Now that the warm winds of spring have occasionally wafted over Northeast Ohio, bringing once more to life what has lain dormant under the winter snows, I, too, feel those stirrings and at last emerged from my cocoon.
(Yeah, I know I spent at least three weeks where the sun was shining, the flowers blooming, and the birds chirping, but I just couldn’t resist the urge to wax poetic. So sue me.)
Anyway, on one particularly warm day, I venture out onto the trails of Beartown, which I hadn’t trod since an unexpectedly mild New Year’s Day. The water in the lakes is high with rain and melted snow and the spring peepers set up an ungodly racket. For something that makes so much noise, they sure are elusive to the eye. But it’s a sign of awakening and I search for more as I motor along.
A log floats invitingly on the surface of Middle Bear Lake, but no turtles have clambered aboard for a sunning. They may be yet tucked in the mud. Their winter-long spa, as it were.
A couple of Canada geese honk a welcome and it might be time for me to begin looking for the arrival of Jim, my resident blue heron. A vulture soars by overhead, eyes open for a tasty morsel.
Deeper into the woods, the tips of skunk cabbage peek out from the marshy areas where creeks have cut deep grooves into the land. I often wish we had the type that live in the Northwest, with huge yellow blossoms. But in a while, we’ll have an equally golden marsh marigold for color.
As I come up from the park, I take a tour around my small above-ground garden, finally freed from snow piles. Already, the garlic cloves I planted last fall are sticking up. I’m wondering what else to plant this year. Last year’s garden was pretty much a disaster, between the deer and the Japanese beetles and the pumpkins I had such high hopes for, but which practically rotted on the vine. I’m putting peas back on the bamboo teepee, and going to try potatoes again, but in the ground this time, not the growing bags, which dried out too quickly. Maybe bush beans, too. Or, this may be the year I just let whatever seeds are in the compost do what they will. That always means at least a few varieties of tomatoes that I eat or toss into soup.
Finally, I come upon some sprouts of chives and the first hint of real color erupting from its journey.
Warming
Sensing
Stirring
Sprouting
Moving
Reaching
Rising
Thrusting
Shooting
Branching
Budding
Swelling
Blooming
CROCUS!
4/12/11
3/1/11
THE WAGES OF SIN
My mother raised me to be a law-abiding citizen. And she succeeded, pretty much. I never did get into much trouble when I was a kid and even went through high school without once getting a demerit (detention, jug, whatever they call it these days). I came close a few times. Crimes in my high school tended to be a) wearing socks or b) cutting from one side of the hall to the other in order to get to class faster. We walked single file in a one-way traffic pattern. I was never that much of a renegade, though.
When I got older and learned to drive, I still stayed on the straight and narrow. My first—and only—speeding ticket came on the heels of a 42 year clean driving record. I could still spit nickels when I remember it, mostly because I had a handy excuse sitting next to me and was too dumb to use it. My husband had an IV in his arm (which was why I was driving in the first place) and I probably could have pled being in a rush to get the bag changed. That happened nearly 20 years ago and it still rankles. It never occurred to me. That’s how law-abiding I am.
Not so other members of the family, however. Not so. They think that getting somewhere five minutes early is worth the risk of being pulled over and cited. Not to mention paying those fines. If you added up all the tickets they’ve accumulated, you probably could buy a Boeing 747.
Someone Who Shall Not Be Named got a speeding ticket about a month ago, in a Cleveland suburb named Something Heights. SWSNBN was evidently admiring the scenery and exceeded the speed limit in a school zone by about 10 mph. It was before noon, so maybe all those kindergarteners were on their way home. No excuses, though. It was a legitimate bag.
So home came the ticket and promptly disappeared. It wouldn’t have been prudent to let it slide (speeder, yes; scofflaw, no), so when the paperwork refused to surface after much digging around, calls were made to the Something Heights Police Department to see what could be done.
“Call the Something Heights Court,” was the response.
“Call back later in the week,” was the response of the court clerk. “We don’t have anything on file yet.”
Well, okay. But on Friday, there was still nothing. And nobody acted like they’d ever heard of a ticket getting lost. Requests for suggestions netted a “Call the Police Department.”
Did that. Again. Got a better answer. “Just come down to the Court and they’ll take care of it.”
So, SWSNBN hikes on down to the Something Heights Court (which, incidentally, is in the same building as the Something Heights Police Department and about 15 feet away) and takes care of the bill. Which amounts to: $235.
For a measly ten miles over the speed limit? Hitting 90 on the Turnpike probably wouldn’t get you that. But I guess if you do the crime, you do the time. Only in this case, it looks like you’re liable for everybody else’s crime and time, as well. Here’s the itemized printout:
1. IDSF HB1 & HB562 (no explanation): $25
2. Victims of Crime: $9
3. Capital Improvements: $10
4. Computer Legal Research: $3
5. Court Costs: $107
6. Drug Law Enforcement – HB562 (again?): $3.39
7. Justice Program Service – HB2: $0.11
8. Security Fee: $1.00
9. IDATF (State) – HB562 (again again?): $1.50
10. Speeding Cost: $5
11. Speeding Fine: $70
Note how the actual speeding fine was only $75. I guess crime does pay after all. At least for the Something Heights Police Department. Be careful out there
When I got older and learned to drive, I still stayed on the straight and narrow. My first—and only—speeding ticket came on the heels of a 42 year clean driving record. I could still spit nickels when I remember it, mostly because I had a handy excuse sitting next to me and was too dumb to use it. My husband had an IV in his arm (which was why I was driving in the first place) and I probably could have pled being in a rush to get the bag changed. That happened nearly 20 years ago and it still rankles. It never occurred to me. That’s how law-abiding I am.
Not so other members of the family, however. Not so. They think that getting somewhere five minutes early is worth the risk of being pulled over and cited. Not to mention paying those fines. If you added up all the tickets they’ve accumulated, you probably could buy a Boeing 747.
Someone Who Shall Not Be Named got a speeding ticket about a month ago, in a Cleveland suburb named Something Heights. SWSNBN was evidently admiring the scenery and exceeded the speed limit in a school zone by about 10 mph. It was before noon, so maybe all those kindergarteners were on their way home. No excuses, though. It was a legitimate bag.
So home came the ticket and promptly disappeared. It wouldn’t have been prudent to let it slide (speeder, yes; scofflaw, no), so when the paperwork refused to surface after much digging around, calls were made to the Something Heights Police Department to see what could be done.
“Call the Something Heights Court,” was the response.
“Call back later in the week,” was the response of the court clerk. “We don’t have anything on file yet.”
Well, okay. But on Friday, there was still nothing. And nobody acted like they’d ever heard of a ticket getting lost. Requests for suggestions netted a “Call the Police Department.”
Did that. Again. Got a better answer. “Just come down to the Court and they’ll take care of it.”
So, SWSNBN hikes on down to the Something Heights Court (which, incidentally, is in the same building as the Something Heights Police Department and about 15 feet away) and takes care of the bill. Which amounts to: $235.
For a measly ten miles over the speed limit? Hitting 90 on the Turnpike probably wouldn’t get you that. But I guess if you do the crime, you do the time. Only in this case, it looks like you’re liable for everybody else’s crime and time, as well. Here’s the itemized printout:
1. IDSF HB1 & HB562 (no explanation): $25
2. Victims of Crime: $9
3. Capital Improvements: $10
4. Computer Legal Research: $3
5. Court Costs: $107
6. Drug Law Enforcement – HB562 (again?): $3.39
7. Justice Program Service – HB2: $0.11
8. Security Fee: $1.00
9. IDATF (State) – HB562 (again again?): $1.50
10. Speeding Cost: $5
11. Speeding Fine: $70
Note how the actual speeding fine was only $75. I guess crime does pay after all. At least for the Something Heights Police Department. Be careful out there
2/5/11
COMING IN MID TO LATE 2011!
HELPING RAY
A middle grade novel by Mary C. Ryan
Seventh grader Ray Brennan has a lot on his plate. A major trumpet solo in the school stage band’s spring concert is in serious jeopardy, things aren’t going well at home, and to top if off, there’s the question of who’s been watching him. Add a mysterious girl who nobody seems to know and a best friend who’s no help at all, and Ray is wondering if things can get any worse. As it turns out, they can. His trumpet goes missing. Ray eventually learns that help can come from very unexpected sources, but that it’s not always easy accepting it.
A middle grade novel by Mary C. Ryan
Seventh grader Ray Brennan has a lot on his plate. A major trumpet solo in the school stage band’s spring concert is in serious jeopardy, things aren’t going well at home, and to top if off, there’s the question of who’s been watching him. Add a mysterious girl who nobody seems to know and a best friend who’s no help at all, and Ray is wondering if things can get any worse. As it turns out, they can. His trumpet goes missing. Ray eventually learns that help can come from very unexpected sources, but that it’s not always easy accepting it.
VANISHING ACT?
SCRAPBAG
I’m gonna sit right down and write myself an e-mail,
And make believe it came from you.
I’m not so sure this is what Fats Waller and a myriad of other recording artists would ever have envisioned when they covered this charming, but somewhat snarky song way back when, but it sure seems to be where the world is heading, isn’t it? It came to me a few weeks ago when, putting the Christmas decorations away, I noticed on a nearby shelf, an old plastic tub simply overflowing with “stuff.” So much so that the lid wouldn’t stay on any more. I worried that some little mousies might be looking for material for a nest and by some miracle, I had a few free minutes. So I got it lugged upstairs and started to go through it. It turned out to be somewhat of an archaeological dig.
One of the first things I uncovered was a blue plastic bag filled with newspapers and magazines from the Kennedy Assassination, nearly fifty years ago. At the time, and maybe even still, I figured they’d be worth something to somebody, so into the family archives they’d gone. Along with, I might add, newspapers and magazines from the first landing on the moon, and a special edition of Life on the elevation of John Paul II to the papacy. Interesting, but do I want to keep those things? I do. For now.
The next layer held a bunch of photographs, invitations to our 15th wedding anniversary party that the kids threw for us, old concert programs, and well, you know. I’m sure you have a box or two of such things in your house. I sorted it all out, tossing several items that I had no idea why they were there in the first place. I had a fair pile to go into the recycle bin.
But then towards the bottom came the motherlode. The sarcophagus loaded with golden artifacts. The Holy Grail.
A bunch of letters. Letters the kids had written from camp, from college, from after they were married. Letters from other family members. Letters from my mom. Letters from Pat’s mom and dad. Letters from me to Pat and he to me. Precious. Endearing. Funny. Jubilant. Thankful. Loving. Begging for an extra bit of cash, for a prayer. The whole spectrum of life to read again and again, not click on Delete and forget.
How long had it been since I’d added to that stash? I wondered. What with emails and text messages, we hardly ever have to pick up a pen and actually compose our thoughts to put on paper in a permanent way. Even I, the resident technophile, began to feel a sense of loss because I knew those opportunities for a personal connection with others was going to keep fading.
I suddenly remembered a picture of my oldest sister that I’d recently found. So, I sat down, grabbed a pen and caught her up on a few things that have been going on in my life, enclosing the photo. I wrote another to a second cousin whose mom had recently passed away—and got a handwritten note back. Each time I stuck a stamp on an envelope and popped it in the mailbox, I felt as if I had accomplished something. I think I’m going to do a lot more of it, even though my handwriting has deteriorated somewhat over the years.
Will letter writing ever completely disappear? Obviously not. But the opportunities for doing it are slowly disappearing. Do kids at summer camp write to their parents anymore? (Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah. . . Hint: You can find it on iTunes.) What a loss if they don’t. Do you even get baby announcements, or just a link to a Facebook page or web site where you can see pictures of the new arrival just moments after birth and Mom looking like she just stepped off the cover of Glamour magazine due to having a makeup artist in the delivery room? You know, I even gave some thought to handwriting this column, but figured I’d hear about it and it wouldn’t be pleasant.
Don’t expect a letter from me anytime soon. But hey, you don’t have to wait. Take a few minutes and write—actually write—a note to someone. It doesn’t have to be Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address on the back of an envelope, although in a pinch, the back of an envelope is as good as anything, as Abe discovered. You might get a text back. Or an e-mail. Or a phone call. But you’ve done your part in preserving a little bit of your personal history. Give yourself a pat on the back.
I’m gonna sit right down and write myself an e-mail,
And make believe it came from you.
I’m not so sure this is what Fats Waller and a myriad of other recording artists would ever have envisioned when they covered this charming, but somewhat snarky song way back when, but it sure seems to be where the world is heading, isn’t it? It came to me a few weeks ago when, putting the Christmas decorations away, I noticed on a nearby shelf, an old plastic tub simply overflowing with “stuff.” So much so that the lid wouldn’t stay on any more. I worried that some little mousies might be looking for material for a nest and by some miracle, I had a few free minutes. So I got it lugged upstairs and started to go through it. It turned out to be somewhat of an archaeological dig.
One of the first things I uncovered was a blue plastic bag filled with newspapers and magazines from the Kennedy Assassination, nearly fifty years ago. At the time, and maybe even still, I figured they’d be worth something to somebody, so into the family archives they’d gone. Along with, I might add, newspapers and magazines from the first landing on the moon, and a special edition of Life on the elevation of John Paul II to the papacy. Interesting, but do I want to keep those things? I do. For now.
The next layer held a bunch of photographs, invitations to our 15th wedding anniversary party that the kids threw for us, old concert programs, and well, you know. I’m sure you have a box or two of such things in your house. I sorted it all out, tossing several items that I had no idea why they were there in the first place. I had a fair pile to go into the recycle bin.
But then towards the bottom came the motherlode. The sarcophagus loaded with golden artifacts. The Holy Grail.
A bunch of letters. Letters the kids had written from camp, from college, from after they were married. Letters from other family members. Letters from my mom. Letters from Pat’s mom and dad. Letters from me to Pat and he to me. Precious. Endearing. Funny. Jubilant. Thankful. Loving. Begging for an extra bit of cash, for a prayer. The whole spectrum of life to read again and again, not click on Delete and forget.
How long had it been since I’d added to that stash? I wondered. What with emails and text messages, we hardly ever have to pick up a pen and actually compose our thoughts to put on paper in a permanent way. Even I, the resident technophile, began to feel a sense of loss because I knew those opportunities for a personal connection with others was going to keep fading.
I suddenly remembered a picture of my oldest sister that I’d recently found. So, I sat down, grabbed a pen and caught her up on a few things that have been going on in my life, enclosing the photo. I wrote another to a second cousin whose mom had recently passed away—and got a handwritten note back. Each time I stuck a stamp on an envelope and popped it in the mailbox, I felt as if I had accomplished something. I think I’m going to do a lot more of it, even though my handwriting has deteriorated somewhat over the years.
Will letter writing ever completely disappear? Obviously not. But the opportunities for doing it are slowly disappearing. Do kids at summer camp write to their parents anymore? (Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah. . . Hint: You can find it on iTunes.) What a loss if they don’t. Do you even get baby announcements, or just a link to a Facebook page or web site where you can see pictures of the new arrival just moments after birth and Mom looking like she just stepped off the cover of Glamour magazine due to having a makeup artist in the delivery room? You know, I even gave some thought to handwriting this column, but figured I’d hear about it and it wouldn’t be pleasant.
Don’t expect a letter from me anytime soon. But hey, you don’t have to wait. Take a few minutes and write—actually write—a note to someone. It doesn’t have to be Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address on the back of an envelope, although in a pinch, the back of an envelope is as good as anything, as Abe discovered. You might get a text back. Or an e-mail. Or a phone call. But you’ve done your part in preserving a little bit of your personal history. Give yourself a pat on the back.
WHERE ANGELS FEAR. . .
I think it may have started with a particularly good homily that evidently started a chain of thoughts until one night, my husband looked at me and asked, “What can I do to make your life easier?”
Now, I’m not sure if there’s anything a wife would rather hear. “Can I change that diaper?” Maybe at one time. But that was long gone. “How about dashing off to Paris for a few weeks?” Better. Probably too much to wish for. Personally, I’ll take making my life easier. I had an answer all ready for that one. It came out without missing a beat. “Cook on Sundays.”
Like many a wife who has been married—oh, probably anywhere over 30 years, I had come to the conclusion that figuring out what to eat every night was among the all time most mind-numbing jobs ever invented. Even Mike Rowe hasn’t dared touch it. I welcomed any opportunity to get out of it. I’d already parlayed a deal where we’d go out for pizza every Friday. Here was my chance to ditch yet another day.
We were not “chicken every Sunday” people. We didn’t eat big dinners at 1 pm as was the case with many families when we were kids. We tended more towards brunch—eggs, bacon, hash browns after Mass. Then a light supper. Over the years, the brunch mitigated into more of a fix it yourself event. But there still was supper. And frankly, I was tired of it.
“Deal,” said my husband.
“Deal,” I said.
What followed was interesting, to say the least. The next Sunday, I waited. And I waited and waited and waited. Finally, the question popped out. “What’s for supper?” Only it didn’t come from me.
“Uh,” I said, trying to be tactful. “I thought we’d agreed you were going to do that.”
“Oh.” There was a long silence. Over the rumblings in my stomach, I could hear the wheels turning in his brain. “Well, how about soup and sandwiches?” Followed closely by “Where do you keep the soup?” and “Do we have anything for sandwiches?” I pointed out the cupboard where the soup had been residing for the nearly 20 years we’d lived in the house, and the refrigerator where, on any given day during the same time span, he could find lunch meat and cheese. And the basket where we/I store the bread. And so we ate. And it was good. Enough.
There were a few (actually, a lot) more Sunday of “Ooops. Forgot.” Then, he started to get creative. He went to Giant Eagle and picked up a box of something that when you threw it into the microwave for a while, turned into something vaguely resembling Italian food. One portion. We split it. I kept my mouth shut—after eating my half. My stomach wasn’t quite so forgiving, but maybe the ballgame was on and he didn’t hear it.
Eventually, we had a little chat. I won’t go into the details. You can probably figure it out. And so we stumbled along, week after week. Lots of soup and sandwiches, and some meals that had you fed it to POWs, you would have been cited for violation of the Geneva Convention. I bit my tongue a lot, both literally and figuratively. The best thing you could say about it was that with all of our travels, we weren’t often home on Sunday night.
Just a few weeks ago, however, we had a major breakthrough. He arrived home from work and said, “We were talking about Beef Stroganoff today. We haven’t had that in a while. I think I’ll make it on Sunday.”
Oh, lord, I breathed, I can see it now. I’m going to have to stand by his elbow every step of the way like a pitching coach. The last time I did that was years ago when he wanted to make my signature German coffee braid for Christmas. It’s a yeast bread. Does that give you some idea of the amount of time I was “on call?” The result was spectacular, I must say, with frosting and holly decorating the top. The dog ate it, except for the holly. The saving grace of that episode was that over the years, it has made an excellent family holiday story.
On Sunday, he got ready for the Big Meal. The day before, we’d bought all the necessary ingredients. Now, I got out the ancient Betty Crocker cookbook, opened to the appropriate page and suggested he read it carefully before starting. I answered a few questions, such as “Where’s the cutting board?” and “What knife should I use?” His engineering brain obsessed a bit over the exact width and length the beef strips should be until I was afraid he’d get out a ruler, but eventually, he let me go back to sitting by the fire with my book. Suddenly, there was a loud crash from the kitchen, followed by a few un-Sundayish words and he appeared in the living room. “You have to be careful taking the flour bin out of the cupboard,” he announced. “Mmmm,” I muttered. He went off to fetch the broom and dust pan.
There were no further mishaps, no further questions to speak of, and then he called me to the table. There was wine and napkins and plates and all the right silverware and a steaming plate of Beef Stroganoff. Gratefully, I took my place. We said grace and ate. And it was good, too. A bit on the salty side, but definitely edible. (The next day, I noticed that in the drawer, the plastic measuring spoon labeled TBSP was on top and asked him about it. He said that was what the recipe called for. I checked. Of course, you have to know it was TSP.)
In terms of going above and beyond, I consider this right up there with the Duke of Windsor giving up his throne for his lady. Overall, I think I’m as lucky as Wallis Simpson. Happy Valentine’s Day to my King of the Kitchen! Oh, and Happy 50th Anniversary, as well! It’s been quite a ride.
Now, I’m not sure if there’s anything a wife would rather hear. “Can I change that diaper?” Maybe at one time. But that was long gone. “How about dashing off to Paris for a few weeks?” Better. Probably too much to wish for. Personally, I’ll take making my life easier. I had an answer all ready for that one. It came out without missing a beat. “Cook on Sundays.”
Like many a wife who has been married—oh, probably anywhere over 30 years, I had come to the conclusion that figuring out what to eat every night was among the all time most mind-numbing jobs ever invented. Even Mike Rowe hasn’t dared touch it. I welcomed any opportunity to get out of it. I’d already parlayed a deal where we’d go out for pizza every Friday. Here was my chance to ditch yet another day.
We were not “chicken every Sunday” people. We didn’t eat big dinners at 1 pm as was the case with many families when we were kids. We tended more towards brunch—eggs, bacon, hash browns after Mass. Then a light supper. Over the years, the brunch mitigated into more of a fix it yourself event. But there still was supper. And frankly, I was tired of it.
“Deal,” said my husband.
“Deal,” I said.
What followed was interesting, to say the least. The next Sunday, I waited. And I waited and waited and waited. Finally, the question popped out. “What’s for supper?” Only it didn’t come from me.
“Uh,” I said, trying to be tactful. “I thought we’d agreed you were going to do that.”
“Oh.” There was a long silence. Over the rumblings in my stomach, I could hear the wheels turning in his brain. “Well, how about soup and sandwiches?” Followed closely by “Where do you keep the soup?” and “Do we have anything for sandwiches?” I pointed out the cupboard where the soup had been residing for the nearly 20 years we’d lived in the house, and the refrigerator where, on any given day during the same time span, he could find lunch meat and cheese. And the basket where we/I store the bread. And so we ate. And it was good. Enough.
There were a few (actually, a lot) more Sunday of “Ooops. Forgot.” Then, he started to get creative. He went to Giant Eagle and picked up a box of something that when you threw it into the microwave for a while, turned into something vaguely resembling Italian food. One portion. We split it. I kept my mouth shut—after eating my half. My stomach wasn’t quite so forgiving, but maybe the ballgame was on and he didn’t hear it.
Eventually, we had a little chat. I won’t go into the details. You can probably figure it out. And so we stumbled along, week after week. Lots of soup and sandwiches, and some meals that had you fed it to POWs, you would have been cited for violation of the Geneva Convention. I bit my tongue a lot, both literally and figuratively. The best thing you could say about it was that with all of our travels, we weren’t often home on Sunday night.
Just a few weeks ago, however, we had a major breakthrough. He arrived home from work and said, “We were talking about Beef Stroganoff today. We haven’t had that in a while. I think I’ll make it on Sunday.”
Oh, lord, I breathed, I can see it now. I’m going to have to stand by his elbow every step of the way like a pitching coach. The last time I did that was years ago when he wanted to make my signature German coffee braid for Christmas. It’s a yeast bread. Does that give you some idea of the amount of time I was “on call?” The result was spectacular, I must say, with frosting and holly decorating the top. The dog ate it, except for the holly. The saving grace of that episode was that over the years, it has made an excellent family holiday story.
On Sunday, he got ready for the Big Meal. The day before, we’d bought all the necessary ingredients. Now, I got out the ancient Betty Crocker cookbook, opened to the appropriate page and suggested he read it carefully before starting. I answered a few questions, such as “Where’s the cutting board?” and “What knife should I use?” His engineering brain obsessed a bit over the exact width and length the beef strips should be until I was afraid he’d get out a ruler, but eventually, he let me go back to sitting by the fire with my book. Suddenly, there was a loud crash from the kitchen, followed by a few un-Sundayish words and he appeared in the living room. “You have to be careful taking the flour bin out of the cupboard,” he announced. “Mmmm,” I muttered. He went off to fetch the broom and dust pan.
There were no further mishaps, no further questions to speak of, and then he called me to the table. There was wine and napkins and plates and all the right silverware and a steaming plate of Beef Stroganoff. Gratefully, I took my place. We said grace and ate. And it was good, too. A bit on the salty side, but definitely edible. (The next day, I noticed that in the drawer, the plastic measuring spoon labeled TBSP was on top and asked him about it. He said that was what the recipe called for. I checked. Of course, you have to know it was TSP.)
In terms of going above and beyond, I consider this right up there with the Duke of Windsor giving up his throne for his lady. Overall, I think I’m as lucky as Wallis Simpson. Happy Valentine’s Day to my King of the Kitchen! Oh, and Happy 50th Anniversary, as well! It’s been quite a ride.
1/20/11
OUR CHRISTMAS AWAY FROM HOME - 1984
“Not spend Christmas at home?” I stared at this sudden incarnation of Ebenezer Scrooge, whom I normally refer to as my husband. “Are you crazy? Christmas at home is a tradition! Remember how the kids always come into our bedroom at the crack of dawn, and then you go out to check if Santa left anything, and then we all form a line, youngest to oldest, and then—“
He let me babble on for a full minute before cutting in. “We can do the same things there.”
There, I had just been told, was an A-frame chalet nestled in the rolling hills of western New York’s ski country. Supposedly, it supplied all the amenities—hot and cold running water, two baths, a furnace and potbellied stove, and sleeping quarters for a small army—necessary for a family with six children. It sounded nice enough, except that it would be Christmas and it wouldn’t be home.
Pat was clearly disappointed in my lack of enthusiasm. For several years running, he’d mentioned that he’d like to do something different for the holidays. I’d always managed to come up with some excuse. There wouldn’t be any friends or relatives to share the joy of the season. We’d miss a lot of parties and good times. What if we got suck in a blizzard? Could we afford it?
“You worry too much,” he said now. “We survived the Blizzard of ’77, didn’t we? As far as parties go, they’re always the same. We can invite people to join us for some skiing, and yes, we can afford it.”
“But—“ I saw his eyes. He really wanted this.
“All right,” I sighed. But my heart wasn’t in it.
The kids didn’t share my discomfort. Skiers all, they were ecstatic about the chance to schuss to their hearts’ content. I’d given up the sport many years ago. So, while they gleefully put their gear in order, I shopped for Christmas gifts and packed warm clothes for everyone.
The first sight of our new abode brought back memories of Heidi. Perched halfway up a hill off a dirt road, its triangular roof was already decorated with Christmas lights. Behind it rose a small forest of evergreen. As soon as everything was unloaded, Pat, with the owner’s permission, sent the kids up to cut one of the pine saplings. They went about it with a pioneering spirit and soon returned with an acceptable specimen. They stuck the tree into a hole bored into a log and promptly decorated it with ornaments, lights, and tinsel provided by the chalet owner. The rest of the day was spent staking out claims to bedrooms and settling in.
The next morning, Christmas Eve, Pat and I took a leisurely stroll down the main highway to the tiny village in the valley. The sun was unseasonably warm. As we passed the local ski resort, it was evident the weather was not, at this point anyway, about to accommodate the skiers.
But it occurred to me, suddenly, that this Christmas Eve was different from the many that had preceded it. It was peaceful, for one thing. There was no last minute tearing around for forgotten items, no phones ringing, no visitors dropping in. The family was together. And it felt absolutely wonderful.
After supper that evening, rain began to fall. Rain on Christmas Eve? We refused to let it dampen our spirits. We sat around chatting and ignored the slanting streaks of water on the windows. Finally, around ten o’clock, someone brought up the fact that we had a custom of everyone opening one gift on Christmas Eve.
“You two go first,” the kids cried. They’d evidently chipped in and bought us something special. What could it be?
Matching red long johns, that was what.
They wanted a fashion show. Our protests availed us nothing. Pat and I retired to our room and reappeared looking like a couple of middle-aged Santa clones.
In a sudden bust of what could only be called idiocy, Pat grabbed my hand. “We need to do a snow dance!” he yelled.
We pranced and capered in front of our giggling offspring, Pat bellowing out whoops and mysterious incantations.
Then,
“Look!” We followed Anne’s pointing finger up to where the spotlight on the peak showed a distinct flurry of white outside. “It’s snowing! You did it, Dad!”
There’d be no living with him now, I mused, although the sight of the falling flakes somehow put the final touch on the evening.
But it wasn’t over yet. The kids wanted to go out. A mad dash for coats, boots, and mittens ensued.
Down the drive and onto the whitening road we trooped, Barry leading the way with an old-fashioned kerosene lantern he’d dredged up in the basement. We held hands, took long, running slides along the slippery ground, and belted out a raucous rendition of Let it Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow. The surrounding countryside was dark. If anyone objected to our bellowing, there was no sign of it.
Earlier in the day, the boys had scouted out a hill across the road and it was there they led us. We climbed a short path through brittle stalks of summer’s weeds, the glow of the lantern lighting the way. The further up we went, the quieter it became. The singing changed, too.
“The first Noel, the angels did say, was to certain poor shepherds. . .”
A chill ran through me. We did look like a band of shepherds high up on our little mountain. An arm went around my shoulders.” Look down there,” Pat whispered.
Below, the lighted chalets of the ski resort shone brightly through the falling snow. With a little imagination, one might have thought we were gazing upon the little town of Bethlehem.
At the crest of the hill, we stopped, out of breath, and sank down into the snow. A stillness descended, as if each of us was aware that we were experiencing something from another time. Two thousand years ago, the world lay asleep in the night, unaware of the miracle taking place in its midst. However, we needed no angel to appear with glad tidings. We knew full well what that supreme act of love had wrought.
Out of the silence, Barry’s clear tenor began:
“Silent night, holy night. . .”
Softly, the others joined in.
Pat hugged me. “We seem to have done a pretty good job with this bunch.”
I nodded, unable to speak for the lump in my throat. Like the shepherds of old, we had carried the news of God’s command: “Love one another, as I have loved you.” And down through the centuries, God’s gift was manifesting itself anew on that holiest of nights.
Other Christmases have come and gone, with traditional parties and gifts and goodwill. But never have I forgotten the beautiful sense of peace and joy that came in the stillness on that hillside, when we welcomed the birth of the Savior as we had never done before. In the hands of God’s love, we were all “home.”
He let me babble on for a full minute before cutting in. “We can do the same things there.”
There, I had just been told, was an A-frame chalet nestled in the rolling hills of western New York’s ski country. Supposedly, it supplied all the amenities—hot and cold running water, two baths, a furnace and potbellied stove, and sleeping quarters for a small army—necessary for a family with six children. It sounded nice enough, except that it would be Christmas and it wouldn’t be home.
Pat was clearly disappointed in my lack of enthusiasm. For several years running, he’d mentioned that he’d like to do something different for the holidays. I’d always managed to come up with some excuse. There wouldn’t be any friends or relatives to share the joy of the season. We’d miss a lot of parties and good times. What if we got suck in a blizzard? Could we afford it?
“You worry too much,” he said now. “We survived the Blizzard of ’77, didn’t we? As far as parties go, they’re always the same. We can invite people to join us for some skiing, and yes, we can afford it.”
“But—“ I saw his eyes. He really wanted this.
“All right,” I sighed. But my heart wasn’t in it.
The kids didn’t share my discomfort. Skiers all, they were ecstatic about the chance to schuss to their hearts’ content. I’d given up the sport many years ago. So, while they gleefully put their gear in order, I shopped for Christmas gifts and packed warm clothes for everyone.
The first sight of our new abode brought back memories of Heidi. Perched halfway up a hill off a dirt road, its triangular roof was already decorated with Christmas lights. Behind it rose a small forest of evergreen. As soon as everything was unloaded, Pat, with the owner’s permission, sent the kids up to cut one of the pine saplings. They went about it with a pioneering spirit and soon returned with an acceptable specimen. They stuck the tree into a hole bored into a log and promptly decorated it with ornaments, lights, and tinsel provided by the chalet owner. The rest of the day was spent staking out claims to bedrooms and settling in.
The next morning, Christmas Eve, Pat and I took a leisurely stroll down the main highway to the tiny village in the valley. The sun was unseasonably warm. As we passed the local ski resort, it was evident the weather was not, at this point anyway, about to accommodate the skiers.
But it occurred to me, suddenly, that this Christmas Eve was different from the many that had preceded it. It was peaceful, for one thing. There was no last minute tearing around for forgotten items, no phones ringing, no visitors dropping in. The family was together. And it felt absolutely wonderful.
After supper that evening, rain began to fall. Rain on Christmas Eve? We refused to let it dampen our spirits. We sat around chatting and ignored the slanting streaks of water on the windows. Finally, around ten o’clock, someone brought up the fact that we had a custom of everyone opening one gift on Christmas Eve.
“You two go first,” the kids cried. They’d evidently chipped in and bought us something special. What could it be?
Matching red long johns, that was what.
They wanted a fashion show. Our protests availed us nothing. Pat and I retired to our room and reappeared looking like a couple of middle-aged Santa clones.
In a sudden bust of what could only be called idiocy, Pat grabbed my hand. “We need to do a snow dance!” he yelled.
We pranced and capered in front of our giggling offspring, Pat bellowing out whoops and mysterious incantations.
Then,
“Look!” We followed Anne’s pointing finger up to where the spotlight on the peak showed a distinct flurry of white outside. “It’s snowing! You did it, Dad!”
There’d be no living with him now, I mused, although the sight of the falling flakes somehow put the final touch on the evening.
But it wasn’t over yet. The kids wanted to go out. A mad dash for coats, boots, and mittens ensued.
Down the drive and onto the whitening road we trooped, Barry leading the way with an old-fashioned kerosene lantern he’d dredged up in the basement. We held hands, took long, running slides along the slippery ground, and belted out a raucous rendition of Let it Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow. The surrounding countryside was dark. If anyone objected to our bellowing, there was no sign of it.
Earlier in the day, the boys had scouted out a hill across the road and it was there they led us. We climbed a short path through brittle stalks of summer’s weeds, the glow of the lantern lighting the way. The further up we went, the quieter it became. The singing changed, too.
“The first Noel, the angels did say, was to certain poor shepherds. . .”
A chill ran through me. We did look like a band of shepherds high up on our little mountain. An arm went around my shoulders.” Look down there,” Pat whispered.
Below, the lighted chalets of the ski resort shone brightly through the falling snow. With a little imagination, one might have thought we were gazing upon the little town of Bethlehem.
At the crest of the hill, we stopped, out of breath, and sank down into the snow. A stillness descended, as if each of us was aware that we were experiencing something from another time. Two thousand years ago, the world lay asleep in the night, unaware of the miracle taking place in its midst. However, we needed no angel to appear with glad tidings. We knew full well what that supreme act of love had wrought.
Out of the silence, Barry’s clear tenor began:
“Silent night, holy night. . .”
Softly, the others joined in.
Pat hugged me. “We seem to have done a pretty good job with this bunch.”
I nodded, unable to speak for the lump in my throat. Like the shepherds of old, we had carried the news of God’s command: “Love one another, as I have loved you.” And down through the centuries, God’s gift was manifesting itself anew on that holiest of nights.
Other Christmases have come and gone, with traditional parties and gifts and goodwill. But never have I forgotten the beautiful sense of peace and joy that came in the stillness on that hillside, when we welcomed the birth of the Savior as we had never done before. In the hands of God’s love, we were all “home.”
NOTES ON WINTER AND THE HOLIDAYS
We’ve already received our “I’m b-a-a-a-ck!” wake-up call from Old Man Winter, but Mother Nature was kind enough to give us a little reprieve so we could get out and deck the outside halls without numbing our fingers. Strands of broken and useless lights were replaced by new ones at our house. We should be pretty sparkly.
Even had the time and the temperature for one last paddle on the Upper Cuyahoga on Veterans Day. The scenery was vastly different from high summer, but had its own beauty, and a nice hint of wood smoke in the air.
One of the best Black Fridays we ever had was the day we handed out the advertising flyers from the newspaper to everyone at the breakfast table and tried to find the most useless Christmas present ever. It generated a lot of laughs. I can’t remember what won, but the electric nail polish dryer was in the running. Obviously, people have forgotten how to wave their hands.
Stepped out the front door the other day and a huge flock of Canada geese flew honking right over my head. Heading south, of course. Smart birds.
The kids are always asking what we want for Christmas. I have a philosophical problem with coming flat out and requesting certain things, but my resolve has crumbled in recent years. My previous system was to float ideas out throughout the year. Didn’t seem to work. Even I didn’t remember what they were half the time.
Love the seasonal arrivals—pomegranate, rutabaga, Clementines, chestnuts. And I’m eager to make my first pot of stew. Nothing like it on a cold evening.
We bought a new electric blanket. We like to sleep with the window cracked and that warm nest sure beats freezing cold sheets!
Despite the fact that stores have been playing Christmas songs for weeks, I’m waiting until after the great feast of Thanksgiving to start singing along. But just to get the ball rolling, here are a few you won’t find on anybody’s iPod:
Bring a torch, Jeanette Isabella,
Someone swiped my spotlight again . . .
Jingle bells, jingle bells,
Jingle with good cheer.
The mailman’s bringing cards and gifts
So keep that mailbox clear.
God rest you merry, gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay.
Remember those mosquitoes
Have finally gone away. . .
Snowplows we have heard on high,
Gently rumbling down the lane
And snow mountains to the sky
Give my back an awful pain.
Christmas is a’comin’, ‘tis the season of good will.
Please to put a dollar in the store clerk’s till.
If you haven’t got a dollar, a five or ten will do.
If you’re broke, they’ll send a basket and a “God bless you.”
I’ll be home for Christmas.
You can count on me.
Cleveland’s ice and blowing snow
Cut down the visibility. . .
Even had the time and the temperature for one last paddle on the Upper Cuyahoga on Veterans Day. The scenery was vastly different from high summer, but had its own beauty, and a nice hint of wood smoke in the air.
One of the best Black Fridays we ever had was the day we handed out the advertising flyers from the newspaper to everyone at the breakfast table and tried to find the most useless Christmas present ever. It generated a lot of laughs. I can’t remember what won, but the electric nail polish dryer was in the running. Obviously, people have forgotten how to wave their hands.
Stepped out the front door the other day and a huge flock of Canada geese flew honking right over my head. Heading south, of course. Smart birds.
The kids are always asking what we want for Christmas. I have a philosophical problem with coming flat out and requesting certain things, but my resolve has crumbled in recent years. My previous system was to float ideas out throughout the year. Didn’t seem to work. Even I didn’t remember what they were half the time.
Love the seasonal arrivals—pomegranate, rutabaga, Clementines, chestnuts. And I’m eager to make my first pot of stew. Nothing like it on a cold evening.
We bought a new electric blanket. We like to sleep with the window cracked and that warm nest sure beats freezing cold sheets!
Despite the fact that stores have been playing Christmas songs for weeks, I’m waiting until after the great feast of Thanksgiving to start singing along. But just to get the ball rolling, here are a few you won’t find on anybody’s iPod:
Bring a torch, Jeanette Isabella,
Someone swiped my spotlight again . . .
Jingle bells, jingle bells,
Jingle with good cheer.
The mailman’s bringing cards and gifts
So keep that mailbox clear.
God rest you merry, gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay.
Remember those mosquitoes
Have finally gone away. . .
Snowplows we have heard on high,
Gently rumbling down the lane
And snow mountains to the sky
Give my back an awful pain.
Christmas is a’comin’, ‘tis the season of good will.
Please to put a dollar in the store clerk’s till.
If you haven’t got a dollar, a five or ten will do.
If you’re broke, they’ll send a basket and a “God bless you.”
I’ll be home for Christmas.
You can count on me.
Cleveland’s ice and blowing snow
Cut down the visibility. . .
10/25/10
The Joys of Being a Grandparent
It’s good to be a grandparent. It’s a little like Social Security, I guess. You put in a lot of hard work initially, and then down the road a bit, you get it back with a lower tax rate (no diapers, two o’clock feedings, teenage hysterics, or college tuitions) and get to spend it pretty much the way you want to.
We have been blessed with thirteen “returns on investments,” if you will, ranging from two to twenty-five. Some have finished college and are off on their own. Others are learning their ABC’s and starting school. In the summer of 2009, we had them together in one spot and for much of the time, there was this magical ebb and flow of young bodies where there were no ages, no genders, no big, no little. Aside from afternoon naps (the little ones) and evening pub crawls (the older ones), the days were spent wandering the beach, splashing in the pool, playing card games, biking, laughing, and eating. It sure was fun to be a part of—and occasionally, just watch.
The only downside of our particular situation is that none of the grandkids lives, or has ever lived, in the same area as we did. Thus, we’ve spend a good deal of time on the road, making Exxon and Continental very happy campers. We get up to Western New York pretty often, and make annual or semi-annual trips to the Northwest. We even spent a special two weeks in Italy when our Navy son was stationed there.
In the fall, we often find ourselves heading to Indiana, where four of the younger grandkids live. One of the trips traditionally takes place around Halloween, so one October, we stopped and bought several rolls of toilet paper and wrapped up Grandpa like a mummy. Then we snuck around to the back of the house and tapped on the window. Were they scared? Well, not so much, but they were surprised, and that was almost as good. And the germ of an idea was born.
The next time, we didn’t even let them know we were coming. In days past, without cell phones, it would have been almost impossible to pull off. Now, through constant communication with our daughter Anne, we were able to position ourselves in the cereal aisle of the local supermarket just as they stopped in to pick up some groceries after school. Pat and I were concentrating on the display of crackers opposite the breakfast food, when the four of them came pelting down the aisle in search of their favorite brands. As they stood there excitedly grabbing boxes off the shelves, Pat turned around and said, “Excuse me, but do you know where I can find the Cocoa Krispies?” The looks on their faces were priceless.
Since then, we usually do a surprise visit at least once a year. We showed up for a birthday party at Chuckie Cheese. Once, when they were on their own trip to Washington, DC, we were sitting in a booth where they stopped for lunch in Zanesville, Ohio. I like to think we keep them a little off kilter, wondering where we’ll show up next. Don’t spill the beans, but this coming weekend, we’ll be hiding in a corn maze in Indiana. I can’t wait.
Life seems to go by with the speed of light. These are precious times with the most precious gift God has given us. Family. May you and your loved ones hold your particular blessings in your hearts as you celebrate Thanksgiving.
We have been blessed with thirteen “returns on investments,” if you will, ranging from two to twenty-five. Some have finished college and are off on their own. Others are learning their ABC’s and starting school. In the summer of 2009, we had them together in one spot and for much of the time, there was this magical ebb and flow of young bodies where there were no ages, no genders, no big, no little. Aside from afternoon naps (the little ones) and evening pub crawls (the older ones), the days were spent wandering the beach, splashing in the pool, playing card games, biking, laughing, and eating. It sure was fun to be a part of—and occasionally, just watch.
The only downside of our particular situation is that none of the grandkids lives, or has ever lived, in the same area as we did. Thus, we’ve spend a good deal of time on the road, making Exxon and Continental very happy campers. We get up to Western New York pretty often, and make annual or semi-annual trips to the Northwest. We even spent a special two weeks in Italy when our Navy son was stationed there.
In the fall, we often find ourselves heading to Indiana, where four of the younger grandkids live. One of the trips traditionally takes place around Halloween, so one October, we stopped and bought several rolls of toilet paper and wrapped up Grandpa like a mummy. Then we snuck around to the back of the house and tapped on the window. Were they scared? Well, not so much, but they were surprised, and that was almost as good. And the germ of an idea was born.
The next time, we didn’t even let them know we were coming. In days past, without cell phones, it would have been almost impossible to pull off. Now, through constant communication with our daughter Anne, we were able to position ourselves in the cereal aisle of the local supermarket just as they stopped in to pick up some groceries after school. Pat and I were concentrating on the display of crackers opposite the breakfast food, when the four of them came pelting down the aisle in search of their favorite brands. As they stood there excitedly grabbing boxes off the shelves, Pat turned around and said, “Excuse me, but do you know where I can find the Cocoa Krispies?” The looks on their faces were priceless.
Since then, we usually do a surprise visit at least once a year. We showed up for a birthday party at Chuckie Cheese. Once, when they were on their own trip to Washington, DC, we were sitting in a booth where they stopped for lunch in Zanesville, Ohio. I like to think we keep them a little off kilter, wondering where we’ll show up next. Don’t spill the beans, but this coming weekend, we’ll be hiding in a corn maze in Indiana. I can’t wait.
Life seems to go by with the speed of light. These are precious times with the most precious gift God has given us. Family. May you and your loved ones hold your particular blessings in your hearts as you celebrate Thanksgiving.
10/17/10
A Lazy Adventure
An early morning mist hangs low over the Upper Cuyahoga where it flows peaceful and serene past Eldon Russell Park on this summer day. The bow of my kayak slices cleanly through the water, my eyes alert for strainers up ahead that might spell trouble. In my concern about getting stuck and possibly capsizing, I pretty much paddle a clear passage. Beside me, however, my friend Audrey, owner of the bright blue and red kayaks, pokes around the reeds at the river’s edge, looking for what, I’m not quite sure. Baby Moses? I tell myself I need to be more adventurous, but then again, I worry about the camera nestled in my lap. I probably should have left it in the car, except I didn’t want to miss another shot like the one of Audrey paddling furiously through a flock of Canada geese, their wings flapping as they try to get airborne while Audrey is grinning madly. Fortunately, it’s nicely imprinted on my memory, but I would have liked to have shared it. Maybe on Facebook.
(Another day, on LaDue Reservoir, as we’re exploring the edges, we spy what looks like an iguana zipping along under the tree branches. It’s green and sort of triangular. Funny how we both think that before we comes to our senses and decide it’s possibly a small beaver or muskrat with a freshly gnawed leafy twig in his mouth.)
A great blue heron erupts from a tree in front of us. As startling as it is, we both take the time to admire the graceful flow of its body as it flies down river and out of sight. We disturb him a few more times until he finally hides (or so he thinks—
Audrey has eagle eyes) in the lower branches of a tree back away from the river. We seem to have the river to ourselves.
We come to a Y. It’s evident that the main channel goes off to the left, but Audrey, naturally, decides that the other way is more interesting. I remember that line from Robert Frost and paddle after her. And it does make a difference. It definitely seems less traveled. I’m never quite sure whether we’ll run aground beyond the next curve or whether my paddle is going to become tangled in some grasses that bend and flatten with the current. I spy a lovely white and pink water lily unfolding in a bed of lily pads. I move over and snap a picture, then decide to put the camera back in its plastic bag and just enjoy the ride. Go find your own splendor, I mutter to the millions who probably will never see my snapshots anyway.
Eventually, we come to the end of things and turn around while its still possible. The trip back is not bad, even against the current. Our heron friend is still perched in his tree, probably very happy to have his feeding grounds all to himself again.
A few weeks later, we’re back on the river, a few miles further downstream where the Camp Hi people have graciously trailered the kayaks. About eight days before, I’d plied this seven mile stretch with Pat in a canoe. In contrast, the kayak seems lighter. Of course, it is. I’m the only one in it. The day is a bit overcast, which, we decide, is for the better.
We’re not alone this day—Labor Day. We launch ahead of the crowd, but due to our leisurely pace, get overtaken by groups of teens and families and some guys and an older couple. (Well, probably about our age.) The wife is putting on a brave face, but I can tell that the constant paddling is taking a toll. Several times, the husband sprints on ahead, then turns around and comes back, which I think is nice.
There’s a place where the river narrows and the current is swift enough to just carry us along, with an occasional dip of the paddle to keep straight. Ahead, though, I begin to hear the sound of white water. Not exactly the mighty Niagara, I remind myself, but I keep my eyes focused for V’s as the water goes over some protruding rocks. The kayak hits it perfectly and I’m through, taking no little pride in the fact that I read it right. I’d done some rafting and canoeing before, but there had always been someone in the boat with expertise. Pretty small potatoes, to be sure, but this time, all the potatoes are mine. I can’t wait until next summer.
(Another day, on LaDue Reservoir, as we’re exploring the edges, we spy what looks like an iguana zipping along under the tree branches. It’s green and sort of triangular. Funny how we both think that before we comes to our senses and decide it’s possibly a small beaver or muskrat with a freshly gnawed leafy twig in his mouth.)
A great blue heron erupts from a tree in front of us. As startling as it is, we both take the time to admire the graceful flow of its body as it flies down river and out of sight. We disturb him a few more times until he finally hides (or so he thinks—
Audrey has eagle eyes) in the lower branches of a tree back away from the river. We seem to have the river to ourselves.
We come to a Y. It’s evident that the main channel goes off to the left, but Audrey, naturally, decides that the other way is more interesting. I remember that line from Robert Frost and paddle after her. And it does make a difference. It definitely seems less traveled. I’m never quite sure whether we’ll run aground beyond the next curve or whether my paddle is going to become tangled in some grasses that bend and flatten with the current. I spy a lovely white and pink water lily unfolding in a bed of lily pads. I move over and snap a picture, then decide to put the camera back in its plastic bag and just enjoy the ride. Go find your own splendor, I mutter to the millions who probably will never see my snapshots anyway.
Eventually, we come to the end of things and turn around while its still possible. The trip back is not bad, even against the current. Our heron friend is still perched in his tree, probably very happy to have his feeding grounds all to himself again.
A few weeks later, we’re back on the river, a few miles further downstream where the Camp Hi people have graciously trailered the kayaks. About eight days before, I’d plied this seven mile stretch with Pat in a canoe. In contrast, the kayak seems lighter. Of course, it is. I’m the only one in it. The day is a bit overcast, which, we decide, is for the better.
We’re not alone this day—Labor Day. We launch ahead of the crowd, but due to our leisurely pace, get overtaken by groups of teens and families and some guys and an older couple. (Well, probably about our age.) The wife is putting on a brave face, but I can tell that the constant paddling is taking a toll. Several times, the husband sprints on ahead, then turns around and comes back, which I think is nice.
There’s a place where the river narrows and the current is swift enough to just carry us along, with an occasional dip of the paddle to keep straight. Ahead, though, I begin to hear the sound of white water. Not exactly the mighty Niagara, I remind myself, but I keep my eyes focused for V’s as the water goes over some protruding rocks. The kayak hits it perfectly and I’m through, taking no little pride in the fact that I read it right. I’d done some rafting and canoeing before, but there had always been someone in the boat with expertise. Pretty small potatoes, to be sure, but this time, all the potatoes are mine. I can’t wait until next summer.
9/29/10
Scrapbag
SCRAPBAG
Until about twenty years ago, the only thing I knew about Ohio was that it was one of our fifty states. I had been here only once, to attend a party celebrating a friend’s marriage. I distinctly remember driving around and around and around an area with the rather quaint name of Chagrin Falls until we finally gave up and called our host to get more specific directions. It was a wonder we made it back to New York.
Little did I realize at the time that Ohio was about to become our “second” home state. It began to happen within a couple of years. A job opportunity came up and we relocated to – well, Chagrin Falls. It may have the only place I was even slightly familiar with (despite the fact that most of what we’d seen on our previous trip was dark and trees), plus a feeling that the East side was a bit closer to Buffalo. We didn’t stay there long. Two years later, we were back in New York. I’d been homesick and although I’d been delighted with all those trees that had originally frustrated me, and had become acquainted with the Cleveland Indians, I was more than ready to split.
God does have a sense of humor, however. Within two years, due to some quirk of fate, we found ourselves heading back to Chagrin Falls. This time, it stuck and we’ve now been happily ensconced for almost as long as we’d been in New York.
Busy with life, however, we never really took the time to explore the rest of Ohio, so in 2008, to celebrate my birthday (08/08/08), my husband arranged a lovely weekend that started with a B & B on Kelleys Island. From there, we just decided to wander, hitting the Vermilion lighthouse (and the drug store where I had my first chocolate phosphate in years!), then heading south where we stumbled upon a lovely public garden which I can’t at the moment remember the name of (and Google isn’t cooperative today). We ended up in Loudonville on the Mohican River for a leisurely 7 mile paddle along with half the population of Ohio, I think. Just the thing to do on a warm summer day. We headed home across the center of state, hitting the Warther woodcarving museum in Dover as a last stop.
Our 2009 discovery trip started in Cleveland with a corned beef sandwich at Slyman’s, followed by an engaging wander through the art gallery. We stayed at the Wyndham Hotel, enjoying a lovely dinner and meeting one of the staff who unwittingly sent us on our next adventure – zip-lining at Canopy Tours in Logan. It was an exhilarating experience and one that’s on our list for a repeat someday.
For 2010, we drove south along the mighty Ohio River, where we found the Sistersville Ferry that shuttles cars and people between Fly, OH and Sistersville, WV. Did you even know we had a town named Fly? The ferry could hold maybe six cars and was powered with a unique sort of attached tug. It spans the longest straight stretch of the Ohio (some twenty miles) called the Long Reach and takes about five minutes to get across. For pedestrians like us, it’s a free round trip. The ferry operator even provided a loaf of bread to feed the ducks and geese that greeted travelers on both sides of the river.
Our ultimate destination was Marietta, which turned out to be a bit disappointing, mostly due to construction on their main road. The glass museum, which we wanted to see, was closed. We did walk around the historic district with shops full of interesting antiques and art and walked around the confluence of the Ohio and Muskingum Rivers where there is a wonderful hike/bike path and park. We were looking for canoes or kayaks to rent, but was told that although they had been available a few years ago and might be again next, this year we were out of luck. So, we decided to head north along Rte. 60 to see if we could find a boat livery. We did find the Dillon Dam and a great little cafe in McConnelsville, then swung east again, stumbling upon the Longaberger Homestead. Due to it being a Saturday, nobody was working on the huge factory floor, which I found a bit reminiscent of the Boeing Assembly Plant in the Seattle area. The grounds are lovely, although the once-thriving business has hit a downturn. Perhaps people resist buying expensive baskets when they can’t afford the food to put in them.
We did eventually find a place that rented canoes, though – our own Camp Hi in Hiram. Some of the best places are close to home, it seems!
Fall is a wonderful time to go exploring. Even if it’s for just a day or two, Ohio definitely holds treasures for those willing to look in unexpected places.
Until about twenty years ago, the only thing I knew about Ohio was that it was one of our fifty states. I had been here only once, to attend a party celebrating a friend’s marriage. I distinctly remember driving around and around and around an area with the rather quaint name of Chagrin Falls until we finally gave up and called our host to get more specific directions. It was a wonder we made it back to New York.
Little did I realize at the time that Ohio was about to become our “second” home state. It began to happen within a couple of years. A job opportunity came up and we relocated to – well, Chagrin Falls. It may have the only place I was even slightly familiar with (despite the fact that most of what we’d seen on our previous trip was dark and trees), plus a feeling that the East side was a bit closer to Buffalo. We didn’t stay there long. Two years later, we were back in New York. I’d been homesick and although I’d been delighted with all those trees that had originally frustrated me, and had become acquainted with the Cleveland Indians, I was more than ready to split.
God does have a sense of humor, however. Within two years, due to some quirk of fate, we found ourselves heading back to Chagrin Falls. This time, it stuck and we’ve now been happily ensconced for almost as long as we’d been in New York.
Busy with life, however, we never really took the time to explore the rest of Ohio, so in 2008, to celebrate my birthday (08/08/08), my husband arranged a lovely weekend that started with a B & B on Kelleys Island. From there, we just decided to wander, hitting the Vermilion lighthouse (and the drug store where I had my first chocolate phosphate in years!), then heading south where we stumbled upon a lovely public garden which I can’t at the moment remember the name of (and Google isn’t cooperative today). We ended up in Loudonville on the Mohican River for a leisurely 7 mile paddle along with half the population of Ohio, I think. Just the thing to do on a warm summer day. We headed home across the center of state, hitting the Warther woodcarving museum in Dover as a last stop.
Our 2009 discovery trip started in Cleveland with a corned beef sandwich at Slyman’s, followed by an engaging wander through the art gallery. We stayed at the Wyndham Hotel, enjoying a lovely dinner and meeting one of the staff who unwittingly sent us on our next adventure – zip-lining at Canopy Tours in Logan. It was an exhilarating experience and one that’s on our list for a repeat someday.
For 2010, we drove south along the mighty Ohio River, where we found the Sistersville Ferry that shuttles cars and people between Fly, OH and Sistersville, WV. Did you even know we had a town named Fly? The ferry could hold maybe six cars and was powered with a unique sort of attached tug. It spans the longest straight stretch of the Ohio (some twenty miles) called the Long Reach and takes about five minutes to get across. For pedestrians like us, it’s a free round trip. The ferry operator even provided a loaf of bread to feed the ducks and geese that greeted travelers on both sides of the river.
Our ultimate destination was Marietta, which turned out to be a bit disappointing, mostly due to construction on their main road. The glass museum, which we wanted to see, was closed. We did walk around the historic district with shops full of interesting antiques and art and walked around the confluence of the Ohio and Muskingum Rivers where there is a wonderful hike/bike path and park. We were looking for canoes or kayaks to rent, but was told that although they had been available a few years ago and might be again next, this year we were out of luck. So, we decided to head north along Rte. 60 to see if we could find a boat livery. We did find the Dillon Dam and a great little cafe in McConnelsville, then swung east again, stumbling upon the Longaberger Homestead. Due to it being a Saturday, nobody was working on the huge factory floor, which I found a bit reminiscent of the Boeing Assembly Plant in the Seattle area. The grounds are lovely, although the once-thriving business has hit a downturn. Perhaps people resist buying expensive baskets when they can’t afford the food to put in them.
We did eventually find a place that rented canoes, though – our own Camp Hi in Hiram. Some of the best places are close to home, it seems!
Fall is a wonderful time to go exploring. Even if it’s for just a day or two, Ohio definitely holds treasures for those willing to look in unexpected places.
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