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October 22, 2014
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Root Cellar

What’s in a blizzard’s name?

We held our annual 4-H sledding party this month in the good fortune of the storm now known as Nemo.

For us, the snow was a stroke of luck, as we had scheduled the event well in advance of a forecast. Not so much for my mother-in-law, who had upwards of 27 inches in Massachusetts, or those shoveling the roofs in Milford, CT, which had a record 38 inches. Nemo will be remembered there—and not as an orange Disney fish.

The recent trend of naming winter snow storms may help make it easier to remember them in the future, but it is a trend that is not without dispute.  Read more

Our new kitten

Our new kitten purrs like a lawn mower. At night I hear her motoring down the hall to jump on our bed, walk across our faces, and lick our fingers. Her loud, vibrating purr seems to say: “I am here. Get up and play with me.…”

The kitten is my daughter’s Christmas present. It just worked out that way. We had tried to adopt her earlier in the season, but between the vet’s schedule and her immunization timetable, she arrived just before Christmas. Rocket, our dignified, older cat, woke from her nap, quickly sized up this turn of events and ran yowling under my son’s bed.  Read more

The list-driven life

This is the season for lists—holiday gifts, cards and those letters to Santa, who is understood to be making a list of his own.

It can all get to be too much so that it seems that life itself has become winnowed down to a list of “to-dos” dictated by half-legible scraps of paper.

“I can take that off my list,” I hear people say, in a world-weary kind of way, whether it be, say, cleaning the fish tank or attending the kid’s holiday concert.  Read more

Visiting the Larches

On Election Day after casting my ballot I took a drive down PA Route 191 to see the Larches.

It may sound like the surname of some old family friends who are up for the weekend or the long-lost name of a distant cousin (to be sure, the Larches are as contradictory as some of my most eccentric relatives) but they are friends of a different sort.  Read more

Make me the sea

When I was a kid, in the early ‘70s, the highways were filled with people thumbing a ride. My father, who had a hippie-side all his own, often stopped for hitchhikers and occasionally brought them home for a meal, or to spend the night.

Now, for the most part, hitchhiking is a thing of the past. We are too afraid to catch a ride with strangers or pick one up. But for a time in the ‘60s and ‘70s as well as during the Depression, it was commonplace. “The roads are swarming with kids,” my father liked to say.  Read more

‘What is it? Wednesday’

School has begun and with it starts a whole new year of “What is it? Wednesdays” in my husband John’s 12th grade social studies classes at Sullivan West.

What is “What is it? Wednesday” you ask? Well, are you old enough to have used the gramophone, 45 records, eight-track tapes, the Walkman or only the Ipod?  Read more

‘What is it? Wednesday’

School has begun and with it starts a whole new year of “What is it? Wednesdays” in my husband John’s 12th grade social studies classes at Sullivan West.

What is “What is it? Wednesday” you ask? Well, are you old enough to have used the gramophone, 45 records, eight-track tapes, the Walkman or only the Ipod?  Read more

Fair week

It is fair week again. It feels like the summer has whirled away like the interchanging swings of the midway’s merry mixer. It has brought us to this moment.

We have spent the week at the Delaware County Fair in Walton, NY. Yesterday I watched my kids and their fellow 4-Hers give their public presentation speeches for fairgoers on subjects as varied as Arcadia National Park, remote control trucks, banana cream pie and my son Sam’s topic: the life and writing of Stephen King.  Read more

The blueberry trail

This year, the birds alerted me to the wild blueberries. We arrived home from a vacation at the beach to find the front steps littered with the blue splotches of cast-off berries. It was as good an announcement as any of the ripening bushes in our old fields.  Read more

Fireworks at 14

There is nothing a 14-year-old boy likes better than an explosion, and nothing more entertaining than a night of fireworks. At least so it is with my son, Sam, whose teenage solution to all problems is the wise-ass comment: “Let’s blow it up.” He says this just to irk me, I know, but it does convey a glimpse into the workings of his teenage brain, even if it sounds a bit clichéd.  Read more

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