The Reindeer Keeper

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 ...