I am ending this blog. Thank you for your interest and support. I'll be starting a new one soon. I'll let you know. xx
Robyn
Thursday, March 20, 2014
The End
I am ending this blog. Thank you for your interest and support. I'll be starting a new one soon. I'll let you know. xx
Robyn
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Power of Positive Thinking
I was having lunch with a couple women friends the other day, and the topic of negativity came up. We were discussing a new venture idea for the Friends of the Ripley Library and how it was met with lukewarm enthusiasm at best. I'm a go-get-'em kinda gal myself. When I have an idea, I want to act on it immediately. So the lack of interest in this new project made me feel kind of down. But like my friend said, most people around here are negative at first. You have to show them how it's going to work and how to get it done - THEN they jump on the bandwagon.
Do you know how hard it is to keep "your sunny side up" and remain positive amongst all this negativity? It ain't easy my friend. Sometimes I feel like I have a plastered smile on my face. It's hard to stay positive when everyone around you is down. But I do it! And you know why? Because I've been on the down-side of life. I've looked at the world with a down and out attitude. I've been angry at everybody and everything. I've blamed everybody under the sun for my problems. And one day, it occurred to me how unhappy I was. I didn't like myself very much and I decided I didn't want to be like that anymore.
Don't mistake me. I didn't change overnight. It took years to turn my attitude toward life around. I had an image of who I wanted to be and that's what I worked toward. It came from a story my ex-husband used to tell about a great aunt of his, Nanny.
Nanny came to this country from Germany, spoke hardly any English her entire life, but she devoted that life to raising her nieces and nephews while her sister worked. When those children grew, she helped raise her great nieces and nephews; and then cared for her aging mother and father. She devoted her life to caring for others; never marrying, never having children of her own. And she was always upbeat and positive. It was a decision she made every day, to look on the bright side of things, to make the most of everything that came her way. My husband told of taking her out for pie and coffee once a week, and no matter how bad the pie or how strong or weak the coffee, she would smack her lips and declare that she had never had better in her whole life.
I wanted to be like that; never complaining, always looking for the good. So I embarked on a campaign of positive thinking. I decided to ignore the negative things I saw. I decided to look for the good in everyone. I decided to forgive myself my shortcomings and faults and resolved to do better. I put little notes on my bathroom mirror, reminding myself that I was a worthwhile, valuable person. I stopped myself in mid-sentence when I started to say something negative. It's not easy to turn a sow's ear into a silk purse, but with perseverance it can be done!
I've learned to accept help and more importantly, I've learned to ask for help. As much as I'd like to think so, I can't do everything. My religious friends would say all things are possible with God. I prefer to believe God helps those who help themselves. If you want to wallow around in self-pity and misery, you certainly can, and God won't do a thing about it if you don't want help. I know people who don't want to be free of their depression or anxiety, because it's what they know and they know how to deal with it. Being any different is scary, because they don't know how to react to positive, good things.
If you want to change, however, it is possible through faith, hard work, and a positive attitude. I will start this new venture. I will be positive about its outcome. And those naysayers will hop on board eventually and it will be a wonderful thing.
Just you wait and see.
Do you know how hard it is to keep "your sunny side up" and remain positive amongst all this negativity? It ain't easy my friend. Sometimes I feel like I have a plastered smile on my face. It's hard to stay positive when everyone around you is down. But I do it! And you know why? Because I've been on the down-side of life. I've looked at the world with a down and out attitude. I've been angry at everybody and everything. I've blamed everybody under the sun for my problems. And one day, it occurred to me how unhappy I was. I didn't like myself very much and I decided I didn't want to be like that anymore.
Don't mistake me. I didn't change overnight. It took years to turn my attitude toward life around. I had an image of who I wanted to be and that's what I worked toward. It came from a story my ex-husband used to tell about a great aunt of his, Nanny.
Nanny came to this country from Germany, spoke hardly any English her entire life, but she devoted that life to raising her nieces and nephews while her sister worked. When those children grew, she helped raise her great nieces and nephews; and then cared for her aging mother and father. She devoted her life to caring for others; never marrying, never having children of her own. And she was always upbeat and positive. It was a decision she made every day, to look on the bright side of things, to make the most of everything that came her way. My husband told of taking her out for pie and coffee once a week, and no matter how bad the pie or how strong or weak the coffee, she would smack her lips and declare that she had never had better in her whole life.
I wanted to be like that; never complaining, always looking for the good. So I embarked on a campaign of positive thinking. I decided to ignore the negative things I saw. I decided to look for the good in everyone. I decided to forgive myself my shortcomings and faults and resolved to do better. I put little notes on my bathroom mirror, reminding myself that I was a worthwhile, valuable person. I stopped myself in mid-sentence when I started to say something negative. It's not easy to turn a sow's ear into a silk purse, but with perseverance it can be done!
I've learned to accept help and more importantly, I've learned to ask for help. As much as I'd like to think so, I can't do everything. My religious friends would say all things are possible with God. I prefer to believe God helps those who help themselves. If you want to wallow around in self-pity and misery, you certainly can, and God won't do a thing about it if you don't want help. I know people who don't want to be free of their depression or anxiety, because it's what they know and they know how to deal with it. Being any different is scary, because they don't know how to react to positive, good things.
If you want to change, however, it is possible through faith, hard work, and a positive attitude. I will start this new venture. I will be positive about its outcome. And those naysayers will hop on board eventually and it will be a wonderful thing.
Just you wait and see.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Tempus fugit
How time flies. It's been a bit more than a year since I last posted on my blog. In fact, I needed to contact a friend to get my blog address! You're welcome for the laugh. :P
I started to write a post but it's coming out all depressed and sad. So I'll postpone this for another time, when I'm feeling more upbeat.
Til next time.
I started to write a post but it's coming out all depressed and sad. So I'll postpone this for another time, when I'm feeling more upbeat.
Til next time.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Mark Wahlberg, Jack Black and Other Unknown Celebrities
Watching the Oscars the other night, I saw Mark Wahlberg presenting an award, and as the light bulb lit over my head, I thought to myself, “Ohhh, THAT’S Mark Wahlberg!”
It all started in Boston, in August of 2012. No, actually it all started in London in November of 2006. I was visiting a friend of mine, Sue; it was my first trip abroad and I was loving London. We were in the West End theater district one evening, which was packed with people, when Sue’s son, a photographer, rushed up to us and said he’d gotten a press pass and was going to get a shot of Jack Black, who was there for the premiere of The Holiday. Sue was very excited and stretched her 5’9” frame up to try to get a glimpse of Black. Being a bit on the short side myself, I had no hope of seeing Mr. Black, and truth be told, I had no idea who he was anyway. Having never seen The Cable Guy, or I Still Know What You Did Last Summer, Shallow Hal or any of the other films Jack Black had been in, he was an unknown to me.
Let me explain, I don’t see a lot of movies anyway, and if I do it’s usually a rented video viewed in my living room.
It took a little while for Sue to realize I had no idea who we were hoping to see. She was incredulous! “You don’t know who Jack Black is?!” “Uh, no.” She proceeded to name off a list of films he had been in, and I, embarrassed that I obviously was lacking in cultural knowledge of a great film star, shook my head no at each movie title. This was obviously an opportunity wasted on a small town country bumpkin. Ah well.
Fast forward to August of 2012. Sue was now visiting me in the States and we decided to take a road trip to Boston and Cape Cod. We arrived in Boston fairly early in the afternoon and on a whim I suggested that we take a commuter ferry to Hingham to get a feel for the locals.
It was approximately an hour commute to Hingham and I had a great time people watching. There was a particularly good looking gentleman aboard who just oozed “money” from his pores, sitting on the steps of the ferry. After a time he wandered over to the rail, which is my favorite place to be on a boat, so I started talking with him. I’m not sure what David actually did for a living, but it was obvious he knew a lot about stocks, trading, and the economic future of the United States. During the course of our conversation he suggested my friend and I stop at Alma Nove’s, a trendy restaurant in Hingham, for a drink before heading back to Boston.
Alma Nove is owned by Alma Wahlberg, mother to Mark, Donnie, Paul and a bunch of other Wahlbergs. Sue and I sat at the bar and started talking with a delightful barman, Gabriel, who was waxing eloquent about the restaurant being run by Mark Wahlberg’s brother Paul and sometimes Mark would stop in and visit with the patrons; and how Mark and Donnie had opened a restaurant across the street called Wahlburger’s. Now granted, it was loud in there and I was having a hard time hearing everything Gabriel was saying, but I gotta be honest; I had no idea who Mark or Donnie Wahlberg were. I thought I’d heard Mark’s name somewhere, but I thought maybe he was a computer geek or something, like Mark Zuckerberg or Bill Gates.
Again Sue couldn’t believe I was clueless. I was establishing a precedent here. So I texted my daughter, who is a very savvy individual, and I wrote, “Do the names Mark and/or Donnie Wahlberg mean anything to you,” clearly thinking I would be vindicated by her not knowing them either. She texted back, “Yeah, Marky Mark and New Kids on the Block.”
Once again I was laughing at my lack of current cultural knowledge, although I did actually know who the New Kids on the Block were. But, hey, after watching the Oscars, I realize there are a LOT of celebrities out there now that I’ve never heard of. And quite honestly, I really don’t care. I don’t watch movies much anyway.
It all started in Boston, in August of 2012. No, actually it all started in London in November of 2006. I was visiting a friend of mine, Sue; it was my first trip abroad and I was loving London. We were in the West End theater district one evening, which was packed with people, when Sue’s son, a photographer, rushed up to us and said he’d gotten a press pass and was going to get a shot of Jack Black, who was there for the premiere of The Holiday. Sue was very excited and stretched her 5’9” frame up to try to get a glimpse of Black. Being a bit on the short side myself, I had no hope of seeing Mr. Black, and truth be told, I had no idea who he was anyway. Having never seen The Cable Guy, or I Still Know What You Did Last Summer, Shallow Hal or any of the other films Jack Black had been in, he was an unknown to me.
Let me explain, I don’t see a lot of movies anyway, and if I do it’s usually a rented video viewed in my living room.
It took a little while for Sue to realize I had no idea who we were hoping to see. She was incredulous! “You don’t know who Jack Black is?!” “Uh, no.” She proceeded to name off a list of films he had been in, and I, embarrassed that I obviously was lacking in cultural knowledge of a great film star, shook my head no at each movie title. This was obviously an opportunity wasted on a small town country bumpkin. Ah well.
Fast forward to August of 2012. Sue was now visiting me in the States and we decided to take a road trip to Boston and Cape Cod. We arrived in Boston fairly early in the afternoon and on a whim I suggested that we take a commuter ferry to Hingham to get a feel for the locals.
It was approximately an hour commute to Hingham and I had a great time people watching. There was a particularly good looking gentleman aboard who just oozed “money” from his pores, sitting on the steps of the ferry. After a time he wandered over to the rail, which is my favorite place to be on a boat, so I started talking with him. I’m not sure what David actually did for a living, but it was obvious he knew a lot about stocks, trading, and the economic future of the United States. During the course of our conversation he suggested my friend and I stop at Alma Nove’s, a trendy restaurant in Hingham, for a drink before heading back to Boston.
Alma Nove is owned by Alma Wahlberg, mother to Mark, Donnie, Paul and a bunch of other Wahlbergs. Sue and I sat at the bar and started talking with a delightful barman, Gabriel, who was waxing eloquent about the restaurant being run by Mark Wahlberg’s brother Paul and sometimes Mark would stop in and visit with the patrons; and how Mark and Donnie had opened a restaurant across the street called Wahlburger’s. Now granted, it was loud in there and I was having a hard time hearing everything Gabriel was saying, but I gotta be honest; I had no idea who Mark or Donnie Wahlberg were. I thought I’d heard Mark’s name somewhere, but I thought maybe he was a computer geek or something, like Mark Zuckerberg or Bill Gates.
Again Sue couldn’t believe I was clueless. I was establishing a precedent here. So I texted my daughter, who is a very savvy individual, and I wrote, “Do the names Mark and/or Donnie Wahlberg mean anything to you,” clearly thinking I would be vindicated by her not knowing them either. She texted back, “Yeah, Marky Mark and New Kids on the Block.”
Once again I was laughing at my lack of current cultural knowledge, although I did actually know who the New Kids on the Block were. But, hey, after watching the Oscars, I realize there are a LOT of celebrities out there now that I’ve never heard of. And quite honestly, I really don’t care. I don’t watch movies much anyway.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
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!
Monday, October 17, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
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 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.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
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 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.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, July 11, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, July 4, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
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.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, May 13, 2011
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?
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?
Thursday, May 12, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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