Our Halloween Holi-daze

Just this morning, as covered in our local paper, I reviewed the A-Z list of things trick 'n treaters should do to have a safe Halloween.

Based on what I read, I'm lucky I survived the Halloweens of my childhood and wonder what my mother was thinking when she sent us out there to possible doom!

Evidently, she didn't love us as much as she professed. I present some of today's reading as evidence:

"Always carry a flashlight:" We didn't own one, but if we did my mother wouldn't let us take it as we'd leave it on way too long and run down the batteries and then she wouldn't have it to use.

"Buy costumes that are made of flame retardant material:" My mother made our costumes. Out of paper. Then she'd paint on them with highly flammable spray paint and then add things to them, like the year I went as a matchbook and she glued (again highly flammable) actual matchsticks in neat rows, about thirty of them, up and down the front and back of the costume. What I remember her saying to me as I went out the door, worrying no doubt, was "Make sure you keep an eye on your brother and watch that he doesn't spill any of that kerosene on his shoes!" (Can't remember if he was a train conductor or a night watchman, but every time he swung that lantern around I got a dose of the stuff!)

"Costumes shouldn't drag on the ground:" Yeah, right! Did you read the part where my mother made our costumes? Well, she was always rushing at the last minute, and we got pinned into them. She was a great seamstress, until it came to Halloween. At that time of the year, it was grab what was available, make it look like something, and it was always too big and too long. Her fine instructions were, "Oh just tuck it in, stop whining, and be careful. If you fall and rip it I can't fix it and you won't have anything for next year and Santa won't bring you any presents." Oh, and after she got us all pinned in and ready to go out the door? Had to go to the bathroom! Did I mention "fine seamstress?" No zippers!

"Dont' cut across yards or driveways:" How are you supposed to get to all of the candy before everyone else does? And half of the fun was running into bushes and trees and tripping over other trick 'n treaters who were laying the driveway, run over not by cars but other trick 'n treaters!

"Jackets should be worn over costumes:" What? Hide the costume? Are you crazy? I didn't get made up to look like this to hide it. We'd rather risk pneumonia. I did take a jacket one year and only because it was snowing and I needed something to cover my candy bag so my collection wouldn't get ruined.

"Know how and where to contact your parents:" If you've read past posts, you know that my grandfather was always "in town" and on Halloween night they served free beer with paid shots...he was easy to find...and if my mother went out, the apartment was always unlocked so we, and anyone else who came along, could get in easily.

"Light your pumpkin with a battery powered light:" I just mentioned that my mother wouldn't let us use a flashlight if we had one and it glowed so much better with an actual candle. The only words from Mom, don't stand too close to that thing when you light it...I don't want you to ruin your costume!

"Only eat candy after your parents have checked it:" Upon return from a night of candy collecting we would hear the following: "Be careful taking that costume off. I worked on it for hours. Here, let me take the pins out. Stop twitching. I am not pricking you with the pins. Hold still. (We, "ouch, ouch, ouch"). Okay, go to bed." Off we'd go, pour out the contents on the bed, sort out the "good from the bad," also known as sugar drenched and chocolate as opposed to fruit. Eat about half of the bag, go to sleep, wake up in the morning and finish off the balance before school. Okay, when is the next Halloween?

"Quarters are a good thing to carry in case you need to call home:" Several points here. When I was a kid a call was a dime, but most likely there wasn't anyone there to answer. These days, with the plethora of cell phones, try to find a payphone! And I guarantee you the only person who's going to let you into their house to use their phone, whether you offer the quarter or not, are covered by two other A-Z tips: "Never enter a strangers home and Visit only houses that are lit." (I could always visit my grandfather...he was lit regularly!)

"Stay on sidewalks:" We didn't have sidewalks! So, we'd have to run between yards and driveways...otherwise, no trick 'n treating! Our instructions from Mom, "Try not to get yourself killed." Note who was to blame if we tried to call her from a dark or stranger laden house!

"Wear a glow in the dark watch:" As a kid, I didn't have a watch. My mother had one, but she wouldn't let us take it as we would lose it or break it and it most likely didn't glow in the dark anyway. We got, "Don't stay out too late. If I'm not here when you get home just wait until I get back to get those costumes off of you. I don't care if you have to go to the bathroom, wait! And, don't eat all of that candy in one sitting!" And words to me in particular, "Keep an eye on your brother and if you have some candy that he wants give it to him!" (That's another story).

So, as we set out to celebrate Halloween, have as much fun as you can within the A-Z parameters. We've done a little decorating, carved some pumpkins (I didn't use a knife, I swear), put out some decorations and candy (it's all organic and natural, I'm sure), and pleased my wife by taking some of those sassafras leaves off the back trees, that she's said remind her of ghosts, and made some "Ghost Leaf" paintings for her this year (see two of them posted here).

Happy Halloween, BOO!

New England and Sinus Report: From 0 to 6200 and Back

I had hopes that my sinuses would clear up sometime this year. Although I'm not sure what I'm allergic to in the Fall (in the Spring it's the Oak trees, in the Summer it's grass pollen, in the Winter it's the oil bill), I have tried everything to break up nasal congestion and reduce sinus pressure.

I've taken allergy medications, used acupressure, put my head over steaming bowls of water infused with Vicks, and have put enough peppermint oil on "those pressure points on your head" to qualify for Peppermint Pattie status. I smell nice; I just don't feel like being nice.

We went off in early October to New England and I knew we'd be traveling up and down mountains and thought the varying pressures would awaken my sinuses to new adventures...does anyone feel like running?

We started our journey by joining my brother and sister-in-law in New Hampshire, at an RV park where they had taken up weekend residence. We had decided to go gem digging at Ruggles Mine and loaded up with picks, hammers and chisels so that we could ferret out precious and semi-precious stones. We came up with this idea one weekend that the four of us were together, drinking margaritas I believe, and we were excited to head off to the mine early that Saturday morning.

Ruggles Mine, touted as one of the largest mica producers on the East Coast, if not the largest, is a place that glistens and shines from one end to the other. There's mica everywhere. You think you've struck pyrite? It's mica. Ooo, what's this? A garnet? Nope, mica! I think I just hit a vein of what looks to be feldspar...nope, mica!

No digging on the walls allowed, we got to pick through all of the rocks laying about the floor of the mine that, doubtless, hundreds of other "miners" had gone through. Four hours later, we left the mine loaded down with fifty pounds of "gems." For those of you who are wondering what gems we came home with, well, I think we have a lot of mica! What I also discovered, as I watched families and other individuals come and go, is that we paid for the privilege to remove rocks from the floor of the mines, and take them home for a price, so that next Spring the mine owners can come in and blast, scoop up the gems, and leave another carpet of stones for us amateurs to come and take away.

Several things I learned. It is a great day for families with kids. A number of the children were truly excited about their finds, a couple even running their "gems" over to us to show them off, proudly. Secondly, you must take a gemologist with you when you go so you know what you're looking at. I did enjoy slamming that pick and chisel into the stone, thinking of some individuals as I did it (tension release), and would probably do it again, but I'll study before I go or at least get an expert to go along...who knows how many diamonds and rubies I passed over? Lastly, it's all stone. Allergy free...rock for as far as you can see. Can't say I felt the drain (other than in the wallet for the stoning), but it didn't get any worse.

Okay, weekend over, we headed further north to Mt. Washington. The White Mountains are a sight to see. As you look up at them, you are awestruck by their beauty. We had planned a trip up Mt. Washington, but never really looked at the process. We've ridden the ski gondola up the side of Whiteface Mountain, a respectable several thousand feet ride, and many years ago rode in a car up Whiteface. We've traveled up and down the Berkshires, the Catskills and other ranges. No prob. What I wasn't prepared for was the fact that about two thirds of the way up Mt. Washington I realized that we were up there really high. The trees and all other vegetation disappears at about 4000 feet and you suddenly realize you're on a 10 foot wide road on the side of a cliff, with no guardrails or even large stones to hold you back. As you swing around one precipice to the next, at 20 miles an hour, in low gear grinding your way up the mountain, the sensation (and the tension from the shuddering car) suddenly sets in that one little slide or slip and you're headed down...and at that point it's almost a mile drop!!!

I stopped the car, put it in park, set the handbrake, got out and traded spots with my brother, the jet pilot, to complete the drive. At that point, I don't think I asked, I just pushed him over to the driver's seat.

It's a very dramatic view, the picture here is from up top, but next time we're taking the train. Or dropping in via helicopter. The good things? The vistas, little vegetation for the last one third and a wind on top to take care of anything that does try to grow there (ergo no allergies!), and a customer service desk in the main building at the top where they will call down to the base to have a driver brought up to drive you and your car back down, once you've realized you shouldn't have tried it in the first place. Fortunately, for us, we did have the pilot with us and he made the trip back down (I sat in the back seat for the reverse trip) safely. The driver who came up for one other, suddenly savvy couple, said he makes about 60 trips a year up to drive cars back down for those who are still in shock from their uphill adventure. I guess I have plenty of company.

As for my sinuses, I think the pressure from driving up the mountain just locked everything in tighter...coming down the mountain I did have a sense of relief, but it turned out it was just my fingers coming out of the car seat that I had dug into about three inches.

We parted company on Tuesday, the brother and his wife headed back home, the wife and I off to the seashore. We headed to Gloucester, Massachusetts to the Cape Ann Motor Inn, a place that we had wanted to visit. There we were at sea level. And, I've always done well, sinus-wise, near the ocean. I thought the sea air or being a sea level would loosen things up.

It did seem to have a 'releasing' effect in the room next to us. Our neighbors released a torrent of yelling and screaming and foot stomping. They carried on for hours. Then, to add insult to injury, had their alarm go off at 5:30 in the morning, and letting it ring and ring and ring. I finally called the room to get them to wake up. As they hit the phone and hung up, the alarm went off, only to come on again in 15 minutes. I repeated the call. The next day the alarm went off at 5:30...only they weren't there. As there's no one in the office until 7:30, I stuffed pillows into my ears and rode out the alarm. The good thing was that the next day I wasn't sure if I had a sinus headache or if it was just sleep deprivation. I chalked it up to the latter and we went on to enjoy our day, traveling to Newburyport for some shopping and eating at some of the local seafood restaurants.

It did rain all day, but no matter. We were free to explore, took in Plum Island along the way, watched egrets frolic in the wind and precipitation, and nearly got blown off our feet when we got out on the ocean beach to check out the views. The fact that we were the only people there should have told us something about the weather.

We made our way home, noting that we had had many adventures during those six days...traveling through New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts and got to see a number of places that we had wanted to visit. We came back wet and windblown, sand tucked into every crevice of car, clothing and luggage, 50 pounds heavier with our new treasures, and better for the adventures.

Oh, those sinuses...rock solid! Not a thing changed...they withstood all of those events, air pressures from sea level to over a mile high, and back, and even some curry and pepper encrusted seafood. I wondered what would happen if we went below sea level, asking the wife if she was interested in underground mining. She told me, "Go soak your head." Isn't it nice that she's concerned about my sinus health?

In Plein Sight

Painting 'en plein air,' outdoors in front of the subject matter, is a great experience. A place of your choice, in a setting that's appealing to you, and enjoying the fresh air is a great way to spend many hours in productive pursuit of art.

However, it can be challenging for many reasons, including weather changes, continual movement of light and shadows, hauling all of the necessary equipment, and at times there's just too much in front of you to paint.

First, the equipment.

Many years ago, packing for a day of painting meant remembering to bring paints, easel, brushes, rags, canvases, turpentine, and wine and cheese. You could find a rock nearby to balance your palette on and maybe you had a towel or blanket to sit on when you took a break away from painting to relax a bit and check out your creation.

You painted under the sun, in full abandon, and hopefully came home with a great painting and a nice tan. I remember some artists who painted in their bathing suits and would take their breaks in the surf.

These days it's much more complicated!

Not too keen on steadying palette and goodies on nearby pieces of earth, as we mature, one needs a small table or at least a light folding chair with pockets for glasses and bottles. These days you can become dehydrated out there, who knew that, so water has become the beverage of choice. Now, we have to carry gallons of it and, along with the aforementioned art supplies, we have become aware of how dangerous it has been out there in the wild.

A very good artist will not go out without their SPF50, bug spray, wide brimmed hat, umbrella, and alcohol swabs. Long pants are tucked carefully into socks, in hopes to avoid ticks and perhaps other creepy-crawlers, and a light shirt, hopefully with some SPF protection embedded in it, stays on the artist all day while they are out to prevent the slightest hint of coloration...the only red should be from that tube and placed on the palette for painting only. We also have to remember towelettes for washing our hands between painting and eating, as we learned that lead and other chemicals in the paints can make their way to our fingers, eating utensils, glasses, and bottles and that seems to be a bad thing. Be careful to keep your drinking glass away from your turps so that you don't end up washing out your brushes in your wine and grabbing the solvent cleaner for a quick swig!!! I only did that once and can attest that wine does not clean your brushes well and turpentine has a long way to go to challenge even a cheap Merlot.

One of my biggest challenges, apart from setting up all of the stuff needed to complete a painting mission, is sticking to drawing and painting the subject that attracted me in the first place and not including the entire vista on the canvas. You want to paint a wave crashing against a rock, then do that...no need to include the whole shore, every wave, the seals and lobsters frolicking in front of you, and the Queen Mary sailing by in the background!

What to do? Well, take a picture with your digital camera. You can use it as a frame to focus on what you want to paint, you have it to take home with you, and you can print it out later to use again.

In days prior to the digital age, we could Kodak the moment and have the picture later, but most times it was sketch, sketch and re-sketch, and then use that drawing as reference as you were painting.

Anyway, when you can't muster the energy to pack up and head out on this grand safari, paint indoors. Take a picture of your favorite spot, maybe do a quick sketch, and head to the studio.

That's what I've done recently. I've included here a seascape that I just started...what you are seeing here is the result of about an hour's worth of effort...some lines remain, I've blocked out some rocks, and I'll continue to look at the picture I have to work out lights and darks and the placement of waves and water movement and we'll see where it goes. I'll keep you posted.

I do like painting water and have to do it either by traveling five to eight hours, being landlocked in New York State, or painting from pictures. The great thing about landscape and seascape painting is that you don't have to worry about replicating the rocks and waves exactly as they were, as long as the painting works, as no one is going to say, "That's not what it looks like!"

Okay, I'll amend that. Unless you're Guy Corriero or one of his students who have transversed Monhegan ad infinitum and recognize each little piece of sea glass and its location year to year and know the exact spot of this attempt here, it wouldn't be a big deal.

In comparison, a portrait or a painting of someones home necessitates exactness...nature says, "Grab the essence." Along the vast shore line of the eastern seaboard, forgetting the island habitues in this case, this place could be anywhere.

So, in my little eight by ten room, under a special light, free from UV exposure, I am painting 'outdoors.' No worries about ticks and mosquitoes, I can start the process without lathing chemicals on my skin. The easel is set up, tables and chairs nearby, no lugging, setting up and taking down. I can leave my umbrella packed neatly away, dress comfortably for the day, and maybe even not wear shoes, and keep my wine bottle in the frig upstairs. If I forgot to bring the cheese, just hop up the steps and pull it out. Oh, and I can leave the TV or CD player on and have some company, too.

Easier, yes...but something is missing...the company of other artists, that special smell of the combination of turpentine, oil paints, tick spray and suntan lotion, bugs floating in your wine or crawling around your canvas, the disappearance of that shadow from in front of that rock (how many hours have I been out here), or that great story about how you were almost done with that three by five foot seascape that was going to sell for lots of money, when you took in a deep breath of that salty sea air. Closing your eyes briefly to focus on the smells of the ocean and feeling the gentle spray on your face, you open them again quickly when you realize that it's more than just a spray, more like a bucket of water being thrown at you, and you watch as your easel and painting attached to it are swept off the rocks in front of you, in plain sight of everyone, or should I say, "plein sight," to become one with the sea.

In my case, I was most fortunate...I was just far back enough away from the easel and the coast's end that I didn't go with it and I had my wine glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, at the time, so not all was lost!!!

More to come, as the painting progresses...

In Step with Summer

Speaking of steps (as per the title of this posting), we recently traveled to Watkin's Glen so that the wife could show me the gorge located there. She had visited there earlier this year and wanted me to see it. We thought we'd do a two day trip, but it dwindled to one and we made a dash to the Finger Lakes the Saturday before Labor Day.

The weather didn't look promising. It did rain on the trip there (four hours door to door), but when we arrived the clouds parted and the sun shone down on us as though to say, "Welcome, we knew you were coming and we want you to enjoy this place of natural beauty."

Okay, it wasn't that dramatic, but it did stop raining for a bit and we were able to make our way through the gorge, a sprinkle here and there, but no deluges.

Back to the steps...the story board at the base of the gorge notes about 800 steps. Intrigued, I started counting as we made our way up the gorge. Not a small stream wending its way around the base of a small hill, as I remember the gorges of my youth, it's a cavernous expanse cut into the side of a small mountain. We made our way up 787 steps (yes, I counted each and every one of them), ascending hundreds of feet as we took in the views.

Fortunately, I can multi-task. Counting steps, taking in the views, chatting with the wife about the many formations, climbing the steps, dodging rain drops, inspecting water falls, and dealing with hordes of photo hungry visitors kept me real busy. My head was spinning when we got to the top. Not sure if it was the altitude or all of that work...how do you relax at a park when you have so much to do?

The place is quite amazing. The gorge is at least a hundred feet deep in spots (maybe more) and at one time, about 10,000 years ago they say, it was all level ground that led to a large waterfalls. The glaciers (those darn pesky several mile thick ice cubes of time gone by) and subsequent running waters tore through rock to take a waterfall that emptied directly into Seneca Lake and created a series of many smaller falls and streams to end up in the same place. Seems like a lot of work, over a long time, to accomplish the same goal, but what the heck...it is an amazing site and that's nature for you.

Someone had the idea to make a walkway, with those sept-hundred plus steps, so many could take in the views (and pay for the privilege) and walk under and around falls, get splashed on by water running off the sides of the hills with droplets bouncing off the pavements and protective walls, and it's a beautiful couple of hours. At one point, where the largest falls comes in front of the walkway, seemingly hundreds of people posed for loved ones who tried to capture their visage "under the curtain of water." It's a small space and I kept getting stuck within groups of photographees...I'm certain there are scores of people looking at their pictures, now that they're home, saying, "Who's that guy? He looks like someone famous!" In a hundred years, historians will gather pictures from various groups to study the cultural habits of us humans and find one common link from that day of photos at Watkins Glen...me in each picture...then I'll be famous!

We keep moving. Shallow and deep pools, streams, the aforementioned falls, moss, flora and fauna (and who was the third fairy in Cinderella?), and at the very top the quintessential state operated gift shop! What a site...I looked to see if they carried little Statue's of Liberty, I lost mine somewhere. No luck. But they did have a snack bar, and rest rooms, and a bus to take you down the mountain if you didn't want to hoof it back.

Not to be detracted from our morning of exploring nature, and noting we could avoid the steps by taking one of two trails back down, we chose the Indian Trail. I am a bit bewildered that it hasn't been renamed the Native American Trail, but that's another blog.

Off we went, and it was smooth going. About halfway down we ran into a "trail closed due to storm damage" sign and were directed back to the stairs. Fortunately for us, we got a second chance to stand under the falls with all of the people with cameras trying to take pictures of all of their friends and family, and getting me in most of their shots, again, as we tried to squeeze by those who appear to be walking behind the curtain of water and stopping me from making much progress for a bit of time (although now I'm thinking they were trying to get me in the shot for better aesthetics). Not as dramatic as Victoria Falls in Africa, one could do a bit of photo cropping and make it seem that one was surviving torrents of water!!! Cool!!!

I would recommend the trip highly not only for those who enjoy the outdoors and the happenings of nature, but also for the fact that they conveniently located the gorge near 600 wineries! Guess you know where we spent the afternoon. More on that some other time.

We ended the day with a boat ride on Seneca Lake. A couple with a small child sat in front of us and through the bulk of the trip the child was more fascinated with me than with the surf and turf all around. I have that effect on people, you know. I think I'm in a couple of their family pictures now, too! This is all going to work for me, some day!

Anywho, I recovered from the ascension of the steps at Watkins Glen (there are a couple of "just eighty steps in this group," heart pounders for certain), thanks in part to generous applications of Yoga Balm to knee joints and a very nice Chardonnay or two, and we are talking of returning again. I will say this about that day. It is a spectacular park, the scenery is stunning, New York State does not make a great red wine (one with the punch the French can deliver, sorry), and I'm going to start charging for being in people's pictures...I realize fame will come, but I won't be around when that happens and I would like some of the cash now!

Summer Sale-ing

I had a yard sale this past weekend.

First of all, I have to state that my wife does not like yard sales.

Secondly, we are geographically challenged. I continually chant, 'sidewalks, sidewalks, sidewalks,' as I envision of a life of walking out the front door, onto my sidewalk that leads to shops and cafes, to new stands and stores, to bars and galleries, and more, without having to get into a car and drive an hour for any one of those. I know there would be more people connections and interactions and, in contrast to the poor attendance at my yard sale this weekend, most likely more traffic both by foot and car to suck up my treasures!

About twelve cars worth of 'shoppers' came by over two days. Day one, Saturday, was the better of the two days with about ten gawkers; Sunday only two cars full. All in all, for the week or two worth of sorting and pricing, and the time setting up and tearing down, about the only thing I gained was 25% more muscle mass and a sincere appreciation for throwing things out.

With that said, there is something I don't understand. Why don't people just love everything that I've put out there? The fact that those bunk bed frames look like they were well used for over 15 years shouldn't detract from their sturdiness and future support! The various pieces of china, mugs, cups and saucers and numerous plastic things (I think they're plastic, what came before plastic?), served us well and the fact that they are mismatched, missing their accompanying matching piece or need a little cleaning (okay, there were packed away in a tote for eight or ten years) doesn't mean they aren't functional...they should have been swooped up by any one of those who showed up. When I bought all of those toys for the kids, they were collectibles. "Dad, these will be worth thousands of dollars some day, I have to buy it, please, please, let me buy it. I'll take good care of them, I promise, please, please!"

Did I mention that I asked the boys to help me with the yard sale. Thought they could be a part of the unloading of all of these 'collectibles' and be here to help me carry the money inside. No, they were, "Busy this weekend, sorry. Maybe next weekend." Off they went. They checked in on Sunday after the fact. I told my wife it was safe to call them to let them know all was done, after I put the last tarp away. I went in the house and heard my wife yell, "Funny! Guess who's here?" Sure enough, one drove it almost on cue. "How'd it go?" I apprised him I didn't sell any of his stuff and it was now piled in the middle of his room so he could deal with it. Not that he could tell the difference from the piles that are all ready there.

Back to the event. Books, books, who doesn't need books? Some tattered, some well worn, but they're books...they always have value and the fact that only one sold only means that they were passed up due to appearance rather than content....a fairly shallow appreciation by the audience, I think.

I knew I was going to score a sale when the couple arrived with three small kids. They headed for the pile of 'formerly loved toys' and each picked up something and looked longingly at their parents, "can we get this?" "Ask the man how much!" They looked at me, "50 cents." They looked back at dad, "Deal," he said. They picked up another toy and the total soared to $5.00.

Of those who came, some were looking for fishing gear (only had one rod and the youngest still uses it, but I offered to rent it to him), or sapphire glass (I only have glass from McDonalds and the jelly company and it all has pictures on it, and they are mostly cartoon characters...they're collectibles, you know, and will be worth thousands some day!). Another wanted stamps. I told him, "No, no stamps here, but if you need one to mail something I have one in the house I can sell you." He just looked at me briefly and then walked away. A single woman noted, "My daughter just moved into an apartment and I'm looking for stuff to fill it up." I pointed to everything and said, "Help yourself, this filled our house nicely." She took a harmonica. It's nice to know her apartment will be filled with music.

Met the neighbors down the street who arrived with a couple from Costa Rica. I was impressed. I commented to one that I was amazed that they came all the way from Costa Rica for my yard sale! "Yes," he said, "It's all of that international marketing you're doing!" (Need to note that for the next yard sale, not only road signs on the contiguous roads within five miles to try to direct people here, but also London, Paris, Moscow, South America, Beijing and Iceland, to start with!)

A couple of old bottles, two boy scout belts, a school carry bag, and a refrigerator magnet filled out the day's sales.

I closed down a couple of hours early on Sunday, recognizing the fact that people thought they had better things to do, got 'saled-out' on their way here, or the economy had dealt a deathblow to lawn topped resale efforts. I wonder if Wall Street has taken note of that.

Most of all, as I put some items out by the road next to a "Free Stuff" sign, I was depressed that those who did come didn't see the grand value of all that lay before them. Years of care, items carefully tucked away to sleep for a decade or more, things that once served us faithfully or entertained us or the boys for hours on end, sat untouched. The grime or wear was, quoting Charlie Brown as he looked at his friend Pig Pen as the dirt shook off him, "History." If people only understood the time, effort and love given each item they would have gladly paid the buck and taken the treasure home.

Oh well, the house is a little lighter. I've boxed up some stuff to give away, but was very careful to tuck away a couple of totes full of 'treasures' for the next yard sale...you know, the ones that people, if given the chance, will desire for their 'soon to be valuable' value. I can't throw them away, you know, "They're going to be worth thousands!"

After the big sale, the wife and I went for a drive. I had to pick up the sign I posted five miles down the road, we were going to stop somewhere for dinner, and she wanted to drive south a bit to check out a marshland where people take their kayaks. She wants to do that some day and I look forward to writing about those adventures.

I stopped at the corner, grabbed the sign, and put it in the back of the wagon. It was standing up and the top two lines were visible from the back window, "Yard Sale. Sunday, August 29th." We drove eight miles down the road, after getting gas at the corner store, and decided to swing into McDonald's for a quick burger and shake, to go. Just as we grabbed our treats from the serving window, prepared to pull away, a guy jumped out of a pickup truck behind us and waving and yelling at us, "Sir, sir, just a minute." He came up to my wife's side of the car, as I was driving, and said, "Where is it? Where is the yard sale," "Huh," I said? "We've been following you all the way from the gas station and are wondering where the yard sale is." "It's over," my wife said, "It was in Kerhonkson, but it's done." He replied, "My friend there in the truck, he's a flea market freak and we thought we were following you to a yard sale. Bummer."

My wife just shook her head. In the rear view mirror, I could see the guy in the truck behind us just laughing and shaking his head. We said, "Sorry," one more time and then pulled away. What was that about? Had I thought twice about it, I would have opened the trunk and tried to sell the leftover clothing that I'll now be hauling around for a couple of weeks...darn, missed that opportunity!

As we pulled onto the main road, to head off to the marshland, I pointed out to my wife, "Look, yard sale. Should we stop?" "Only if you're dropping stuff off," she noted and, sipping on her milkshake (which wasn't in a collectible glass by the way), she pointed straight ahead and said, "Just drive."

Summer Deals

We went on another day of car shopping today. The wife wanted to re-check the cars she saw earlier in the week, see if anything new appeared on the lots, and was determined to make a decision today. And, she did. We bought a "new to us" car and we can pick it up on Tuesday.

Her beloved 1998 Taurus, with 256,000 miles on it, needed repairs that rivaled the value of the car and we thought a newer car to be a better investment of any money.

Buying a car, and having something newer, should be something of a thrill, but the process is just never fun. The industry is set up to set us up. You hear about deal making and trading away accessories to bring the price down, offer to pay $2,000.00 less than the sticker, the salesman goes off to "talk to the boss," they come back offering a small amount off, you come up a bit, they go see "what else, if anything, but there's not a lot of room as we're all ready at cost," and when all is said and done you end up paying just what you didn't want to pay.

We tried what tactics we could to lower the price. We're just not good at it and there's something about haggling over the price of anything that feels cheap. We came away with a car that attracted us, got body work tossed in to take care of dings and scrapes, and a CPO. We had a CPO once before and it was good. And, once I figure out what it is, I'll explain it to you.

Basically, we're happy. The sad part of it was taking days to test drive, compare one to the other, ruminate over them all, return to find one we wanted was being sold as we appeared, and having one sales person (not where we bought the car), seemingly put us down for asking questions. "It doesn't matter if you finance or pay cash for the whole thing, the company doesn't care," and, "You have to understand that you're getting a warranty and that costs the company money." I got it. The salesperson was looking out for the company and, for them, he's a keeper.

The truth is, the final two cars were about the same amount of money. We went with the other guy who treated us well.

We left the car dealership to have lunch. After downing a couple of sandwiches with fries, we got the bill for the meal. I asked the waitress if she could do something about the bill.

"Huh?," she asked.

"Well," I said, "the meal was okay, but I don't think you bought the bread today, and the pickles most likely were bought more than a few days ago. I think there's some depreciation here we can take into consideration."

She seemed stunned. "You're not serious, are you?"

I shook my head in disbelief as my wife hit me with a, "What are you doing?"

I stuttered to the waitress, "I'm sorry, we just came from buying a car!"

"Oh," she said, "I'm sorry. Now I know why you asked that. Actually, we have a car buyer's remorse coupon, but you have to come back to use it, it can't be applied to food that's all ready been served, and it's only good on our full priced entrees, and only on Wednesdays between 2:00 p.m. and 3:00 p.m."

I apologized to the young lady, paid the bill, left her a bigger tip than usual, once again paying more than we expected to, and we left. I did ask for the coupon on the way out, at the register, but was told that offer expired yesterday at midnight. Geez!

Onward to the grocery store. We quickly ran around the place, gathering our basic needs and headed for the register. I loaded everything on the belt, as usual, while the wife handled the coupons and directed the placement of goods for ringing up. For what turned out to be about three bags of goods, $105.00.

As my wife went to write the check, I told her to wait a minute and I said to the clerk, "Are there any management specials today?"

"Management specials?," he asked.

"Yes, specials," I repeated. "This food has been sitting on your shelves for days, and months in some instances, and it seems to me that you should be running specials, say 10% or 15% off, or at least including the tax in the price."

"Wha," the clerk said?

"Management specials. You know, you put up balloons and drape flags all over the place, maybe you hire someone with a blimp or a plane to announce the deals, and you move old stock off your shelves."

"Is he for real," the clerk asked my wife?

"You have to excuse him," she noted, "We just came from buying a used car."

"Oh, why didn't you say so!" The clerk advised us that if we could wait until the next stocking of the store, and take our goods in brands they chose, we could qualify for free refrigeration of any perishables. The only thing was that we had to drive to the store to pick up items as we needed them, but there wouldn't be any extra charge for this service.

My wife pushed the cart into my backside and told me to stop thinking and pack the bags. She apologized to the clerk and we were soon on our way.

I don't know what came over me, perhaps haggling lag, but I started to think, although a car is worth what its worth and our souls and peace of mind might be better off if we just paid the posted price, I paid too much for those donuts I bought this morning...they had holes in them and I want a discount!!!

Fruit of Summer's Labor

Growing up in Richfield Springs, as a teenager, I had a lot of work to do around the house and yard. Spending those years in a 20 room Victorian, with four younger brothers, meant a lot of housework and upkeep. Along with helping with dishes, cooking, cleaning, dusting, vacuuming, laundry, and helping to raise the younger boys, there were 3 acres of lawn to be mowed, along with other outdoor duties.

I learned to like lawn mowing when we got a lawn tractor, as I could spend hours outside by myself riding around and around and around. Should someone call to me or need me to do something else, I could always say that I couldn't hear them over the noise of the mower.

Of course, there were ways to mow the lawn, as the step child of the wicked stepfather. "Straight lines perpendicular to the the front of the house, parallel to the house on the side, and in a square box formation in the back." I learned how important this was one day when the wicked step-father came home, after I had mowed the entire lawn, and he made me go back out and re-mow the whole thing, in the afore-described manner, so the lines the mower made matched his expectations.

Now that I think of it, I could probably get a job mowing for the National Baseball League...I think I know how to mow those checkerboard patterns into the grass!

The chore I liked the least was working in the garden. We had a large vegetable garden every year. The minute the weather looked like it might be warming, and thankfully up north those warm days didn't set in until late May or early June, we'd have to be out in the garden, seemingly every available minute, hoeing, turning soil, and planting, then weeding, watering, pruning, picking and washing whatever was there. We're not talking a 16' by 16' garden here, not even 25' by 25'...this one was almost a quarter acre. In retrospect, we could have probably hired someone to work there 8 hours a day, all week long each week, and still not have kept up with it.

Everyone was out there at some point during the day. My brother next to me, the middle brother who spent most of his time sitting on the ground wailing about having to do anything, and my mother, with twin babies in car seats in the furrows between the corn stalks. It was an obsession. Not ours, but that of the wicked stepfather. However, the more work done outside resulted in more peace and quiet inside.

It was not a pleasant day when the wicked stepfather came home and found weeds in his garden. My mother would push us out there the minute we got up, before school, and after school, and all day during summer vacation, and implore us to get it in pristine garden shape...she's woo us with cookies and cakes, money and, as we got older, use of her car...anything not to have to hear about the garden.

One year, I was put in charge of the carrots. I was the carrot-meister...the wicked stepfather was German; 'meister' means mayor. I told the wicked step-father's mother, the evil step-grandmother. that I was the "Carrot Meister." She shook her head, said something in German that I didn't understand, and probably wasn't very nice, and turned around stomping back to her trailer.

Whatever, it was my little joke. I planted them, watered them, weeded around them, and then got the job of harvesting and cleaning them. "Have those things done by the time I get home," the wicked stepfather imparted on his way to work that a.m. The "Carrot Meister" had his marching orders.

If it were ten or twelve plants, I'd have had then picked, washed, pared, and sliced by lunch time. Ready for blanching and freezing, I could have whipped that out too, as I made formula for the twins.

However, there were several rows of carrots. I do not remember how many bushels of carrots I ended up dealing with that day, but the thought of hand washing all of those carrots was overwhelming. Carrying some of them into the house towards the kitchen sink I spied the washing machine. Why not? I grabbed a knife, starting the washer on cold wash, cold rinse, and snipped off the tops of one after the other dropping the carrots into the machine. As it started it's cycle, I could see the dirt slipping away from them all. The gentle cycle worked wonders and, as I saw a clean one make its turn to the top, I'd grab the carrot out of the tub and put it into a bowl I had set on the dryer. I was very careful not to overload it, the water got really dirty and I wanted to be sure to be able to see them surface. I went through the whole day's harvest in short order.

The problem arose, after they were all cleaned, when the washer wouldn't clear itself of all of the dirt. Seems some of the larger clumps couldn't make their way out of the little holes on the inside of the machine and a number of pebbles accumulated in the bottom. My mother came through the door just as I was scooping out a rather large nasty bit of loam and she just about fainted. I know what went through her mind. The wicked stepfather would no doubt walk in on this production and go through the roof now that I "ruined" the washer.

She had me put the carrots in the kitchen and put some in the sink, to pretend that I washed them there, and she started numerous washes in the machine to clean it out. She was correct in her assumption that the wicked stepfather would show up during this production...he came home early that day, "Just because." (I often thought he had the house wired and would come home when the dialogue led him to believe that we were 'up to something.') He did think that the carrots looked especially clean, whew, and he never found out about the washer escapade, double whew!

The whole point of this story is that, during my hours of gardening and harvesting and cleaning, I would think that there had to be a better way, and I found it. Perennials and vegetable stands.

At my house, in the Spring, I watch flowers come up in my front yard garden, a 16' by 8' spot of perennial flowers that I accumulated over several years, and under the overhang, a 3' by 8' spot, some thistle, chives and sage, and some other interesting plants. In the back yard my herb circle, where mint and oregano come up annually with no more work on my part than opening the door to go outside to look at them.

Down the road, in either direction from our house, are vegetable stands. They have all sorts of vegetables and fruits that have been harvested and cleaned (and no doubt benefited from someone's care and weeding), and I have all of that saved time to do other things.

Off to the side of the back yard, we have an apple tree. This year it has put out the most apples ever. All I did was watch the snow melt off it, see the apple blossoms bloom, and investigate, from time to time, the bulbs that have now formed into fruit.

I do enjoy a little gardening, but nothing on the scale of the mega-gardens of my past. To be honest, I might like a nice vegetable garden, but our soil is poor and our oak trees block any hope of sun for the hours needed to pull everything out of the ground. And, given the time and effort it takes, purchasing our vegetable needs is probably cheaper, I'm conserving our water for our other needs (showering, laundry, cooking, and those little scotch and water events) and, I'm fairly certain, the wife might have something to say about the use of the Maytag come harvest day!

I wonder. If you put washed lettuce in the dryer on the air cycle, would it get rid of the excess water??? Hmmmm...maybe I'll try a little garden next year!

Summer Cutting Cuttings

I've decided there's one thing worse than not having time to paint. That's having all of the time in the world to paint.

The pressure can be enormous.

Of course, I should be putting out lots and lots of work. What else is there to do?

Some artists treat their practice like a job. They go into the studio at 8 a.m., take a half hour for lunch, return until 5 p.m. and then turn the light off until the next day. They work at it.

Others, like me, are mood painters...have to feel the urge and want to do it.

I subscribe to a twice weekly e-letter from Robert Genn (thank you, Wendy, for that suggestion) and he noted in one letter this week that a friend of his secured a two week residency and wrote that she didn't know what she was going to do with all of that time. There is the suggestion that plenty of time equals many more good works than usual and success each time.

I decided today to use the time and just do it. As a result, I went through six pieces of watercolor paper. I can balance chores with watercolor, as you need to let the piece dry between applications, and having to fold clothes or do dishes fills the time nicely and forces you to walk away from the painting. That way, if the painting doesn't pan out, at least I feel like I got something done.

Lately, people have been urging me to do more leaf paintings. It's a little early in the year for them, but I pulled everything out to give it a shot. You have to find the right cutting. The shape, the veins, the condition (lots of little bugs inhabit leaves)...and the funny thing is, and it's perhaps the length of time the leaf is exposed to the elements over the duration of several seasons, before they fall, or the cold air at night in the early fall, summer leaves are tough to deal with. They have waxy surfaces and resist water and paint. I won't tell you what I do to prepare them pre-season (that's a trade secret), but I took out my scissors, took some cuttings, got a dozen together. and spent about eight hours, on and off, to come up with basically one picture.

My leaf paintings are all original, one-of-a-kind, productions. Prepared on a quarter sheet, if all are successful, I might get one really good big painting or five or six small ones.

I learned the trick of cutting paintings down one year on Monhegan Island, many years ago. Fred Wiley, a well-known Monhegan artist, was visiting our group of painters. I had a poor painting going and was ready to trash it when Fred stopped me. He whipped out a small mat and moved it to a part of the painting where something was hiding. "In every bad painting there's a beautiful postcard," he said. With that little action of his, voila, there it was, my first cutting. If I'm lucky and the painting is a really big bad one, I can get two or three cuttings.

Since then, I've painted with abandon knowing that something will be there that will be worth framing. Okay, not every time, and not with complete abandon. Some times, very few times, I just paint to paint. I actually try very hard to paint well and still throw a bunch of stuff away.

Over the years, my leaf cutting and painting processes have resulted in some outright gems and many worthy cuttings. This one, a piece of quarter sheet is a cutting.

When they go really bad, and with this process many do, I cut the sheets into strips, five or six inches long and a couple of inches across and end up with hundreds of abstract book marks.

So, today, from my cuttings, one painting and sixty-seven book marks. Can't tell you what tomorrow will bring, but I always look for the right cutting.

By the way, those six pieces of paper may have resulted in six pictures that one could argue, if done well, matted and framed, might bring several hundred dollars each. That being the case, I'd welcome $1800.00 for this one. If anyone is interested, contact me right away.

Summer Kayak (yak, yak, yak...)

Just back from 10 days at the lake...our usual summer stomping grounds, we figured we've been visiting Canadarago Lake in Richfield Springs for the past 25 years, less one or two when we waited too long to reserve the camp.

This year we booked far in advance and added two days to our usual trip...those few days make all of the difference. Gives you 'extra' time to chill. One week's vacation is just not enough...two or three more days makes it better...of course, a month or two would be really, really nice!

In the past, we've spent days swimming, visiting with family (I'm from that area), travelling around that area to Cooperstown and sites thereabouts, and entertaining our boys. As they've gotten older they have deferred from vacationing with us, at times. During their later teen years they certainly didn't want to be seen with their parents and these days they have jobs that prohibit them from taking the same time or the same amount of time off that we have.

At the camp, we continue to swim and lounge about, and we get to sit on the party boat owned by the camp owners who rent to us, but we don't have the use of that power boat or other motorized water vehicles. We've used the canoes or rowboats to entertain ourselves afloat, as we enjoy 'discovering' other parts of the lake, and we've spent time and put in a lot of effort hiking them in and out of the water.

Last year, I bought two kayaks...the wife had commented on them several times and I surprised her with them, much to her pleasure. As it turns out, it's very pleasurable for me, too.

Kayakers around the world, forgive me, but I'm about to share a kayak secret. One that men around the world have talked about and, when they discover it, kick themselves in the seat for, as they realize they should have bought kayaks years ago.

Along with being lighter and easier to deal with in and out of the water, and there's little maintenance, there's a personal aspect that's very appealing.

You see, when you're in a canoe or rowboat with the wife and family, you are the hired help who can do nothing right. You are either paddling against others, not paddling fast enough or going too fast, you aren't holding the oar correctly, you're not relaxing or taking in the sights as you should, you're sitting too high or too low, you're going the wrong way, or you're hearing about all the things we did do, didn't do, should have done, or will do next time we go on vacation. And, of course, once you're fifty feet away from shore, someone has to go back...too boring, have to go to the bathroom, didn't want to go in the first place!

In a kayak, it's your own little world. As you drift away from your partner's kayak, completely out of your control, of course, as the tide is too strong or the wind is blowing you apart, you soon find out that you can't hear her. Before you know it she's too far ahead of you or you're too far ahead of her, and you're looking at things you want to look at, paddling at your preferred speed, and no one is telling you that you should be doing anything different at all.

You can't take anyone with you. Gee, I'd love to take someone for a ride, but I can't. They have to go out on their own. Gee, I'd love to talk about the sights and wonders as we paddle along, but you're just too far away for me to hear. Must be the sound waves bouncing off the water, but I can't seem to make out anything that's being said!!!

I never thought I would enjoy paddling around the lake as much. And while I miss the camaraderie and conviviality of shared boating, turns out there's plenty of time to tell me what I'm doing wrong back at the camp!

Summer Day Day

My friend Wendy, from way out west in California, read my blog posting "Summer Guests" and left a comment that she remembered me telling some of my hotel stories when we worked together at Mohonk.

Before I recall here the story she mentioned in her comment to that blog post, I want you to take the time to visit her website: www.wendystarling.com

Directly from her website, "I am a Collage and Poetry Fusion Artist. Blending together mixed media abstract art with my original poetry and prose I create "Mixed Messages." Each piece inspires a collage of thoughts and ideas based on what the viewer sees and interprets. I always seem to find inspiration in the sensual and romantic; this is reflected in my poetry and also in the textural aspects of my work. Wanting to reach out and touch one of my pieces might be a natural reaction. I have a love of old postcards, postage, and tags; they often turn up in unexpected places."

What struck me about Wendy's work from the beginning is the play on words with art. When I see her work, it helps me to think differently and to look for another meaning in other things that I see. She inspires "thinking" while "looking."

I was sort of playing around with that idea many years ago, but it was words with people action.

Wendy mentioned that she remembered my "Doris Day Day." In my early hotel management years at Grossinger's, from time to time, I would find myself having to deal with employees who were frustrated and evidently needed venting time. I instructed staff members that they had to "behave" in public, that being anywhere there was a guest, and that the correct place to vent was in a private space, preferably by themselves. That didn't always work, either. You could see tension grow (that happens when dealing with many, many people in a service-oriented business all day long), and some staff members would get cranky. Meal and cigarette breaks didn't do much to take away the stress.

So, I came up with the idea that staff could meet with me individually, for ten or fifteen minutes, and vent about any situation that was bothering them. The ground rules were that they had to tell the truth, they could not use profanity, they could not raise their voice, they couldn't refer to anyone in a negative fashion, they couldn't hit me or throw things at me either, but could talk confidentially with me (as long as we weren't breaking any laws that deemed the information go elsewhere) and I would give them information so that they could handle the situation themselves.

I wanted to set a tone right off the bat and, as I was listing communication conditions, I thought that no one represented "being nice and working things out with everyone" better than Doris Day. So, periodically, I would note on the chalkboard in the front office, "Doris Day Day." The day that message appeared I was available for discussions.

Staff started looking forward to it. I heard some things I probably didn't want to (those personal issues can get pretty sticky) and, if I hadn't promised confidentiality, heard some stuff that would make some pretty good stories. There is something about changing the names to protect the guilty, right (or was that the innocent?)

Whatever, now to my mixed message for the day. Today was a Summer day. However, I did Spring things today, cleaning, washing things, airing stuff out, throwing away accumulations of no-longer-needed items. To have a real Summer day, one needs to do summer things to make the summer day a summer day day!!! Right?

Real soon, we have to have a summer day day...beach, swimming, grilling outdoors, laying out on the lawn at night counting meteors and, to make it official, margaritas!!!

Of course, too many margaritas and then it's "night night!"

Summer Guests (Some Are Not)

I've been getting questioned as to when I'm going to share some hotel stories. I've always thought that I could write a book about my adventures in the resort business, but just like that once-upon-a-time failed television show that tried to convey what goes on behind the scenes, some of it seems implausible.

What I've always said is that you really do get to see people as they are. Once they've settled in, you have them where they eat, where they sleep, where they play, and where they...well...who knows what! At times, you get to see people as they really are, not the way they present themselves in public for all to see.

My first job was as a desk clerk at Grossinger's Hotel in Liberty, New York. The now defunct resort was the preeminent hotel in the "Borscht Belt," as the New York Times noted when Jennie Grossinger died, one she and her family had transformed from "a modest Catskills family resort into a luxurious resort." It was a great place to vacation and to work.

In any resort, new hires go through training and, at times, are given the task of performing certain jobs that incumbent staff prefer not to do. Along with standing out front and checking in guests, and typing rack slips by the score, there was one job at the Grossinger's desk that most would pass on. In fact, if you had the power, you'd call in someone from another office to do it...Toby checks!

Each day, a list would come from housekeeping that would have all of the hotel's room numbers and how many guests the housekeepers would report as occupying rooms that they were cleaning. If we were lucky, we'd have two registered and the housekeeper would report two persons. At times, we'd have two, they'd say one. Other times, we'd have one or two persons registered and the housekeeper would write three or more! Those were called differences and they had to be checked.

We'd trying calling the rooms and talk to the guests to straighten out differences, but most times guests didn't stay in their rooms and the differences had to be resolved before the next audit.

The only way to be sure was to go to the room. The system was called a "Toby" check as we had small forms with instructions for the guests to call a number at the desk and ask for "Toby," as we had a message for the guest. We used the name "Toby" as it could be either a male or female name and when someone called asking for "Toby" we could say we were "Toby," or say "Toby wasn't in," but we knew what that call was about.

The clerk's instructions were clear. Go to the room. Knock on the door. If guest answered let them know that you were validating registration, talk to them about numbers of persons in their room, and report findings back to the desk.

If no one answered when you knocked, announce loudly that you were from the "Front Desk," knock again, then open the door, look around casually in the room, the bathroom, the closet if it was open (no opening doors, closets, drawers, etc.). Just seeing items in the room you might get a good idea if it was two persons not one, or more than two. Leave a "Toby" note if you still weren't sure, leave the room, be sure the door is locked, come back to desk with room numbers where you left a "Toby."

In many instances, it was just good guessing.

Some times, it didn't work at all.

One call: Phone rings, caller asks for "Toby." One response, "Toby isn't here right now, but he was checking your registration. You signed in for one person, but we believe there are two persons in your room." Guest, "No, it's just me." Toby, "Well, a check of the room showed that there are two toothbrushes in your room." Guest, "Yes, I have two, one for meat and one for dairy!" (It was a Jewish resort and the guest obviously very observant of dietary laws).

Another all: Phone rings, caller asks for "Toby." Another standard response applied, "This is Toby. We are just checking your registration. You signed in for one person, but we believe there are two persons in your room." Male guest, "No, it's just me." Toby, "Well, a check of the room showed that there are men's clothes and women's clothes in the room." Guest, "Yes." Toby, "Yes, there are two people?" Guest, "No, all of the clothes are mine, I take turns wearing them." Later that day, we were treated to a view of that male guest in female clothes...true story, single registration, very stylish dresser!

Not all of the room checks went smoothly either. On one occasion, the assigned clerk knocked on the door to hear a person in the room answer, "Yes!" The clerk started to talk to the guest through the door. The guest said, "Come in." The clerk waited for the guest open the door. Clerk knocked again, guest said, "Come in!" The clerk used the key to open the door. No guest in sight. "Hello," said the clerk. A voice from the bathroom, door ajar, said, "I'm in here." The guest, astride the toilet, was happy to answer any questions the clerk had.

That same clerk, after a number of similar 'bad' guest interactions, came storming back into the office one day, threw the clipboard down on the desk, and announced, "That's it, I'm not doing any more Toby's, ever." She related that she knocked on the door, announced "Front Desk!" and the door flew wide open. Standing in front of her was the nude occupant, full frontal, who threw his arms out and shouted "Surprise!!!" Then he covered himself quickly and blurted, "Sorry, I thought you were my girlfriend."

"So," we said to the clerk, "There were two people in the room!!!"

Maybe this should be chapter one! More to come....

In Sync In The Summer

Wikipedia defines synchronicity as "the experience of two or more events that are apparently casually unrelated occurring together in a meaningful manner."

I've long believed in the power of synchronicity and try to pay attention to the full meaning whenever it happens. It has been said that nothing that happens is random; all events are for a reason. Many times, we have to find the deeper meaning or the answer that the clues are meant to provide.

I reported yesterday that we didn't do much...too hot. In fact, I did make a trip to town for Chinese food. We happen to like Pork or Chicken Fried Rice, Lemon Chicken and, especially, General Tso's Chicken.

45 years ago, if the family wanted Chinese Food, we went to the A&P store and bought La Choy Chop Suey, Chicken Teriyaki or Beef Chow Mein in a can, heated them up and put them over La Choy rice noodles (the hard crispy ones), and finished it off with a lot of soy sauce. The pineapple chunks in the Teriyaki were the best. There weren't any Chinese restaurants anywhere near our house. The closest, and this we discovered 10 years later, best one was in just outside of Albany, a good 45 minute ride by car.

These days there seem to be Chinese food establishments in towns small and large...there are three within 15 minutes of us where we live now.

So, too hot to cook, in need of salt replenishment, off I went to pick up the pre-described menu. When we called and placed the order, we got the same response we always do, "10 minutes."

It takes 15 minutes to get there, so I'm halfway out the door when the phone hits the docking station (note: not receiver hits the cradle, although we still have one of those phones, too).

I took the time to swing by Stewarts to pick up soda. Of course, the food was ready when I got to Yang's Kitchen, and I paid and left, dinner in hand.

Chinese food is packed in several fashions. If you order a lot of food, you get a cardboard box, with everything neatly arranged, cardboard panels in between large flat items, and soy sauce, duck sauce, and fortune cookies spread across the top.

Last night's order was a small one, just the two of us for dinner. It came packed in a paper bag, which was placed inside a plastic bag (always, in case of seepage or spill), menu and fortune cookies on top of it all.

I arrived home almost at the same time I left, and we dined outdoors on the deck. It had started cooling down by then and we enjoy eating out there.

Later on, I did up the few dishes (remember I work for my wife these days), packed the leftovers away in the fridge (they always provide a ton of rice so there's food for days) and took the paper bag out of the plastic bag, as nothing had spilled, and folded up the bags to put away in storage for future use.

As I was folding the paper bag, I found a piece of brown cardboard that fit the bottom of the bag occupying that space. I reached in the bag, pulled out the board and put in on the table so that I'd put it in with the paper recyclables next trip downstairs.

This morning, when I saw the cardboard on the table, I grabbed it to take to the basement. When I picked it up I turned it over and, lo and behold on the other side, well...see the picture above!!! That's all that was printed on the reverse!!!

Chinese Food? Made in China? Wow!!! How do they get it here in 10 minutes???

Summer Day Off

What I figured out today is that it's too hot to do anything, even blog.

I spent some time sorting, staying indoors to keep cool, and came across this photo. It was in a group of pictures that my grandmother had...it most likely belonged to her mother-in-law or one of her husband's brothers, as it came from this area of New York State, close to where the great-grandmother and her sons lived for many years.

So many old photos have no names on them. We want to know who they are and what they did, and how they ended up, but without someone around to recognize them they are lost to time.

This picture has the name E. Marchio on the back. It was taken in Kingston, NY at Shorts Studio. They had shops at 9 East Strand and at 329 Wall Street. That's all I know. The name does not appear in any of my family searches.

I'm just taking the time to share a beautiful picture, very much of its time...I'm thinking very early 1900's. I have thought of advertising it locally to see if anyone recognizes her or the name as a possible ancestor.

What I can tell you is that nobody would be dressed like that today!!! With or without the heat!!!

Happy summer.

Summer Vacation Daze

On a hot and humid day like today, if we were really on vacation (I know I have the summer off), we'd be next to a lake or pool, paddling our kayaks in Canadarago Lake, or perhaps near the ocean, and be better with the heat. When you travel for a summer get-away, you want perfect weather. 90+ degrees and humid might be a bit over the top, but more acceptable when you travel for fun.

I did make it outdoors today to run some quick errands, but once back home I stayed in and found enough things around the house to keep myself busy. It was too hot to be outside. These days.

Back in the mid to late 1950's, our vacations were pretty much centered around just going outside. We didn't take trips anywhere...in fact, until I was 18 I hadn't gone any further than about 40 miles from home, and those trips were pretty much to attend funerals in Schenectady.

Our mother worked full time, father was long gone (he left when I and my brother were 3 and 2), and our grandparents and assorted local relatives had charge of us during the midweek days. So, it was mostly "go outside and play."

We heard stories of people who "took trips," but couldn't imagine what that might feel or look like, and had one aunt who went to Cape Cod each year with her husband, for a week or two. They didn't have any kids, but chose one niece or nephew each year to go with them. My brother and I didn't get picked for any of those trips...the aunt and uncle probably didn't want to be seen with the products of divorce. My son Matt came home from school one day, about a dozen years ago and said, "I think I'm the only one in my class who lives with a mother and father who are still together." "Funny," I said, "I was the only kid in my class, at your age, who didn't live with their mother and father!" Maybe Matt could have gone to Cape Cod!

I remember two summer "vacations" as a child that were memorable. One day my mother announced that we were going to do something special and had us put on our swimsuits. She was wearing hers and walked us up the alley next to our apartment to our grandparent's house (they lived on the road behind us) and spread a blanket on the small piece of grass in front of their house that they called their front yard. We each put on our sunglasses and we sat in the yard, in the sun, for a very long time. All of us got to smear ourselves with lots of tanning lotion. Not the protective stuff we covet today, but the gooey, oil based stuff that ensured a tan after the burn.

The more memorable part of this day was that I had a loose tooth that wouldn't come out. My grandmother came out with a long piece of string, tied it on that tooth and told me to run around the side of the house. I wasn't ten feet away from her when she pulled back, throwing me on the ground and nearly dragged me back that short distance, as the tooth clung to my jaw. She laughed as she walked away, saying that the trick usually worked, leaving the string hanging from my mouth. That tooth didn't come out for days and I hurt all over.

Another great "summer trip" for us was a 15 minute car ride (we had a two tone yellow and white Ford) to Power Dam. A small man-made pond on the hill between Ilion and Utica, it had sand and lots of places for blankets so you could lay in the sun for a very long time. Repeat lots of tanning lotion here.

I didn't swim at that time, at about age 6 or 7. A cousin who went along decided it was time for me to learn to swim. I protested. She picked me up, walked out into the water, and tossed me into the drink. I sunk. My mother yelled at her, as she got off her blanket and walked into the water to pull me out. My mother yelled at me for coughing and choking and spitting up water. I told her I almost drowned. She told me to learn to swim.

I think she was upset because she got wet and had to dry off before she could re-apply tanning lotion, and we had cut into her attempt to sit on her blanket for a very long time.

I learned to swim, but can't say it's my favorite thing to do. I don't like sitting on blankets anywhere for very long times. However, when I'm near water or sitting on a beach I don't notice the heat and humidity...maybe it's because I stay really, really still wherever I am so that no one notices me...I'd like to keep my remaining teeth and stay above the water line!

Summer...Who's Your Granddaddy?

Last night we were watching PBS. Dr. Henry Louis Gates was hosting a genealogy show, the one where celebrities get to find out that they are descended from other celebrities.

I find these shows interesting from the standpoint that people who could well afford to hire genealogists, and pay to travel to far-away places to search out ancestors, are seemingly treated to all of that information.

The thing is, they don't do it themselves. It's not personal, they aren't doing the work and collecting the stories. They hire someone to do it for them. I think being a part of seeking out and finding the information makes it all the more exciting.

In this edition, along with making these connections they were talking to their subjects about gene mapping and how one could, by giving a DNA sample, find out where their lineage came from, as in Asia, Africa, Europe, etc.

One hails from Europe, another from Asia, some have lines that take them through those areas, but go back further to Africa, some Native Americans, some a combination...it's all very interesting and something that any one of us, I think, would like to know.

Until I hit the lottery and have the funds to hire someone to trace our family tree back to Charlemagne or someone else, or have DNA testing done, I have some knowledge through family stories and many years of sending off for this record and that record, that our lineage is Irish, English and German, and I do know for a fact that our family lines take us back to Ilion, Schenectady, Glenville, and Rosendale, New York and to Scranton and Honesdale, Pennsylvania. Okay, it's only the middle and late 1800's, but it's a start.

Meanwhile, I should point out that I am a professionally paid genealogist. My grandmother once gave me a dime to find my grandfather. At about age 9, I was sent to town to find him and, yes just like in the movies, ask him to come home. She had a pretty good idea what bar to find him in and I barely made it in the door when he spotted me. I didn't have to say a word. He spied me and said, "Get out of here. I'll be home when I'm good and ready to." Okay, he swore a bit, but he was my grandfather, and I knew when to beat it. I only reported to my grandmother that I found him and that he'd be home...didn't tell her when.

The genealogy I remember from my childhood had nothing to do with DNA, but more to do with stories like that and the antics of our very own dysfunctional groups. Laughter from the shore when older cousins sent us out in a leaky boat with an uncle of ours who was taking us fishing, being chased around the kitchen by a great-aunt with a butcher knife when we got too close to the watermelon (having heard that my mother jammed a pencil in her brother's leg one day when she didn't like something he said, and leaving the lead there for a lifetime, gave me cause to worry), being tipped over in an outhouse by an older cousin who thought the experience was something everyone should have, and hearing that a great-aunt was catapulted out of her casket by her overly grieving sisters in the middle of the funeral home were some of the 'normal' events.

I think I would like to know that we were descended from Celtic Kings, but they didn't teach me the fine art of steaming open letters like my grandmother did. Having a famous actor or politician in your past might be a great conversation starter, but so does telling people how your grandfather showed you how to roll cigarettes when you were eight (he needed help as he must have smoked about three or four packs a day).

Genealogy study is interesting, and I continue to search out the past. In fact, today I came across this picture of my grandfather at one of his favorite watering holes. Don't know the name of the place, or the bartender, but that's himself, "Sweeney," as everyone knew him, in top coat and fedora (we always dressed to go to town), almost as I remember him that day I did my first bit of genealogical research. I knew who my grandfather was, I knew where he was, and I have the personal story to go with the person and the event. Everything a genealogist could hope for. And my grandmother knew where he was and where to send me, too, 'cause she probably was listening on the party-line when someone said, "I'm meeting Sweeney in town for a drink."

DNA is great, and there are certainly records to prove to others that he lived, but there's nothing like personal research!

Summer luggins...

I am one of those people who happen to love stacking firewood. Along with pleasing my wife by making everything neat and orderly, there is something satisfying about taking hundreds of pieces of cut wood and placing them one atop the other, sometimes six feet high, and having them stay put. Much like shoveling snow, there's something to see when you're done...the accomplishment is there before you.

During days gone by, I'd stack the wood and cover it with tarps...blue tarps, brown tarps, green tarps...all very fashionable out here in the country...to keep the wood dry after it was stacked and to prevent snow from accumulating on it.

Well, that was the idea. Of course, the tarps developed holes, the snow and ice got through, and soon there would be large numbers of pieces of wood stuck together. Then, once the snow got high enough, you'd have to rip the tarp off the pile to get to the darned things, big chunks of ice would fall of the piles taking out a toe or two, and half of the piles would fall over. Dragged into the house, the snow and ice would create large puddles all over the place, and the wood would just smolder in the wood stove.

The idea is that a wood stove is a different kind of heat (just like Arizona, it's dry and hot...until the snow gets to it). By Spring time there would be lots of wet wood and shreds of plastic stringy things that would be unidentifiable as one-time covers.

My wife wanted a wood shed. She got Bobby to make one and she loves it. I still do the ordering, oversee the delivery (that's when the truck drives over the front yard and dumps four cord of wood on the side lawn that no grass grows on any more), and I stack. She loves the wood shed. I think because it causes order and she can keep order in the house when I'm not in it.

I always wondered why I liked stacking wood. It gets me outdoors (away from everyone else, as no one wants to help stack), it's mindless work (I get to think about everything else to excess), and when it's done it looks real nice. It makes me feel like a competent engineer...and there's something artistic about the result. A free standing sculpture!

Today, for the first time, as I was lugging wood from a stack on the outside to place it in the shed, I thought of my great-grandfather on my mother's side and my great-great grandfather on my father's side. Both were farmers and, by all accounts, very successful ones. To be a good farmer, I think, things have to be in order and I bet their wood piles were nice and neat...maybe that's where I get that from. It's as close to being a farmer as I'll ever be (a week of rain and mud talked Theresa out of wanting horses and if you see my flower beds you'll know why I'm not doing any vegetable gardening).

From the other sides of the families I get that other satisfaction...my reward for doing all of this work...a nice glass of wine (or two) or a cold scotch and water (or two). Now that I think of that, maybe that's why Great-Uncle Henry lost the farm!