Act Your Age
Long into my adult years I used to wonder when I’d feel “grown up.” I could see people my age, acting like what I thought adults should act like – serious, worried about business and world affairs. I just never felt that ponderous, for lack of a better word.
I often hear parents telling their children to “grow up.” What does that mean exactly? Is being fun-loving, excited about the world and things in it, and full of awe childish? Then forgive me, but I hope I always remain a child. I hear adults say about other adults, “why would they act so childish” or “don’t they realize they’re too old for that?” What are they being too old for?
I enjoy life far too much to “grow up.” Responsibility is a part of being an adult, and lord knows, I’ve had my share of responsibility. I raised two reasonably responsible children of my own; I took in three orphaned teenagers and adopted one of them when I was but 24 years old and did the best I could do to see that they were put on the right path; I spent 23 years of my life being responsible for other people’s children in my daycare; I took care of my mother-in-law who was wheelchair bound, blind with cataracts, hard of hearing and had a tracheotomy tube, during the last year and a half of her life. And yet, I still don’t feel “grown up” if it means acting my age. Someone tell me what my age acts like.
I’m 58 years old (a woman never tells her age, but then I don’t feel like a woman, I’m still a girl at heart!) I shop for sensible but fun clothes, I like my hair in trendy cuts, and I do odd things now and then, like dye my hair pink and wear outrageous eye makeup. Does this mean I’m acting like a child? Gosh, I hope so!
Children are wonderful, aren’t they? They don’t worry if their hair is mussed, they dig in the dirt for treasures, and they wonder at the clouds passing by. They are full of life and energy and fascination. WHY would we want to be anything other than that! And yet we have this unfortunate tendency to want to beat it out of them. – Stand up straight, don’t dawdle, stay in line, come on! We need to get going…
I guess I was fortunate in having parents and teachers who understood the nature of a child to want to explore and discover. I haven’t lost that tendency. And hopefully I haven’t lost the desire to be unique and fun loving.
There’s a joke that makes the rounds on the Internet that goes something like inside every old person is a young person wondering what the heck happened. Someone once said to me, you’re either living or you’re waiting around to die. I’d rather be living, thank you very much.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
Working It Out
I always said when I turned 40 and got my head screwed on straight, I’d blow up like a balloon. Up until then I weighed 110 pounds or less, and I ate all the time: breakfast at home, a bagel with peanut butter and coffee when I got to work, 10 o’clock break, lunch at noon, 3 o’clock break, supper. Stop. I didn’t eat after supper; that was my concession to maintaining my weight. And I maintained a size 3 figure. Sure enough, at age 40 I got divorced, remarried, my metabolism slowed down and I started putting on weight. The only correlation I can make with the marriages is that my new husband would lovingly offer me candies and treats, hand feeding me Roman style each night on the sofa as we watched television. It was bound to happen. I got fat.
I am many sizes larger than a 3 these days; I huff and puff going up the stairs and I can’t walk any distance before “pooping” out. I am in sorry shape my friends.
To the rescue, just in time for New Year’s Resolutions, enters Ripley Central School! With a grant, they have converted the old “big” gym (to those of us over 50,) or the old “little” gym (to those of you who are younger,) into a glorious, fully equipped, state-of-the-art exercise room. I was actually working at the school when they started the project. It saddened me to see the old bleachers torn out and the stage boarded up; so many memories there. But now! Oh my! The architects incorporated the curve of the old stage opening into the design and have created a gym area with basketball nets, and a two-story exercise facility that rivals anything the high priced commercial gyms have.
There are, naturally, tread mills, stationary bikes, stair climbers and elliptical machines. In addition, there is an entire section of weight machines along with free weights. Got a muscle that hasn’t been used lately? There’s a machine for that. Got a roll of fat that needs trimming? There’s a machine for that. (My apologies to the cell phone ads.) It is exercise mecca. And here’s the greatest thing about all this equipment – it is open and available to all Ripley residents, free of charge until June! If you’re like me, you’ve been making excuses about why you can’t exercise. Commercial facilities are too expensive. It’s too far to drive. It’s too cold out, etc. etc. etc. All my attempts at stalling have been wiped out. My only excuse now would be pure laziness. I don’t rule that out, mind you.
The Tuesday after Christmas my husband, the bon-bon feeding accomplice to my weight gain, and I went down to the school to try it out. While he rode bicycle and walked across Texas on the treadmill, I ventured to try every weight machine available. Rachael Swan was on duty that day, and although professing little knowledge of fitness programs for others, showed me how to use each piece of equipment. I proceeded to work my abs and triceps, my quads and glutes, my obliques and pecs … in short every muscle and area of my body that I never knew existed. I was exhilarated! I was exhausted. I was foolish. By Wednesday night I could hardly move. I had only done 5 to 10 reps on each machine, but to a body unused to exertion, it was torture.
My New Year’s Resolution is to get back down there, take advantage of the free use of the exercise equipment, get my weight down, my stamina up and become the new improved me. I challenge all of you Ripley residents to join me. I’m sick of seeing skinny, fit people in gym workout commercials. I want to see a bunch of overweight, out of shape people like me in there, trying to make our lives healthier. Evening hours will be available after school resumes. I’m going to go get some buns of steel. C’mon and join me!
*As with all fitness programs, check with your doctor first to make sure it is safe for you to begin an exercise program.
I always said when I turned 40 and got my head screwed on straight, I’d blow up like a balloon. Up until then I weighed 110 pounds or less, and I ate all the time: breakfast at home, a bagel with peanut butter and coffee when I got to work, 10 o’clock break, lunch at noon, 3 o’clock break, supper. Stop. I didn’t eat after supper; that was my concession to maintaining my weight. And I maintained a size 3 figure. Sure enough, at age 40 I got divorced, remarried, my metabolism slowed down and I started putting on weight. The only correlation I can make with the marriages is that my new husband would lovingly offer me candies and treats, hand feeding me Roman style each night on the sofa as we watched television. It was bound to happen. I got fat.
I am many sizes larger than a 3 these days; I huff and puff going up the stairs and I can’t walk any distance before “pooping” out. I am in sorry shape my friends.
To the rescue, just in time for New Year’s Resolutions, enters Ripley Central School! With a grant, they have converted the old “big” gym (to those of us over 50,) or the old “little” gym (to those of you who are younger,) into a glorious, fully equipped, state-of-the-art exercise room. I was actually working at the school when they started the project. It saddened me to see the old bleachers torn out and the stage boarded up; so many memories there. But now! Oh my! The architects incorporated the curve of the old stage opening into the design and have created a gym area with basketball nets, and a two-story exercise facility that rivals anything the high priced commercial gyms have.
There are, naturally, tread mills, stationary bikes, stair climbers and elliptical machines. In addition, there is an entire section of weight machines along with free weights. Got a muscle that hasn’t been used lately? There’s a machine for that. Got a roll of fat that needs trimming? There’s a machine for that. (My apologies to the cell phone ads.) It is exercise mecca. And here’s the greatest thing about all this equipment – it is open and available to all Ripley residents, free of charge until June! If you’re like me, you’ve been making excuses about why you can’t exercise. Commercial facilities are too expensive. It’s too far to drive. It’s too cold out, etc. etc. etc. All my attempts at stalling have been wiped out. My only excuse now would be pure laziness. I don’t rule that out, mind you.
The Tuesday after Christmas my husband, the bon-bon feeding accomplice to my weight gain, and I went down to the school to try it out. While he rode bicycle and walked across Texas on the treadmill, I ventured to try every weight machine available. Rachael Swan was on duty that day, and although professing little knowledge of fitness programs for others, showed me how to use each piece of equipment. I proceeded to work my abs and triceps, my quads and glutes, my obliques and pecs … in short every muscle and area of my body that I never knew existed. I was exhilarated! I was exhausted. I was foolish. By Wednesday night I could hardly move. I had only done 5 to 10 reps on each machine, but to a body unused to exertion, it was torture.
My New Year’s Resolution is to get back down there, take advantage of the free use of the exercise equipment, get my weight down, my stamina up and become the new improved me. I challenge all of you Ripley residents to join me. I’m sick of seeing skinny, fit people in gym workout commercials. I want to see a bunch of overweight, out of shape people like me in there, trying to make our lives healthier. Evening hours will be available after school resumes. I’m going to go get some buns of steel. C’mon and join me!
*As with all fitness programs, check with your doctor first to make sure it is safe for you to begin an exercise program.
Merry Christmas – Say It Proudly
No one would ever accuse me of being a right wing conservative, but I agree, let’s bring back the “Merry Christmas” in Christmas. A few years back some religious groups started a movement to boycott stores who would not allow their employees to wish a merry Christmas. It seems to be working. Wal-Mart employees are now encouraged wish their customers Merry Christmas and while Target never did tell their employees they couldn’t say “Merry Christmas,” they did ban the Salvation Army from ringing their bells outside Target stores. In the political correctness of the times, a number of businesses felt it incumbent on themselves to include all the holidays of the season, i.e. Chanukah and Kwanzaa. And yet retailers are focused on the holiday of Christmas. The trees, decorations and gifts are aimed at Christmas shoppers. Santa Claus is featured in many stores, and he is a Christmas symbol.
This is a Christian country. We were founded on Christian principles. A majority of Americans (76 percent) consider themselves Christian. And yet we have no “official” religion because the First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States prevents the government from any authority in religious matters. This is a good thing to my mind. Government should not dictate religious ideals, but neither should they discourage religious expression. The idea that retailers should guard themselves against discriminatory practices by eliminating the word “Christmas” is ludicrous. Ben Stein, political speechwriter, law professor, economist, columnist, actor and Jew wrote a lovely piece about Christmas. In it he said in part, “I am a Jew…and it does not bother me a bit when people say Merry Christmas to me…it shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year.”
We have lost the meaning of the holiday along the way. It is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ; not a contest to see who got the most toys, or who lit their house up the best. However, whatever your personal beliefs, it is a season of hope and love. Where else in the world are so many religions and beliefs tolerated? Where else are we free to express those beliefs as we see fit without fear of reprisal? Wish everyone you meet a “Merry Christmas” and say it proudly. And should you be wished a Happy Chanukah or a Happy Holiday in return, smile and be content in the brotherhood of man.
No one would ever accuse me of being a right wing conservative, but I agree, let’s bring back the “Merry Christmas” in Christmas. A few years back some religious groups started a movement to boycott stores who would not allow their employees to wish a merry Christmas. It seems to be working. Wal-Mart employees are now encouraged wish their customers Merry Christmas and while Target never did tell their employees they couldn’t say “Merry Christmas,” they did ban the Salvation Army from ringing their bells outside Target stores. In the political correctness of the times, a number of businesses felt it incumbent on themselves to include all the holidays of the season, i.e. Chanukah and Kwanzaa. And yet retailers are focused on the holiday of Christmas. The trees, decorations and gifts are aimed at Christmas shoppers. Santa Claus is featured in many stores, and he is a Christmas symbol.
This is a Christian country. We were founded on Christian principles. A majority of Americans (76 percent) consider themselves Christian. And yet we have no “official” religion because the First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States prevents the government from any authority in religious matters. This is a good thing to my mind. Government should not dictate religious ideals, but neither should they discourage religious expression. The idea that retailers should guard themselves against discriminatory practices by eliminating the word “Christmas” is ludicrous. Ben Stein, political speechwriter, law professor, economist, columnist, actor and Jew wrote a lovely piece about Christmas. In it he said in part, “I am a Jew…and it does not bother me a bit when people say Merry Christmas to me…it shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year.”
We have lost the meaning of the holiday along the way. It is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ; not a contest to see who got the most toys, or who lit their house up the best. However, whatever your personal beliefs, it is a season of hope and love. Where else in the world are so many religions and beliefs tolerated? Where else are we free to express those beliefs as we see fit without fear of reprisal? Wish everyone you meet a “Merry Christmas” and say it proudly. And should you be wished a Happy Chanukah or a Happy Holiday in return, smile and be content in the brotherhood of man.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Silver Bells
Ring-a-ling…It’s Christmas time in the city. The Salvation Army bell ringers are out in full force everywhere you go. The red kettles beckon us to give, and give again, for the less fortunate.
The work the Salvation Army does is well documented. 83 cents of every dollar collected goes directly to client services. This is one of the highest percentages of any non-profit in the world. They don’t just provide meals at holiday time; they provide disaster relief services, day care centers, summer camps, services for the aging, AIDS education, medical facilities, and shelters for battered women and children, among many other services. More than 30 million people a year are aided in some form of service provided by the Army.
The Salvation Army had been depicted in the movies as a soup kitchen, with sitting through a sermon preaching the evils of “demon rum” as the price of admission. They do in fact have an aggressive program devoted to defeating substance abuse. They run 120 rehabilitation centers across the country, treating those who can no longer cope with their addictions, supplying housing, meals, necessary medical care and work therapy.
The Army is not perfect. People run the organization on a local as well as national level, and people are not perfect. I’ve heard stories where a local head of the church picked clothes from the donation bin that were particularly nice for his own children, rather than sell them to the more needy of the community. I’m sure there are other similar tales of corruption, but overall, the good they do far outweighs any minor, local indiscretions.
The Salvation Army is a Christian religious organization, devoted to helping their fellow man. I know of people who refuse to donate because they are not their church. The charity the Salvation Army gives, the work they do, the causes they support, are given without prejudice.
My daughter and son-in-law have decided to make bell ringing an annual tradition. They stand outside their local Target and ring the bell. They smile and wish everyone, whether they give or not, a merry Christmas. The bell ringers come from all walks of life and from all religions; and they stand outside in the cold, the snow, the rain, and the wind, hoping to fill the kettle before the next shift comes around. I knew a bell ringer once, an elderly man, who stood outside and sang songs and rhymes of his own creation to the passersby. He was very entertaining and always had a kind word for those who stopped at his kettle. One year he wasn’t there. When I enquired about his absence I was told he was no longer at that location because he had offended some patrons with his pleas for donations. It’s a sad world when we can’t take a bit of good natured teasing about how we spend our money. Evidently he pricked a few consciences a little too hard.
When you pass a red kettle this year, pull out your wallet or fish for change, and give. I know it’s hard for me to not put money into every kettle I see, but hopefully the bell ringer will understand that I’ve already given or mailed in a contribution. Smile and wish them a Merry Christmas and thank them for the work they do. The money they raise may help you or someone you love some day.
Ring-a-ling…It’s Christmas time in the city. The Salvation Army bell ringers are out in full force everywhere you go. The red kettles beckon us to give, and give again, for the less fortunate.
The work the Salvation Army does is well documented. 83 cents of every dollar collected goes directly to client services. This is one of the highest percentages of any non-profit in the world. They don’t just provide meals at holiday time; they provide disaster relief services, day care centers, summer camps, services for the aging, AIDS education, medical facilities, and shelters for battered women and children, among many other services. More than 30 million people a year are aided in some form of service provided by the Army.
The Salvation Army had been depicted in the movies as a soup kitchen, with sitting through a sermon preaching the evils of “demon rum” as the price of admission. They do in fact have an aggressive program devoted to defeating substance abuse. They run 120 rehabilitation centers across the country, treating those who can no longer cope with their addictions, supplying housing, meals, necessary medical care and work therapy.
The Army is not perfect. People run the organization on a local as well as national level, and people are not perfect. I’ve heard stories where a local head of the church picked clothes from the donation bin that were particularly nice for his own children, rather than sell them to the more needy of the community. I’m sure there are other similar tales of corruption, but overall, the good they do far outweighs any minor, local indiscretions.
The Salvation Army is a Christian religious organization, devoted to helping their fellow man. I know of people who refuse to donate because they are not their church. The charity the Salvation Army gives, the work they do, the causes they support, are given without prejudice.
My daughter and son-in-law have decided to make bell ringing an annual tradition. They stand outside their local Target and ring the bell. They smile and wish everyone, whether they give or not, a merry Christmas. The bell ringers come from all walks of life and from all religions; and they stand outside in the cold, the snow, the rain, and the wind, hoping to fill the kettle before the next shift comes around. I knew a bell ringer once, an elderly man, who stood outside and sang songs and rhymes of his own creation to the passersby. He was very entertaining and always had a kind word for those who stopped at his kettle. One year he wasn’t there. When I enquired about his absence I was told he was no longer at that location because he had offended some patrons with his pleas for donations. It’s a sad world when we can’t take a bit of good natured teasing about how we spend our money. Evidently he pricked a few consciences a little too hard.
When you pass a red kettle this year, pull out your wallet or fish for change, and give. I know it’s hard for me to not put money into every kettle I see, but hopefully the bell ringer will understand that I’ve already given or mailed in a contribution. Smile and wish them a Merry Christmas and thank them for the work they do. The money they raise may help you or someone you love some day.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Saying Goodbye
Such Sweet Sorrow
It seems I’ve spent most of my adult life saying goodbye to the people I love. I moved away from home to Columbus, Ohio when I was 20. It was an adventure then, moving away from the small town where I’d grown up to the big city. I don’t remember it clearly anymore, but I’m sure I blithely packed up and waved goodbye with a smile on my face, anxious to get on with my life. I soon learned that I’d miss my folks and siblings more than I thought imaginable. But it was only a 4 ½ hour drive, so I was able to visit several times a year. Each passing year seemed to take me further and further from home, however; first to New Hampshire, then on to Minnesota. Visits got less frequent, once a year, maybe twice in a good year. And as my parents got older and I got wiser, each parting was harder than the last. I’d try to smile, assure us all that I’d be back soon, then hop in the car and drive away. I always insisted on me being the driver. That way I couldn’t cry as long or as hard because I had to pay attention to the road. I always knew I’d cry the whole way back if I was just a passenger.
The hardest goodbye was when I came home from Minnesota for good. I left two adult children behind, and it broke my heart to leave them. We tried to go out for a “goodbye dinner” the night before we left, but nobody could eat. We tried to talk about normal things, but nobody felt like talking. The next morning we pulled away from the home my children had grown up in, my husband driving the U-Haul truck, me driving the car. I sobbed for the first two hours on the road, my heart alternately screaming, “Don’t go!” or “Come with me!” I felt like someone had ripped my heart in two.
I’ve only been back to Minnesota once since then. The goodbyes that visit were easier than the initial one, but still wrenching. Then, this Thanksgiving my son came to Ripley for the week. I longed to see him, but dreaded the newest farewell to come. My son is divorced and his little girl, six year old Abby, lives near Ithaca, New York now. We both looked forward to driving out for a short visit with her, but dreaded that goodbye. Abby hasn’t seen her dad in quite awhile and he wasn’t sure how she’d react to him. Several months can be a lifetime to a six year old. Abby answered the door and saw me first. “Grandma!” she cried with arms outstretched. But as she started toward me she saw her dad and pivoted on the spot and ran to his arms. My heart soared to see her excitement.
She pulled us inside to tell us all about her day at school, learning about Thanksgiving, pilgrims and how she learned another word for Indians was Native Americans. The joy my son and his daughter felt during that visit was palpable. Abby was going to a friend’s birthday party that night, so we took her. She and “Daddy” played in the maze and slide of the play place. When it came time for us to leave he asked her if she wanted us to take her home or did she want to stay at the party a bit longer and go home with her friend’s mother. Abby opted for her friend’s mom so we put on our happy faces and hugged and kissed her goodbye, saving our tears for later. But when we got outside I remembered the booster seat had to be transferred to the other car, so I suggested my son go back and say a final goodbye while I took care of it. He came back to the car a few minutes later, Abby clinging to him. He had found her sitting in the corner of the ball pit, crying, because she’d changed her mind and wanted to be with her dad.
I watched from the rear view mirror as they held each other, whispering, “I love you, Daddy,” and “I love you too, Abby.” She fell asleep in his arms as we drove. When we got to her house, they shared a final I love you, then he handed her to her mom as she waved a sleepy little hand goodbye. I knew the pain my son was feeling. I felt it too. A few days later I said goodbye to my baby, my son. Even though we know there will be other visits, albeit infrequent, it’s never easy saying goodbye.
It’s officially the Christmas season now. The season for sharing…giving…loving. Give your loved ones a special hug this year, tell them you love them, cherish every moment you can be with them. Life is too short and the world needs more love as we wait for the next goodbye.
It seems I’ve spent most of my adult life saying goodbye to the people I love. I moved away from home to Columbus, Ohio when I was 20. It was an adventure then, moving away from the small town where I’d grown up to the big city. I don’t remember it clearly anymore, but I’m sure I blithely packed up and waved goodbye with a smile on my face, anxious to get on with my life. I soon learned that I’d miss my folks and siblings more than I thought imaginable. But it was only a 4 ½ hour drive, so I was able to visit several times a year. Each passing year seemed to take me further and further from home, however; first to New Hampshire, then on to Minnesota. Visits got less frequent, once a year, maybe twice in a good year. And as my parents got older and I got wiser, each parting was harder than the last. I’d try to smile, assure us all that I’d be back soon, then hop in the car and drive away. I always insisted on me being the driver. That way I couldn’t cry as long or as hard because I had to pay attention to the road. I always knew I’d cry the whole way back if I was just a passenger.
The hardest goodbye was when I came home from Minnesota for good. I left two adult children behind, and it broke my heart to leave them. We tried to go out for a “goodbye dinner” the night before we left, but nobody could eat. We tried to talk about normal things, but nobody felt like talking. The next morning we pulled away from the home my children had grown up in, my husband driving the U-Haul truck, me driving the car. I sobbed for the first two hours on the road, my heart alternately screaming, “Don’t go!” or “Come with me!” I felt like someone had ripped my heart in two.
I’ve only been back to Minnesota once since then. The goodbyes that visit were easier than the initial one, but still wrenching. Then, this Thanksgiving my son came to Ripley for the week. I longed to see him, but dreaded the newest farewell to come. My son is divorced and his little girl, six year old Abby, lives near Ithaca, New York now. We both looked forward to driving out for a short visit with her, but dreaded that goodbye. Abby hasn’t seen her dad in quite awhile and he wasn’t sure how she’d react to him. Several months can be a lifetime to a six year old. Abby answered the door and saw me first. “Grandma!” she cried with arms outstretched. But as she started toward me she saw her dad and pivoted on the spot and ran to his arms. My heart soared to see her excitement.
She pulled us inside to tell us all about her day at school, learning about Thanksgiving, pilgrims and how she learned another word for Indians was Native Americans. The joy my son and his daughter felt during that visit was palpable. Abby was going to a friend’s birthday party that night, so we took her. She and “Daddy” played in the maze and slide of the play place. When it came time for us to leave he asked her if she wanted us to take her home or did she want to stay at the party a bit longer and go home with her friend’s mother. Abby opted for her friend’s mom so we put on our happy faces and hugged and kissed her goodbye, saving our tears for later. But when we got outside I remembered the booster seat had to be transferred to the other car, so I suggested my son go back and say a final goodbye while I took care of it. He came back to the car a few minutes later, Abby clinging to him. He had found her sitting in the corner of the ball pit, crying, because she’d changed her mind and wanted to be with her dad.
I watched from the rear view mirror as they held each other, whispering, “I love you, Daddy,” and “I love you too, Abby.” She fell asleep in his arms as we drove. When we got to her house, they shared a final I love you, then he handed her to her mom as she waved a sleepy little hand goodbye. I knew the pain my son was feeling. I felt it too. A few days later I said goodbye to my baby, my son. Even though we know there will be other visits, albeit infrequent, it’s never easy saying goodbye.
It’s officially the Christmas season now. The season for sharing…giving…loving. Give your loved ones a special hug this year, tell them you love them, cherish every moment you can be with them. Life is too short and the world needs more love as we wait for the next goodbye.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Waves on the Beach
Autumn Comes In Like a Lion
Autumn is my favorite season; the cooler temperatures that come in on the wind, the changing colors of the trees. I love clouds when they have character. None of this blanket of gray overcast; give me towering thunderheads and scuttling cumulus ahead of the wind. The peek-a-boo of blue sky between the clouds is like finding a treasure.
The entire summer here on Lake Erie has been a mixture of feast or famine; weeks on end without rain, followed by one deluge after another. The first day of autumn came in blustery and rainy. The wind has persisted for days now, along with showers and downpours. I spent this morning at Barcelona harbor watching the massive waves roll to the shore, throwing themselves with explosive force against the break wall and then exploding once again when the retreating wave met another incoming. The force of nature is always awe inspiring and a bit frightening.
The crashing waves have taken over the beach. The gulls scurry to find any tidbit that might be washed up, then scatter when the next wave rolls in. A few brave, or perhaps foolhardy, gulls were aloft being buffeted by the winds straight out of the west, trying to make headway only to be held in position like kites. I wish I were a painter, I’d love to put the violence of the wind and waves on canvas. Photos don’t do it justice, but I’ll share a few with you anyway. Happy autumn everyone. Enjoy the fleeting season for the beauty it holds. Carpe diem.
Autumn is my favorite season; the cooler temperatures that come in on the wind, the changing colors of the trees. I love clouds when they have character. None of this blanket of gray overcast; give me towering thunderheads and scuttling cumulus ahead of the wind. The peek-a-boo of blue sky between the clouds is like finding a treasure.
The entire summer here on Lake Erie has been a mixture of feast or famine; weeks on end without rain, followed by one deluge after another. The first day of autumn came in blustery and rainy. The wind has persisted for days now, along with showers and downpours. I spent this morning at Barcelona harbor watching the massive waves roll to the shore, throwing themselves with explosive force against the break wall and then exploding once again when the retreating wave met another incoming. The force of nature is always awe inspiring and a bit frightening.
The crashing waves have taken over the beach. The gulls scurry to find any tidbit that might be washed up, then scatter when the next wave rolls in. A few brave, or perhaps foolhardy, gulls were aloft being buffeted by the winds straight out of the west, trying to make headway only to be held in position like kites. I wish I were a painter, I’d love to put the violence of the wind and waves on canvas. Photos don’t do it justice, but I’ll share a few with you anyway. Happy autumn everyone. Enjoy the fleeting season for the beauty it holds. Carpe diem.
Tidbits from 1939
Ripley in Review
While perusing the papers this week, I came across some bits and pieces in the October 26, 1939 issue of the Ripley Review you might find interesting. I’m amused by the style of writing back then. This is all in good humor, with no intent to antagonize, criticize or in any other manner upset any of my readers.
Gambling House Raided
Andy Arkielpane, Jamestown, was arrested Thursday afternoon on a charge of operating a gambling house. Arkielpane was the only man in the place at the time the police raided it. The place had been chartered by the state as the Chadakoin club.
(Bad timing on the part of the police – they couldn’t raid during, say, the evening when there may have been some customers?)
Aged Woman Fractures Hip
Mrs. Florrie Benedict, aged 79 years, received a fractured left hip when a heavy truck tire and rim fell on her while she was in the garage in the rear of her home Monday afternoon.
(Couldn’t she have refused receipt?)
Pulling Up Street Car Rails
A specially designed machine has been in use in removing street car rails from Central Avenue in Fredonia, and a company is to be formed to promote the use of the machine which is now operated by man power. Four men are required to operate the machine and they can take up 400 to 480 feet of rails a day.
(Good luck with promoting that! Can you imagine getting someone to do that today? Sounds like hard work.)
Farm Buildings Destroyed
The large barn and three farm buildings on the Clayton Kelly farm in North Clymer were destroyed by fire last Thursday night during the electrical storm which swept over the section last week Thursday night.
(Wait, when was that? Last Thursday?)
Silver Fox Sighted
A large silver fox made its appearance on the Frank Thayer farm which is located on the Frewsburg-Kennedy road. The animal sauntered across the road, proceeded in a leisurely manner across the yard and disappeared into the woods back of the house.
(Now there’s a nice use of descriptive words. Cocky little devil…)
Yessir, Another Bigger Yam
That this has been an exceptionally good year for the raising of sweet potatoes, or more properly, yams, was proven again Monday when Ross Wolf brought to The Review office one of the big tubers he raised right here in Ripley. The tuber weighed 4 ¾ pounds when dug.
(So what did the yam weight after it was dug?)
And my personal favorite:
County to Get Prisoner
When John J. Burke is released from Albany county jail after serving his sentence, he will be met by John J. Warren of Dunkirk with a warrant for his arrest on a charge of second degree larceny. The man is alleged to have rifled a poor box at Holy Trinity church in Dunkirk, the amount obtained having been about $95. According to Police Chief Warren, Burke has served about 25 years of his life in jail and that he is on record as having confessed to about 15,000 burglaries involving 7000 churches.
(Does this mean God doesn’t help those who help themselves?)
While perusing the papers this week, I came across some bits and pieces in the October 26, 1939 issue of the Ripley Review you might find interesting. I’m amused by the style of writing back then. This is all in good humor, with no intent to antagonize, criticize or in any other manner upset any of my readers.
Gambling House Raided
Andy Arkielpane, Jamestown, was arrested Thursday afternoon on a charge of operating a gambling house. Arkielpane was the only man in the place at the time the police raided it. The place had been chartered by the state as the Chadakoin club.
(Bad timing on the part of the police – they couldn’t raid during, say, the evening when there may have been some customers?)
Aged Woman Fractures Hip
Mrs. Florrie Benedict, aged 79 years, received a fractured left hip when a heavy truck tire and rim fell on her while she was in the garage in the rear of her home Monday afternoon.
(Couldn’t she have refused receipt?)
Pulling Up Street Car Rails
A specially designed machine has been in use in removing street car rails from Central Avenue in Fredonia, and a company is to be formed to promote the use of the machine which is now operated by man power. Four men are required to operate the machine and they can take up 400 to 480 feet of rails a day.
(Good luck with promoting that! Can you imagine getting someone to do that today? Sounds like hard work.)
Farm Buildings Destroyed
The large barn and three farm buildings on the Clayton Kelly farm in North Clymer were destroyed by fire last Thursday night during the electrical storm which swept over the section last week Thursday night.
(Wait, when was that? Last Thursday?)
Silver Fox Sighted
A large silver fox made its appearance on the Frank Thayer farm which is located on the Frewsburg-Kennedy road. The animal sauntered across the road, proceeded in a leisurely manner across the yard and disappeared into the woods back of the house.
(Now there’s a nice use of descriptive words. Cocky little devil…)
Yessir, Another Bigger Yam
That this has been an exceptionally good year for the raising of sweet potatoes, or more properly, yams, was proven again Monday when Ross Wolf brought to The Review office one of the big tubers he raised right here in Ripley. The tuber weighed 4 ¾ pounds when dug.
(So what did the yam weight after it was dug?)
And my personal favorite:
County to Get Prisoner
When John J. Burke is released from Albany county jail after serving his sentence, he will be met by John J. Warren of Dunkirk with a warrant for his arrest on a charge of second degree larceny. The man is alleged to have rifled a poor box at Holy Trinity church in Dunkirk, the amount obtained having been about $95. According to Police Chief Warren, Burke has served about 25 years of his life in jail and that he is on record as having confessed to about 15,000 burglaries involving 7000 churches.
(Does this mean God doesn’t help those who help themselves?)
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