not up to us to judge our fellow man; at least not according to what I read in the Bible. That’s God’s job.

Library News – Good and Bad

First of all, I’d like to say, contrary to what you may have read in last week’s edition of the Westfield Republican, S. Alexander Gerould did NOT write the Ruminations column “Walk Down Memory Lane.” All complaints or kudos should be addressed to me, as always.

I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is the Ripley Library is going great guns with its Month of the Arts Art Show. The bad news is State funding is being cut to local libraries to the tune of $8.45 million. But let’s talk about the good news first.

March is National Month of the Arts. Earlier in the month the Ripley Free Library hosted local poets who read their original or favorite poetry. The remainder of the month, through the 31st, was devoted to the visual arts as showcased by over two dozen local artists. Everything from oils and acrylics, line drawings, cartoon art, to photographs is being featured throughout the library. Each time I go in, something new has been added. This being the first year for a local art show, word spread a little more slowly than it might have. As people visited the library, they remembered their own dabbles in artwork and brought them in. If you visited earlier in the month to see what was on display, you might want to visit again and see the new paintings that have been added. So far over 100 visitors have gone through the “gallery” and ooh’d and aah’d over the amazing works of art.

I am assuming there are a lot more artists out there in Ripley who either chose not to enter their paintings, drawings and photography or just didn’t hear about the library show. The representation of local artists blew me away, and I expect that next year will be even bigger and better. Who knew so many people in this community could paint? My hat is off to everybody who entered a piece of their artwork. You are truly amazing.

Personally, I haven’t embraced painting – yet. My interests lie in the area of photography. They say the mark of a true photographer is the willingness to look silly or get dirty in the quest for the perfect photo. I don’t claim to be on par with someone like Ansel Adams, but I have been known to lie on the floor of Warwick Castle on the River Avon in England to get a photograph of the tiled and exquisitely decorated ceiling. As I recall, my friend and guide walked past me muttering, “I do not even know you.”

Be that as it may, today is your last chance to take a stroll through the Ripley Library and see what your friends and neighbors have been doing with their time.

The bad news is the State Assembly and Senate of New York have split on whether or not to restore $4.2 million in library aid cuts. Libraries depend on a number of sources to keep their doors open. State Aid is one of the largest sources of revenue. The Legislative Conference Committees will try to hammer out their differences in the budget proposals, but because the Assembly did not include any restoration of funding, the Senate will have a hard time pushing through partial restoration.

These are OUR libraries. This is OUR government. Write, email or call your representatives and tell them you want them to give back some of the funding the libraries so urgently need. Can you imagine our little town without the library? Help by contacting our Assembly and Senate members. I thank you and the library thanks you.

Pi Day at RCS The week of March 14-18 saw the return of Math Week at Ripley Central School. Math teacher Lisa Stonefoot coordinated the event, now in its fourth year at the school. “The first year,” Mrs. Stonefoot commented, “I had to go begging for volunteers. Each year more and more students are interested in participating.” Ripley students have come to embrace the events of Math Week, and the Math Battle of the Classes, according to Stonefoot. It has become a highly anticipated tradition at Ripley Central School. When 8th grader Ryleigh Hawkins explained Math Week to a new student in her class, she called it “the most awesome, incredible thing ever!” Sophomore Sierra Tessmer said of Math Week, “It brings all the students together – we have to work together to solve problems.” “Math Week bumps up the morale of the school and school spirit,” said Ali Resulzade, a foreign exchange student this year at Ripley. On Friday, Mathematics Battle of the Classes students competed in events with mathematical themed games of various categories: Artistic, 3-D, Probability, Survivor, Shape Fishing, Academic, Ordering, and Balance. The Memory competition involved one student from each class memorizing the digits in the decimal expansion of pi. The student who could recite the most digits in correct order won the event for their team. It was the only competition where the students knew in advance what they would be doing for that competition. Maggie Hammond, a senior competing in the Memory competition, said after getting the sheet with the expansions of pi, “I just tried to memorize as many digits as I could. I got up to 100. We’ll see if I remember that many!” When asked how they prepared for the competitions, Analise Mellors, a 6th grader who participated in the Academic competition, said, “I just did my normal math work,” and Allie Gibbs, senior competing in Balance, added, “You can’t prepare really. You don’t know what you’re doing ahead of time.” There was also an Appetite competition. This was perhaps the most anticipated competition of the Battle. This year the students had to eat through a pi-shaped brownie that was covered in chocolate syrup and whipped cream, without using their hands. Leading up to Math Battle Day on Friday, the week included Circle Day, Number Day, Geometric Shape Day, and Similar Day. For each of the theme days, students dressed according to the theme. They wore various combinations of polka dots, squares, triangles and ellipses. On Similar Day, students dressed alike in various types of crazy costumes. The week ended with Battle Day, where each class dressed in a different color to show their class spirit. T-shirts worn by students in grades 6-12 with “The Tree of Math” logo were designed by Trevor Enterline. One of the highlights of the week was the opportunity for the middle and high school students to work with the elementary students. The older students created activities that were appropriate for grades Pre-K through 5. The youngest students made beaded bracelets where each color of bead represented a different digit in the expansion of pi. Other students created their own mathematically themed jigsaw puzzles. The second grade classes made “fraction pizzas” using various toppings. Third and fourth grade students made color-by-number pictures that were made entirely of circles. The fifth graders worked on estimation activities. Both elementary students and their high school helpers enjoyed working together on math activities. As junior Sawyer Tessmer stated, “Math Week is a week where you can work with younger students and help them with their math skills. It’s fun to go to work with the elementary classes.” The elementary teachers also enjoyed having the high school helpers present activities in their classrooms. They were pleased with the ability of the high school students to plan and execute mini math lessons for the younger students Students also went on a scavenger hunt throughout the week. All classes from 6th through 12th competed in various mathematical challenges. Prior to the Battle, each class created a video about a mathematician. Some of the classes had costumes and music, while others used a game show theme to present information about their mathematician. The students had a great time producing their videos. With the assistance of the cafeteria staff, led by Mrs. Sue Gambino, a student committee helped plan balanced meals to reflect the theme of the day. On Circle Day, for example, students were served pancakes for breakfast. Circular personal pan pizza, circular carrot slices and grapes were served for lunch. On Battle Day the students were served a cookie frosted in the 7 class colors for the Math Battle. Mrs. Lisa Stonefoot assisted in planning and organizing activities for the elementary students with the Math Week Committee. Members of the committee included Dylan Bryte, Aarien Carvallo, Danielle Chapman, Brianna Fisher, Samantha Gardner, Kyle Hammond, Ryleigh Hawkins, Eric Horstman, Nick Houle, Dylan Kramer, Win Nuttapornpong, Ian Petroff, Cody Rater, Vinny Shioleno, Sierra Tessmer, and Sammi Trevelline. Donna Lauzon, a math teacher at the school, also assisted with the planning. Ms.Stonefoot commented, “I love to watch the students enjoy the applications of mathematics. It is so much fun to help them plan activities and work with the younger students. They get so much out of it on all levels, both socially and academically. It’s great to see them having fun together, especially when it centers around math!”

Ripley circa 1960

A few weeks ago, a complete stranger, prompted by an article I wrote, contacted me about his memories of Ripley in the mid 1960s. In his email he told me of how, as a kid growing up on Long Island, he spent four weeks in the summers of 1965, 1966 and 1967 here in dear ol’ Ripley so he could “get some fresh air.” He remembered The Fashion Gate, a clothing store on South State Street; the Ripley library, then housed in the Hamilton Estate; Meeder’s, of course; and particularly the Sesquicentennial Celebration in 1966.

Now ain’t that somethin’. A ten year old kid came to Ripley for a summer vacation and remembered it even forty years later. In the course of my email exchanges with “Tom,” I’ve begun remembering places and people from my youth as well. I decided to take a look at some of the old yearbooks because my memory is faulty and I wanted to get the names right. So walk with me down Memory Lane a bit and see if it stirs some memories of your own.

Do you remember Hypatia Foundations at 105 W. Main Street? They advertised, “There are definite reasons why more women in North East, Westfield and Ripley wear Hypatia Foundation Garments than any other make of corset: 1. Hypatia Foundations are individually tailored, cut especially for you. 2. They are easily the most reasonably made to measure Foundation. 3. Hypatia even now uses all elastic garters, choice of lovely lastex” (yes, it said ‘lastex’) “or elastic panels. 4. The finest of materials and workmanship. 5. You may be fitted by the designer, Mrs. Rozetta Braithwaite.” Do you remember calling “Ripley 69 for appointment”?

Or how about the old Ripley Feed & Coal Company? Is my memory correct in thinking the building still stands on Boswell Street? “Dealers in Feed, Cement, Fertilizers, Hard and Soft Coal.” I remember going there with my Dad to order coal, then waiting for the truck to come to our house, put the chute in the basement window and listening to the clatter of coal pouring down into the bin. Ask me sometime about falling into the coal bin and the dent in my nose.

Twenty two Ripley businesses advertised in the 1945 Ripley yearbook, Les Memoires. The war years stopped production of school yearbooks here and it wasn’t until the late 50s that yearbooks were produced again and the early 60s that advertisers came back onto the scene. Names like A.L. Wilcox Insurance, Beatty Grocery at Stateline, Harry’s and Teemley’s Barbershops and E. W. Burdick Oil Company appeared in the 1961 Vintage. Remember Leon’s Pharmacy? I remember a counter with stools where we’d go to order cherry sodas.

No fewer than six gas stations appeared in Vintage 1964: Chuck’s Gulf, Ripley Truck Stop, Pete’s Service Station, Roesch’s Texaco Station, Sinden’s Sunoco and George Lick’s Mobil Station. I’m not sure any of them could sell even a gallon of gasoline today, with Pennsylvania gas prices always so much lower, but they did a reasonable business back in the 60s.

There are so many names and places that are gone now. Only a few remain. As every generation is so fond of saying, those were the good old days. I wonder if our children and grandchildren will look back at the Ripley of today and think of this as the good old days.

The Month of the Arts at Ripley Free Library is in full swing with an art show filled with local talent. Running from March 15th through the end of the month, local library patron artists and photographers are showing their best works. Ripley Central School grade school students from the After School Program have entered their own artwork as well. Oil and acrylic paintings, pastels, pen and ink and pencil drawings as well as artistic, landscape and human interest photography are on display during regular library hours.

The Real St. Patrick’s Day

March 17 is St. Patrick’s Day, a day to claim Irish descent, real or imagined, dress in green, drink a few green beers and toast to good health and little hardship.

We all become Irish on St. Paddy’s Day. The day has become synonymous with parties and drunkenness in most places. But the Irish view the celebration of St. Patrick differently. “It’s actually more important to us,” my friend from Ireland told me. “It’s our national identity in a country with so many different origins of nationality. If you look at our history and how sad it’s been, it’s a miracle we can celebrate.”

I asked him why we aspire to be Irish on this one day of the year. His reply was, “Oh! Why wouldn’t everyone like to be carefree and jolly? That’s the picture we Irish used to paint of ourselves. We didn’t have any expectations of ourselves in terms of leadership and achievement, so we were okay with making fun of ourselves.”

While St. Patrick’s Day is now a national holiday in Ireland as well as a religious feast day, a few hundred years ago the emphasis was on spirituality and provided a much needed break from the austerities of Lent where all Lenten restrictions would be set aside for the day.

St. Patrick’s Day, was regarded as the middle of spring, no matter how bad the weather might be and the good saint promised better weather from March 17th onward. Farmers planted their potato crops at that time, although no one did much work on the big day itself.

The “wearing o’ the green” is a custom taken up by those of us outside Ireland. Wearing a shamrock or homemade paper cross would be customary for the Irish. “We never wore any more green than that,” said Bridget Haggerty, author of an article, Celebrating St. Patrick’s Day in Old Ireland. “To do so, according to my mother, would have been too great a temptation for the fairies! She was a firm believer in the old superstition that green was their favorite color and they’d spirit away any child fully-garbed in green.”

So how did we come by St. Patrick and the tradition of celebrating his life? Patrick was born in the late 300s A.D. in Wales or Scotland, the traditions are unclear. Near the end of the Roman occupation of England, Irish raiders captured Patrick and sold him into slavery in Ireland. After six years of servitude, Patrick escaped to France, where he studied for the priesthood. He asked to be assigned to Ireland. Knowing the customs of the people as he did, he thought he could convert the warring kinds and pagan priests. Because the Irish believed the earth to be a mystical place, Patrick built on those beliefs rather than dwell on the sinfulness of man, as was being stressed throughout Europe. Because of this focus, the Irish embraced Christianity as a celebration of the earth, of the human experience and the human body.

There is a legend that says on the last day, Christ will judge all the other nations, but St. Patrick will sit in judgment of the Irish. In an interview with an author of Irish history, Thomas Cahill, he was asked if this was good or bad news for the Irish. He didn’t hesitate in saying, “That’s great news for the Irish!”

Read Across America at RCS

The Cat in the Hat strikes again. The annual Read Across America celebration took place, by Presidential proclamation no less, on March 2, 2011. Sponsored by the National Education Association (NEA), 45 million readers across the United States celebrated the birthday of Dr. Seuss (Theodor Seuss Geisel) with a day of reading and Cat in the Hat inspired activities.

Ripley Central School students, grade Pre-K through 6, started their day with a Seuss style breakfast of green eggs and ham and birthday cake for dessert at lunch. Throughout the day community members as well as teachers and staff visited the various classrooms to read favorite books or stories to the students. “What a wonderful way to spend a day celebrating and promoting reading!” exclaimed Mrs. Sue Hinman, RCS teacher and co-chair of the event. “Studies have shown that children who are readers to have a higher success rate in school and in life,” Hinman continued. “In addition, children who read frequently develop stronger reading skills. We practice to get better at sports and video games. Reading is the same; you have to practice to get to the highest level.”

“Motivating children to read is an important factor in student achievement and creating lifelong successful readers,” states the NEA. “Research has shown that children who are motivated and spend more time reading do better in school.”



Justin Akin, 5th grade teacher at Ripley Central, visited each elementary classroom with guitar in hand, sharing stories through song. “I have a lot more respect for rock stars now,” he quipped. “This is hard work!” While entertaining the Kindergartners, Akin encouraged the class to get up and move to the music. With book versions in hand, he sang Down by the Bay, Seals on the Bus (a beastly version of People on the Bus), and Alligator Jump to get the wiggles and giggles out of the youngsters in short order. Upon completing his final song, Green Grass Grew All Around, young Edwin Henderson raised his hand and exclaimed, “You sing better than ME!” It seems Edwin has his own guitar at age 5 and is an accomplished singer in his own right.

In addition to the variety of reading activities the students enjoyed, each of them received a book of their choice, a bookmark and a pencil to commemorate the day. “This is the sixth year the students have designed our bookmarks,” said Debbie McKillip, teaching assistant and event co-chair. “Each year we can’t wait to see what they’ll come up with next.” The bookmark designers and their themes were: Conner McFeely, Make a goal with reading; Isabelle Reid, Read what U love…love what U read!; Kimmi Kolibar, Grow into reading; and Jacob Fisher, Reading Rocks!!!

Remember what Dr. Seuss said: “You’re never too old, too wacky, too wild; to pick up a book and read with a child.”