The Reindeer Keeper

 I can't claim to be a maker of gingerbread houses. I only tried one time. I wasn't using a kit. My plan was to make it from scratch and then let my very young children decorate it. I had everything ready to go for the decorating. I had it all planned. After I had the pieces cut out and baked; then cooled and on the table, I figured the rest would be easy. It would become a Christmas tradition right out of the movies. That never happened. Just the thought of gingerbread houses tires me out. That's because the pieces of the gingerbread house i made from scratch would not stay in place no matter how hard we tried. I'd followed all the directions. But it kept falling down like London Bridge as the kids whined and started to eat the candy meant to go on the house. It got to be really late. If I'd had my way, I would have thrown those pieces in the trash but, I had a better idea. In a calm and reassuring voice, I told the kids I thought I should start over and while the

Back in the days of my grandparents living on their farm, working the fields and raising a family, when November came around and it was an election year, they exercised their Right to Vote. At a certain time on that important day, my grandfather would come in from the barn to get cleaned up. My grandmother would finish preparing a full-course meal with all the trimmings. Election Day was treated with respect and a fine homemade dinner including dessert. When my grandparents were ready to go, they'd get in my grandfather's small Ford truck and head up the road to, what I remember them calling, the county barn, where they would vote.  A few times I was lucky enough to go with my Aunt Claire in her small Ford car to the county barn. I'd be able to go inside and wait for her. I loved doing that. Although I was very young, I was able to sense the importance of the moment; that being our right of freely expressing our opinions, hopes, fears and dreams for the country we love thro

  EARLIER THIS HALLOWEEN MORNING I was out taking some pictures of the moon over the field when suddenly I could not believe my eyes. A Witch-a real Witch on a broom went flying by. I could hear her heckling and the broom whizzing and the wind drifting through the branches now bare. It's Halloween! Glorious and spooky Halloween with candy corn and lollipops and miniature candy bars and popcorn balls and candy apples and pumpkins carved, and wide-eyed kids full of anticipation out trick or treating. It's Halloween! Beautifully Glorious and So Very Spooky.

 A string of pearls has a few meanings to me.  My mother loved the Glenn Miller Orchestra. Particularly their song, "String of Pearls." Sometimes she'd put her Glenn Miller 33 RPM vinyl record in the record console when cleaning the house. When that song came on, she'd turn it up and dance around as she dusted or washed windows or changed the sheets on the beds. I now understand why she liked that song. I've grown to like it too. Whenever I hear it, I can't sit still. It gets me dancing around the house. My grandmother had a few pieces of jewelry that I fondly remember. Not because of monetary value. I have no clue what they were worth. But I do have a clue of their worth in the fact they were my grandmother's That makes them priceless to me. I remember on special occasions, like Thanksgiving or Christmas, she'd most always wear a swirly, silver pin. I can still see her pulling a turkey out of the oven. Although she wore a bib apron over her dress, tha

I hardly ever mention my being a writer on this blog but with the release of my new book, "Velvet Snowflakes." I thought you might enjoy learning how it came to be. I often have people asking me where my ideas come from for storylines. My reply is always the same. Storylines are all around you. The trick is to recognize them. Acknowledge them and take the time to develop them. Besides time, it takes patience. Writing is akin to putting a puzzle together. Sometimes the pieces don't fit. Sometimes a character or a scene or a conversation need reworking. That's when you have to go back and redo those pieces until you, as the writer, feel they fit. The idea for my heartwarming story, "Velvet Snowflakes" developed during the dark days of Covid when we were on lockdown. I began thinking about the meaning of home and the places I'd called home. Most of my attention turned to the first place I called home. It sat along a lane. I lived in that clapboard home pain

  I was hanging clothes out on the clothesline the other day when I noticed something moving in a field across the road. I couldn't figure out what it was, so I went inside the house for my phone and told Brian I'd be right back. As I crossed the road, I still couldn't figure out what it was until "it" moved. What I'd seen was the top of a hat. I discovered it was worn by an artist from New Jersey, Catherine Whitehead. She travelled here to participate in Morristown's Plein Air event. I could only see the top of her hat because she was sitting in the field, painting. The field was a collage of beautiful, colorful wildflowers swaying in the gentle breeze. When I think about it, such a scene is repeated alongside so many of our country roads. After introducing myself, I learned this artist was infatuated with the fields drenched in purples and yellows and oranges and shades of white and green. Catherine Whitehead was delightful. Very welcoming despite my int

  These two caught my eye as I drove by. The goat was following the horse. Something made me turn around and stop my car. I watched as the horse led the goat from one spot to another. When the goat was lagging behind, the horse would stop and wait, turning around to see where the goat was, patiently waiting for his friend. They seemed to be on a mission. I got the feeling this was not a chance meeting. They appeared to have a close relationship. Walking about that field looked to be a routine thing they did together. The horse was the leader, watching over his friend. The goat seemed appreciative, running at times to catch up. Traffic was pretty heavy. First a tractor with a friendly farmer giving me a wave went by. Then an Amish buggy with a young couple and two little ones, curiously smiling, waved back at me as they continued on their way. The longer I sat there the more I realized the horse and the goat were like good friends meeting up in the morning. Going for a cup of coffee. Ca

I have a drawer in an old cupboard where I keep phone books. Lots of old phone books. Some people find it funny that I keep them when we now have phones that store people's phone numbers, making them available to us instantly on demand. While on demand saves you time, it also deprives you of a moment of slowing down and searching pages full of names and addresses and those phone numbers.  I've always considered phone books to be mini history books of a certain place and a certain time. They offer glimpses of names of people who may have moved or passed away or once been your neighbor on a street of long ago. They highlight businesses, everything from corner stores you may have frequented on your way home from school to retail stores that might have since been torn down or closed or moved away. They list the banks. The schools. The funeral homes. The industries and lawyers and hospitals and everything else that makes up a community. And we can't forget those Yellow Pages. I

  Sometimes when I think about my father, a simple thought comes to mind—his morning ritual when preparing his two pieces of toast. After buttering each piece, he’d smother them with Smucker’s Strawberry Jam. Then, he’d slice each piece diagonally. With the knife lying across the top of his plate, he’d then thoroughly enjoy every bite of his two pieces of toast with a hot cup of coffee. My father was a funeral director. If he had a funeral on any particular morning, he’d do the same routine. The only difference was he’d be sitting there in his dress pants with suspenders, his white dress shirt and tie. I don’t remember him ever spilling strawberry jam on his crisp white shirt. I do remember his hair meticulously in place and the faint scent of Old Spice in the air. One morning when going into the kitchen, I discovered he’d already been sitting there enjoying his toast and coffee. It's a morning I’ll never forget. It was the day after Christmas. I woke up on edge. I was being induc

 The photo shows my grandparents' farmhouse of long ago. The house was sold after my grandfather stopped farming the fields and the barn, that once housed chickens and cows and horses with kids running around playing, became silent and empty. That's when my grandparents built a smaller home on land that was part of the farm, big enough to house my grandparents and one of my aunts. But way before that farmhouse was sold I had so much fun with my cousins playing inside and outside that home. There was no TV. No internet. There were no video games. No cell phones. If there had been such things, there would have been no time to bother with them. Playing and pretending were top priority.  It never took much to amuse us. I remember one summer it just took a few pairs of scissors, some straight pins and used magazines and we were good to go for days, playing on the screened-in porch of that farmhouse.  I can't remember if it was an officially declared 'Club' we created. It

 I can't remember when it started but I do know he kept doing it into adulthood. It's one of those really, really funny, simple things you just don't forget. And of course, you never let the one doing it forget, even when they've stopped doing it. The one doing it was my older brother. It was what one would call a slip of the tongue and whenever he slipped, anyone around him would laugh. Rather, roar. The slip would happen when the discussion of what to have for breakfast came up. It didn't happen every time. It never happened on school mornings. We had enough problems getting ready for the school bus. A quick bowl of cereal or some toast was the usual breakfast. But when it came to weekends or holidays, that was a different story. It could have happened at our house or next door at my grandmother's house. If it was at my grandmother's house, the audience would have been larger. That could have included cousins, aunts and of course, siblings and our grandmot

  When driving along a back road the other day, I noticed a stream overflowing its banks as spring begins to push winter aside. I had to stop. The stream reminded me of days gone by when my cousins and I played outside until we were dragged back inside, dripping wet from playing in oversized streams and puddles created by the melting snow. As I took a few photos, I thought about our making mud pies. That led me to thinking about our grandmother making her pies. There really wasn't much of a difference-in the process. Our grandmother never had to reference a recipe or use a measuring cup when making her pie crusts which always ended up heavenly flaky and the perfect texture. With perfection, she would fold the ingredients in to the yellow mixing bowl until she had it all where she wanted it. After gathering the dough into a ball, then kneading it and working it, she'd divide the dough, flatten it out with her wooden rolling pin and then spread it out in her glass pie plates, flu

I am a Winter Lover.  The more it snows and blows the better. The beauty of the season has always taken my breath away, from sunrises and sunsets to frosty fields and ice-covered landscapes, as well as snowdrifts up to the hips. However, this winter has found me complaining, just a little. You see, where I live in northern New York, the consistent temperature has lingered way below zero for days and nights. By below zero I'm talking 25 to 35+ below zero. The house moans and groans. The furnace goes nonstop, and I continue to try to stay warm. Homemade soups, coffee (more than usual), hot chocolate, more soups and casseroles with homemade breads, long johns, candles, piles of blankets, and turning the heat up all continue to come to my aid. But most soothing, day and night, have been my sweaters. I've always loved sweaters. Before this winter, comfort was most important in a sweater. Now, after the month of January set record below normal temperatures, warmth has taken over as m

  I've been thinking about the day I took this photo a few years ago. It was mid-January and although it doesn't look it, the temperature was below zero. It was a day like the recent days we've been experiencing. Beautiful and sunny, then absolutely earth shattering frigid cold when the sun goes down. Even the moon, as glorious and bright as it has been, is unable to warm the night. I remember standing there in the snow, dressed in layers and shivering as I took some photos and as I took the photos, I listened to the Amish men, laughing and talking as they cut through the ice, then loaded those blocks onto wagons to take back home and store in their barns or sheds. A dog they had with them barked as the cattails snapped to my touch and geese said good morning. The horses stood in place, a few curious of my presence. I remember hearing and reading stories my Aunt Helen wrote in a family cookbook of my grandfather, bundled up in his fur coat and cap and his horses covered in

With the last few days being below zero I went to my survival kit for help. There are no hand warmers or candles or blankets or hot tea in that kit. There's actually no kit. But there are memories of my grandmother's Johnny Cake recipe and my mother's recipe for a soup that came to be known as her Witch's Brew. Both recipes warm a below zero string of days and nights. So yesterday I got busy. A main ingredient in the Witch's Brew is acini d'pepe. Those tiny little balls of macaroni are what my kids most remember and most enjoyed. That's probably because, to them, those little balls resembled little eyeballs in the Witch's Brew. They were eating eyeballs! Lucky for me I had a few boxes of the eyeballs in the cupboard so out they came along with whatever else I needed. With the soup in the works, I brought out the cornmeal for the Johnny Cake which I turned into little muffins. As the wind howled and the furnace went nonstop and the music played and the Wi

Along with the Christmas ornaments my parents bought at what was once a Woolworths store in what was once a downtown, and along with an old, tattered elf dressed in now a faded green-one of my father's favorite elves-I've again gathered all the Santas big and small that were brought out to celebrate Christmas. A few, like the ones hand painted over fifty years ago and the tiny ones bought at a Britts Dept. Store when I was the Ad Manager, and the ones still intact but a little ripped, part of a paper chain and those bought at craft shows over the years all hung on the tree. Some of the Santas on display about the house I'd discovered in a magical shed full of Christmas wreaths and one-of-a-kind, handmade decorations and centerpieces out on a back country road-the very same place we've gone to for years in search of the perfect Christmas tree. One of those precious Santas came with its own wicker sled with its own wooden reindeer and miniature toys. The other one is made

When I was a freshman, or maybe a sophomore in high school, one of my classes was typing. Sitting down, looking at the keys for the first time, I never thought I'd be able to master such a funny looking machine. But it wasn't long before I felt comfortable sitting in front of it. That was due to the instructor. She put me at ease. Once I learned where to place my fingers on the keys, I was ready to go. I can still hear her putting the class through drills that taught us the location of the letters on the keys.      "J-K-L-Semicolon." "A-S-D-F."  She'd repeat those drills like stanzas in a song. It wasn't long before I knew the keyboard. I loved sitting there typing with all my peers typing. It was a chorus of the keys. Humming and clicking along. When reaching the end of a line, the sound of bells dinging announced it was time to reach up, move the return bar and start all over again.  My love of typewriters and typing stayed with me long after compl