I have been away from this blog for a long time. I never intended to drop out of sight, but a series of things have taken my attention. I lost a very dear friend late fall, and his decision to use “death with dignity” made me question much. My country is having either death spasms or birth pains. It is hard to tell one from the other. Then too the whole writing sphere seems to be turning to monetization and AI. I began this blog to connect with the real words of real people sharing real thoughts. That happened a large majority of the time.

Now some writers I followed have turned to Substack, an app I still struggle to understand. It appears that many of those writers want to tease you with a free preview followed by an invitation to pay to read more. In addition the app seems to want you to follow 5 more each time. It reminded me of the chain letter from my teenage years.

I am frustrated by the amount of AI generated content. I suspect all of my writing has been vacuumed up without my say so. I did get a settlement for editing someone who had copy written her book and had been cannibalized. Still waiting for amount.

I remain passionate about writing, mine and others. I will be focusing on my own in private for a while, both poetry and genealogical sketches. I hope in due time to begin posting them at this site. I need some time to get over my grumpiness and get back to the joy.

I look forward to finding the path for that.

Yesterday, outfitted with snow boots, Charlie and I drove 30 minutes to Wadsworth Falls State Park, hoping to see the Falls icing over. After tromping on a path tamped down by previous visitors, we reached the overlook. Thank goodness it was surrounded by protective fencing!

I hope my readers enjoy the sight of the water as it flows over and under the forming ice. It was quite a spectacle. We went straight to a small WARM excellent Italian restaurant for lunch.

The snow was too deep for Zoe to smell all the previous “activity” in the yard and she was at a loss. She tried the deck, but that wasn’t satisfactory for her or for us. Recognizing the problem, Charlie took the snow blower out in the back yard and made several paths through the snow.

Only one path brings her back home. The others end, much to her annoyance, with snow banks. She keeps trying to jump up onto one, but thankfully quits. I don’t relish the prospect of digging her out of 18” of snow.

She has never been one of those open the back door so she can run out and do her business dogs. She requires an escort, one of us. This morning it was 3 below zero(F) and I was up first. Donning long underwear, socks, clogs, hat and jacket to accompany my flannel granny gown, I took her out. Thank goodness she decided she didn’t want to do her usual exploration of the whole yard. Smart dog. She took care of business and rushed with me back into the gradually warming house.(First up turns on the heat. Second up gets a warming house. Sleeping late would have been the smarter choice!)

When I was a kid we got up early before school to listen to KEX Radio to learn if it has snowed enough overnight to close school. The announcer ran through the list in alphabetical order. If there was a lot of snow many names were read out until he came to the r’s for Riverdale. My brother and I would be jubilant, knowing we had a day of sledding with friends ahead of us. It was worth waiting for the r’s!

To my grandson’s dismay, despite the 18” of snow that fell in the last 24 hours he is doomed by technology. Since Covid, schools have learned to use Zoom to teach remotely. While the snow beckons outside he is forced to sit at a screen. For him the saving grace of school is his group of friends—not a mischief maker among them. I feel for the whole bunch of active 16 year old boys forced to sit still, staring at a screen. I imagine one or two will find a way to prank each other nevertheless. I look forward to hearing what happens.

It’s funny the admonitions from childhood that still occasionally echo in my mind. This one came to me in my morning shower. I grew up in a household of six, and was I frequently either being warned about using all the hot water or I was running around in a towel screaming “who used all the hot water?” So now in a household of two frugal adults who always have enough hot water I still watch my usage.

I am the same way about overhead lights. I still hear my dad’s “do we own the electric company?” when lights are on in unoccupied rooms. Forget the logic about LED bulbs lasting forever with little electricity, I run around turning them off. Of course, Charlie does the same before he hears me yelp from downstairs “I am down here!”

Just wondering if others of you still hear old, no longer useful, warnings in the background of your mind.

A few days ago I looked up from my research at the sound of machinery. Looking out, I was intrigued to watch the town’s public works men picking up leaves from the curb. Years ago they would have been burned in each yard, but air pollution concerns changed things. Our town, with its thousands of trees, collects them all, composts them at the dump, and uses them for mulch.

This was the first time I really studied the process. A couple of men used blowers to get stray leaves into the main pile. Then a vacuum tube sucked them into the truck. When I saw this tube bobbing and weaving I was reminded of an elephant’s trunk. It turns out it was being directed by a young man with a remote control device looking suspiciously like a video game joystick. While the job was getting done, I suspect he was imagining evil invaders, not mere leaves, being sucked up by his skillful hands!

I have often written about my late sister Patsy. However, this Thanksgiving I am remembering her late husband Robert. He of the marvelous mashed potatoes. I was trying and failing to explain to Charlie the feat of Robert’s dish. I never watched him do his magic. My mother would hand over the cooked potatoes, the Sunbeam stand mixer, the milk and the butter and leave him alone. I have never made them taste as good.

He was a lovely man, a perfect partner for my sister. He loved to cook and Patsy didn’t. Beyond that,though, his gentle spirit was a great salve to the tensions that could arise on holidays. Alcohol flowed freely at these gatherings, but he remained sober and peaceful.

We live alcohol free now, but I raise a sparkling apple cider toast to Robert today, remembering those melt on the tongue potatoes.

Tomorrow is American Thanksgiving Day, a chance to get together, eat and argue. Political discussions forbidden here this year. We are left with recipe wrangling. Since I am in charge, my opinions rule. Still it is fun to hear opposing ideas of the “right food” for the holiday.

Do you prefer homemade cranberry sauce(no question) or the jellied one in a can which emerges with the lines ringing it?

Should the turkey be stuffed(of course)or left unstuffed. If stuffed, with herb seasoned bread crumbs from Pepperidge Farms(no doubt) or cornbread or oysters?

Should there be petite peas(why ask) or broccoli or French green bean casserole?

Should the potatoes be mashed(how else) or substituted with rice?

Should the pumpkin pie be made from Libby’s canned pumpkin( the only source for the RIGHT recipe) or dolled up with completely unnecessary although Instagram ready extras?

Does it matter that I am alone in loving mincemeat pie? Absolutely not, one coming right up.

Happy Thanksgiving to all dissenting opinion holders!

I am extremely grateful for the collection of photographs my brother had digitized after my mother died. In the above picture, for example, I can see my grandmother(E.G.D.) with her sisters and parents. Her father was the younger brother of the Aunt Lucy I am currently researching. These photos and those like them were taken to preserve a time and place and were quite intentional.

My discomfort comes from a phrase I often hear that “we are doing this trip or this activity to make memories.” The emphasis is placed on the future enjoyment of looking back rather than on the sheer pleasure of the day. We don’t have to go out of our way to “make memories.” We might snap a photo, but we don’t focus on the recording but on the fun. Memories form on their own without the need to be curated.

So much of contemporary social media seems staged like that. Places are visited to take “selfies,” not to be seen. Meals are posted on Instagram to show how wonderful they look. Who knows what they taste like? The image matters , not the experience.

Maybe this is just me being a curmudgeon. Still I remember back in 1970 when a dear friend complained about the newly current word “lifestyle.” “Whatever happened to living a life, she asked. When did we have to think of ourselves as having a style?” I feel the same discomfort about “making memories.”

I had intended to write about my experience as a child of the death of a tree topper on the neighbor’s towering Douglas Fir. We lived surrounded by these giants and, for reasons unknown to me then or now, people regularly brought in men to cut off the tops. There was no equipment, just one man with a chain saw and spiked boots. It looked dangerous and it was. When the neighbor was taking down his tree last week I reassured myself that this time it was a safe operation.

This morning I read the above article in my childhood newspaper. It reported: “They put up a bunch of pulleys and they had an excavator out there to keep the tree from smashing on the ground so that they could save all the branches,” said friend Abby Zumwalt, “I mean, everything was set up as it should be, and it was just kind of a freak accident that the tree like started twisting and just came at her.” The woman survived but with massive injuries to her leg.

It will come as no surprise that the most dangerous job in the United States is log working. I was right to be nervous last week.