The Reindeer Keeper

  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...

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...