July 4th weekend, Independence Day, is upon us; a day to commemorate the Declaration of Independence from foreign powers, adopted by the Continental Congress in 1776. It took this new nation eleven more years to come up with the United States Constitution, ratified in 1787, and another four years to realize some of the things they left out of the original constitution. Hence, the Bill of Rights, or the first ten Amendments to the Constitution, was ratified. Our founding fathers were not infallible, but they were pretty darn smart. The very first amendment they drafted prohibited the government from messing with religion, either for or against, (Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof); it also contained what we now call “freedom of speech,” (Congress shall make no law… abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press); as well as “the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.” Now, there’s a lot of fodder for discussion, mostly heated discussion, in just that First Amendment, but it is the freedom of speech I want to address.

Whether you agree with the ACLU (American Civil Liberties Union) or not, their function is to be the watchdog of the Constitution, insuring your rights as an American citizen as guaranteed by that Constitution. “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it,” penned by Evelyn Beatrice Hall describing Voltaire’s attitude, sums up how I feel about a some of our “civil liberties.”

I do not agree with some of my friends and acquaintances politically. I do not agree with some of my relatives regarding religion. But I fully believe they have a right to believe, and express those beliefs, as they see fit. What bothers me is some people want to take that right away from me. In so saying “congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech” the government of my country has afforded me the right to believe as I will, and to express those beliefs.
Let me be clear. Having the right to do something and exercising that right is a matter of discretion. I am as guilty as anyone of speaking out when I should have kept my mouth shut. In fact, I’m probably more guilty than some. I’m sorry, it’s in my nature. But there is an expression of freedom of speech that I totally abhor; foul language. Call it cussing, cursing, swearing or whatever you will, it offends me. I suppose those people who use excessively foul language in public do it unconsciously. They are so immured in their own little worlds, they fail to see or care that people around them may be offended by their language. For instance, I was in the local hardware store the other day. While waiting my turn, there were two young men talking to the clerk about some parts they wanted. Every second or third word out of their mouths was a foul expletive. I’m not sure why some people feel it necessary to punctuate their speech with offensive language. To me it only shows lack of intelligence and self respect; say nothing of respecting others around them. I know some of the language I routinely hear from the younger generation comes from culturally accepted norms of movies and television. I’m not sure how that came about, but it has.

I will defend your right to say what you will, but please, temper it with discretion, courtesy and self respect.

CatTails

I’m angry, and here’s my rant… Some people have trouble relating to animals and don’t seem to realize those animals we call pets may not be able to survive without us. There are people who have pets and shouldn’t. Besides the abuse and/or neglect some animals suffer, here’s another reason why they shouldn’t be allowed to have an animal. I live next door to a dairy farm, as most of you know. Barns have cats. For the most part these cats were born in the barn, have been taught to hunt and fend for themselves by their mothers. These cats generally aren’t sociable; their survival depends on the job they do. They catch the mice and other critters that would otherwise decimate the grain needed for the farm animals.
A house cat is not a barn cat. It is cruel and thoughtless to dump a house cat at a farm because its owner no longer wants or cares for it. There is a pecking order amongst cats, and a new cat often has to fight its way to acceptance. A house cat may or may not know how to catch mice. And some cats are unable to catch a mouse even if they wanted to. One such cat appeared at our door last week. She was a lovely and loving black kitty, not even a fully grown cat, and she was starving. We sat on the deck and she came right up to us, winding around our feet as best she could. She could hardly walk, she was so emaciated. We debated whether or not to put out food because we really didn’t want another cat, but she seemed so pathetic we couldn’t help but feed her. Two days later she showed up with four kittens in tow; not newborn kittens, these were perhaps four weeks old, still nursing. It takes a lot of calories to nurse babies, and it takes everything a mother cat has to feed herself and those kittens. She had hidden them in the dry creek bed near our house and they were definitely wild. If we came anywhere near them they’d run back into the weeds and hide. So we put out food near the “nest” and watched as the starving kittens fought over the food dish.
After much discussion about whether or not we should permanently take in the mama cat, we gathered her up and took her to the local veterinarian to be checked out. Much to my surprise, she had no ear mites, no fleas, and did not have feline leukemia. She was a healthy cat, except for the fact that at some time in her short life she suffered a broken pelvis and her hips had healed unevenly. She can hardly climb steps, and when she eats, she lies down so as to not put more stress on her hips. She can’t jump on furniture and she can’t pounce. This cat was starving because she couldn’t catch mice to survive. Please tell me who would dump a cat like that to fend for itself! On second thought, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know the kind of person who does such a thing. Just don’t do it again!
I personally know two individuals who take in stray cats, and the number of homeless cats and dogs are mounting every year. I’m sure there are others in the area who take in stray animals and I want to say thank you to them. Their hearts are in the right place. These special people are devoted to keeping these cats and dogs as safe as possible, giving them a warm place to sleep and food to eat. But it is expensive to care for them and they can’t possibly manage this problem on their own. Westfield is blessed with stray cat and stray dog rescue groups, but they too are overwhelmed with the number of animals needing good homes. It breaks my heart to see these unwanted animals. The kittens we found will be turned over to Westfield Stray Cat Rescue, where they will be spayed or neutered when they are old enough. The mama cat will remain with us for the time being, and will also be spayed as soon as possible. We must be responsible for the animals humans domesticated. Please, spay or neuter your pets to help control the animal population. Adopt from the shelters or rescue centers if you can, rather than from breeders. Call these numbers for more information: Northern Chautauqua Canine Rescue – 716-326-7297; Westfield Stray Cat Rescue – 716-581-0463; Chautauqua County Humane Society – 716-665-2209

A Tribute to My Mother

Tribute to My Mother

Mother’s Day was last Sunday and, amongst my all-too-many time commitments, I managed to squeeze in some (hopefully quality) time with my mother. I’ve been blessed to have my mom for 57 years and each year I grow to appreciate her more and more. She’s long past the stage where I can buy something simple, like another potted plant or piece of jewelry, to commemorate “her” day and I racked my brain trying to think of an appropriate gift for this year. Then it occurred to me, I’m a writer. So here is my tribute to my mother.

Mom loves holidays and making every one special was one of her many talents. Christmas found her decorating every room of the house with some festive detail, from the Christmas tree in the living room, to centerpieces on the tables, holiday candles and knick-knacks everywhere, and a little red and white mouse she hid in a nook or cranny somewhere in the house for us to find. Every Halloween she made costumes for each of us, from fairy dresses to crepe paper pumpkins. Easter meant new dresses, hats and shiny patent leather shoes and baskets full of toys and candy hidden on stairs, in the clothes dryer or on top of the refrigerator. Thanksgiving dinner, Memorial Day picnics, 4th of July parades, every event was special because of her.

A fair number of my prom and Homecoming dresses were hand made by my mom. Craft projects were another of her strong suits. Years ago the school had end-of-the-year barbeques. There was an art and pet fair as well, and one year Mom helped me make a flower in a jar project. In retrospect, she probably made the whole thing but we pretended it was my work. It was a beautiful thing, a flower anchored on the lid of the jar filled with water and turned upside down. I was sure it was a first prize winner. I dropped it before I got it to school. It was devastating then, but I see now it served to remind me once again how much time and love was invested in me.

She baked cookies or cupcakes to take to school on our birthdays, each one individually decorated, often with each classmate’s name written on them. Mom made pancake “men” for breakfast and still makes the best homemade cinnamon rolls. And I know she won’t appreciate this, but quite often when making supper she’d scorch the potatoes. There’s nothing better than the smoky flavor of a slightly scorched potato. I’ve tried for years to do it but just can’t seem to manage.

Mom has had a flower garden for as long as I can remember. Years ago an elderly neighbor woman complained that she spent hours on her garden and my mother spent hardly any time tending her own, yet Mom’s garden outshone the other year after year. I inherited a bit of that green thumb. Every spring and summer she would pick flowers from her garden and just throw them together in the perfect arrangement, a talent I have yet to master.
She’s one of the supermoms – she did it all. But I’ll stop here with a little poem and just say, I love you Mom.

My Mother
A maker of memories, molder of dreams,
A hand to hold, a smile that beams.
Chauffeur, seamstress, nursemaid, cook,
A listening ear, a knowing look.
Fun and laughter, wisdom and wit,
Did I ever thank you for any of it?
A mother is these and so many things
I’m blessed in the gifts my mother’s love brings.

RIPLEY in REVIEW

I was talking with some family members, reminiscing about Ripley, and we recalled there used to be something like five or six grocery stores in town, as well as four gas stations, a dress shop, hardware store and photography studio, among other thriving businesses. That got me to wondering about Ripley of the past, so I visited the Ripley Library and asked if there were any copies of the old newspaper, The Ripley Review. Jackpot! There are years, whole decades, of Ripley Reviews stored in boxes and boxes, forgotten and crumbling. So with the gracious permission of librarian Nancy McIntosh, I carefully took a look at some of the 1940s editions.
I was specifically looking for an April copy of the news back then and found an April 2, 1942 issue. In it were advertisements for the following grocery/food stores: Red & White Store, owned by Curley Grover; C. A. Patterson; H. D. MacNee; and Ross D. Wolf. Now this was back in 1942. In the mid 1950s, when I was a young child, I remember another store called Johnson & Day, located out West Main Street, past the Hamilton estate. We lived on North State Street at the time, opposite Ross Street, and when I was four years old (although my mother swears she can’t believe she’d do this) Mom would send up uptown, with a note in my hand, to get a few things from the store. I’d walk in and the owners would greet me and ask what I wanted. I would ask for some “Shep BoyRDee please,” they’d put the groceries on our tab, and I’d walk back home. Parents wouldn’t dream of letting their young children walk that far to a store these days. It was a simpler time.
Ripley had The Hat Shop, run by Mrs. Greeley, and Parlor Millinery & Gift Shop, run by Viola Jones as well. I have vague memories of one of those stores being located in a green house next to what was Rice’s Hardware. And I was amazed to see an ad in the paper for the Ripley Telephone Company. I hadn’t realized we once had our own phone company, but I chuckled as I saw, placed at the bottom of some ads, “phone 88” or “phone 7.” The price of goods was unbelievable of course.
There are lists of Ripley’s men being called for military service, and small snippets about the war, like “Ripley may have another scrap iron day sometime this month once the snow allows farmers to gather up their scrap iron lying about. Uncle Sam needs it because he sold too much of it to Japan before we got into the war” and “A 40 inch rainfall in New Guinea retarded and drove back the Japanese advance and rendered the terrain unusable for two months, which may help the Allied cause some.” My favorite part of perusing that old paper, however, was the personal articles. “Shower for Bride to Be – A miscellaneous bridal shower was given by Mrs. Winston O’Dell at her home at East Ripley in honor of Miss Beatrice Post whose marriage to Richard O’Dell will take place in the near future.” It’s interesting to note that Winston O’Dell’s name was on the list of men to be called up in May or June of that summer. I had the pleasure of meeting Bea O’Dell when I first moved back to Ripley, and it made the article in the 1942 paper all that more meaningful.
I’m hoping to research more of the treasure trove of information those old Ripley Reviews hold. Perhaps I’ll make bits and pieces of the old newspaper articles a regular part of my column. Let me know what you think.

Meeder’s - Where Everybody Knows Your Name
I’ve become a semi-regular at Meeder’s Restaurant. The real regulars are there every day, at the same time, with the same people, at the same table. There are those of us who frequent the place often enough that the waitresses recognize us by name and usually know what we’re going to order before we say a word, but we’re not hard-core regulars. It seems most of the serious regulars are men. I love watching “the boys” at their usual tables, laughing, joking with each other, exchanging insults or advise. It occurred to me the other day that they probably haven’t changed all that much from high school. Sure, they’re older, grayer, maybe a bit heavier, but they love hanging out just like they did back then.
There isn’t much secret at Meeder’s. If you want a private conversation you sit at the far sides of the restaurant, away from the crowd, but most people, and especially “the regulars, “ sit where they can see and be seen, hear and be heard. Their conversations range from politics to farming to the weather to cars and back again. There’s a great deal of shooting the bull at these morning confabs but a fair amount of wisdom as well. They help solve each other’s problems, give each other support and, most of all, friendship. Sometimes I watch these guys and smile, picturing them young again, excited about their cars, their exploits, and their adventures.
I find myself looking for the child within all the people I see, like the movie “Hook” with Robin Williams. Williams plays Peter Pan and in one scene a Lost Boy is holding Pan’s face, looking intently into it, and finally bursts into a smile and says, “Oh, THERE you are Peter!” That’s how I feel when I see someone I haven’t seen since high school, some 40 years ago, and recognize the person I once knew. No matter how many years have passed, no matter what life paths we’ve taken, there is still a kernel of familiarity we share. I’ve tried very hard to remain young at heart, full of wonder at the world around me, and not take life too seriously. After all, none of us are getting out alive, so we may as make the most of the time we have and enjoy it. Sit long, talk much, laugh often.

They say a writer should write about what they know, which is why I write mostly about what happens in my little corner of the world; and I know a little about hometown pride. Ripley was always my home, no matter where I happened to be living at any given time. Ripley was where my heart was, and I was proud to tell people I grew up in a little village in western New York – “no, not near New York City which is 400 miles away” (forgive the estimated distance, I’m not even sure how far NYC is from us, guess it depends on which route you take to get there) – in a very rural agricultural setting. However, I am painfully aware that some folks in neighboring towns, even some who have lived their whole lives in Ripley, view the town with distain. When I moved home some people asked my why would I want to move back here!
Now, I don’t pretend to understand the politics and factions that exist in Ripley. In fact, I don’t care to know. I’d rather go merrily along in my ignorance of who the “right” or “wrong” people are. What I do know is that it is the people in any town or city that make it what it is, both the good and the bad. I’ve had the opportunity to meet some people in this town who exemplify what “hometown spirit” is all about. These are men and women who are so filled with pride in their community that even though they recognize the drawbacks and foibles, they are willing to put forth herculean efforts to make it a better place. These are men and women, who even though the population is declining, continue to run their businesses year after year in the face of a disastrous economy. These are people who organize and build monuments, and parks, and playgrounds and civic pride. There are people in this town who never left; some because they couldn’t, some because they had no desire to be anywhere else. Then there are folks who came here for whatever reason, made it their home, and contributed what they could to the community. We’re all part of the fabric of what makes us unique.
I have heard it said Ripley is a dying community. The center of our social activity, the school, is in imminent danger of ceasing to exist as we know it. It is understandably upsetting to face the loss of this icon of our existence. What happens to it remains to be seen. I’ve heard it asked, without the school what do we have? Granted, we don’t have much in the way of gathering places, no bowling alley, no movie theater, and no book stores. But what we do have is a library that is underutilized and yet utterly devoted to benefit us all. There are several events planned each month by our library board, from computer classes to “dinner theater” to lectures given by local notables. The face of our town is changing, and we need to change with it. Folks, we have each other. Get involved. Volunteer your time to our many organizations, be it the fire department, the Veteran’s Roll of Honor committee, the library, or any of the many other endeavors that exist here for the benefit of the town and US. Be a part of your community. Be proud.

I finally found a wallpaper border for my kitchen that I like, and as importantly, it fits! I never realized until I started looking, the majority of wallpaper borders are 6" wide or wider. The space I have to cover can't take more than 51/4". Ever since we moved here I've wanted to paint the kitchen and get away from the pepto-bismol pink. It's not really that bright, but it's not my first choice in kitchen colors. Now a year later (can you believe we've been here a YEAR?!) I'm finally getting closer to painting and papering. Bob, of course, sees no reason to change the colors, mostly because he hates to paint and he can't visualize the new scheme, but we've got all kinds of company coming this summer and I want to change things so they reflect us, not the previous owners.

I'm still swamped with writing projects and the video production of the vets monument. I'm hoping by the end of May it will let up some. I'm not sure I can, or want to, keep up this pace.