I have to admit, for many years, I didn't particularly care for New Year's Eve. In fact, I found it a bit incongruous to be celebrating another year gone. It became the epitome of those nights where you lie in bed, thinking about what you should/could/would have done in any number of completely inconsequential situations. I avoided raucous parties and drunken revelry, envisioning myself as a character in some horrifying Edgar Allen Poe tale (think The Masque of Red Death).
Of course, when I was on the rescue, many New Year's Eves were quite memorable. One was spent on stand-by at a huge chicken coop fire (the coop was empty) and I recall another tending to accident victims on a treacherous, ice-covered hill. Those New Year's Eves weren't so bad; you forget your own existential angst when you're on the job and focusing on helping someone else, who might be having the worse day of their lives.
Since reaching a certain age, and maybe some level of tenuous maturity, I've been able to embrace this time of year, if not the New Year's Eve thing. I try not to reflect too much, or make false resolutions, but simply appreciate the fact that the days are now getting longer, that the home fires are warm, and that I have the comforts of wonderful friends and family. We'll go to a local inn and have a quiet but elegant dinner -- and will likely be asleep before ten o'clock. And that's OK.
I have kept one family tradition, a nod to my mother's French-Canadian heritage -- making a French meat pie on New Year's Day. My grandmother, and great-grandmother would always make a meat pie, roast a turkey and have a veritable feast while the men played cards. They didn't do too much on New Year's Eve, either.
I wish all of you a safe, happy and healthy New Year -- no matter you celebrate (or don't celebrate). This year is another chance to get it right! See you in 2016!
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Searching for Inspiration
It's been difficult to find something to write about....I don't want this to get into the political arena, don't have the energy for it, but the unrelenting mass murders on the news every day are just mind-numbing and inspiration-sucking.
The house is about 80% decorated for Christmas. It feels like spring this weekend (not complaining!) so we've stalled out a bit. A teeny bit of snow would be pretty in the next week or so.
In times like this, when it's easy to get overwhelmed and cynical, usually the best things to do are to (1) get outdoors and commune with nature, and (2) do good deeds for others.
A trek to the ocean, even in winter, or a walk in the quiet New England forests will always help clear the head and soothe the soul. We're so lucky we can do either here.
Most of us are fortunate. We have a warm place to live, food to eat, and regular income. Don't forget to do something good this holiday season for those less fortunate. Your local food pantry needs food donations, to be sure, but don't forget that other items that are needed -- diapers, toiletries, feminine products, low-sodium, low-sugar or other food products for diabetics.
Let's remember our humanity.
The house is about 80% decorated for Christmas. It feels like spring this weekend (not complaining!) so we've stalled out a bit. A teeny bit of snow would be pretty in the next week or so.
In times like this, when it's easy to get overwhelmed and cynical, usually the best things to do are to (1) get outdoors and commune with nature, and (2) do good deeds for others.
A trek to the ocean, even in winter, or a walk in the quiet New England forests will always help clear the head and soothe the soul. We're so lucky we can do either here.
Most of us are fortunate. We have a warm place to live, food to eat, and regular income. Don't forget to do something good this holiday season for those less fortunate. Your local food pantry needs food donations, to be sure, but don't forget that other items that are needed -- diapers, toiletries, feminine products, low-sodium, low-sugar or other food products for diabetics.
Let's remember our humanity.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
Today: House Painting
Today is my day off, and luckily, it is going to be about 70 and sunny on this early November day. What a gift! Our old house is largely scraped and primed and today is painting day.
It's not uncommon for people to ask why I don't hire someone to paint. I usually feel a bit defensive, like I am a freak of nature or something, because I don't pay thousands to have someone else do this job, when we can do it ourselves. Granted, our old cape is quite diminutive, and that is good. And, as any old house owner knows, scraping, caulking, priming and painting is something you had best get to enjoy. Generally, I do like it. It's a good opportunity to reacquaint myself with every clapboard, nail hole and gloriously perfect imperfections of this house I love so much. On a warm day like today, I'll play my favorite music, maybe some Railroad Earth, open the windows, and tackle the final phase of painting before the cold weather sets in for good. It will be a good day to commune with nature and this old house.
I'm proud to not be one of what I refer to "the HGTV generation". My father always painted his house, too, finally stopping when he was 85 and my mother banned him from doing any high ladder work. He still tackles the stairs and porch, though. My former neighbor in Foster, RI, now in her eighties, always did her own painting, too. And she owns not only her home, but six or seven rental properties. She still does some of it, too, but has a handyman get up to the peaks, which galls her. The lesson: be independent, don't be a slacker, know how to do things yourself.
So I am waiting for sunrise and for the temperature to come up just a bit. I'll tackle priming the north side of the house and the newly built bulkhead door (thanks to my husband) and then paint over all the primed sides...and if I still have any ambition, I'll scrape and prime some of the west side. We don't always do every side at once, and I thought we would run out of time to complete the west, back side of the house, but maybe the weather will hold up long enough to get it done.
I'll be enjoying my day. I hope you do, too.
It's not uncommon for people to ask why I don't hire someone to paint. I usually feel a bit defensive, like I am a freak of nature or something, because I don't pay thousands to have someone else do this job, when we can do it ourselves. Granted, our old cape is quite diminutive, and that is good. And, as any old house owner knows, scraping, caulking, priming and painting is something you had best get to enjoy. Generally, I do like it. It's a good opportunity to reacquaint myself with every clapboard, nail hole and gloriously perfect imperfections of this house I love so much. On a warm day like today, I'll play my favorite music, maybe some Railroad Earth, open the windows, and tackle the final phase of painting before the cold weather sets in for good. It will be a good day to commune with nature and this old house.
I'm proud to not be one of what I refer to "the HGTV generation". My father always painted his house, too, finally stopping when he was 85 and my mother banned him from doing any high ladder work. He still tackles the stairs and porch, though. My former neighbor in Foster, RI, now in her eighties, always did her own painting, too. And she owns not only her home, but six or seven rental properties. She still does some of it, too, but has a handyman get up to the peaks, which galls her. The lesson: be independent, don't be a slacker, know how to do things yourself.
So I am waiting for sunrise and for the temperature to come up just a bit. I'll tackle priming the north side of the house and the newly built bulkhead door (thanks to my husband) and then paint over all the primed sides...and if I still have any ambition, I'll scrape and prime some of the west side. We don't always do every side at once, and I thought we would run out of time to complete the west, back side of the house, but maybe the weather will hold up long enough to get it done.
I'll be enjoying my day. I hope you do, too.
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
Just Plane Crazy
I just returned from the foreign land of Tennessee, and that entailed four flights -- from Providence to Detroit and then on to Knoxville, and then the same trip in reverse. The entire traveling experience is always fascinating, and there is probably no better people watching opportunity than being in a big airport. There are always sports teams. I saw some amazingly tall female college basketball players, young, fresh-faced, intense, in uniform...perhaps they were in a hurry to catch their flight. A female body builder strutted her stuff in a short, tight dress in Knoxville, people turning to stare. A well-dressed woman stops in the "walk" lane (which actually means the "run" lane) of the people mover in Detroit's McNamara terminal, to sneeze, blow her nose and tie her shoe, causing a pile up of travelers and luggage behind her. She seems oblivious to the "stand" lane to her right and glares at the muttering, rushing crowd trying to pass her.
Of course, the actual flight is the most entertaining and as anyone who has flown knows, you're up close and personal with the people seated next to you. First flight from Providence to Detroit: I had the pleasure of sitting next to a woman, some years my senior, who as it turned out was a psychologist who works about a mile away from my office. She was intelligent, conversant, socially adept and the trip went by too fast. We exchanged cards. Second flight from Detroit to Knoxville: I had a window seat and the woman sitting next to me was not so friendly, with her nose in a book and nary a sideways glance. I read my own book.
On the way home, on the first flight, I was next to a forty-something year old woman, who I guessed was a business traveler. She spent the entire hour and a half working on her laptop, serious and seemingly in her own world, rather curt to the flight attendants. I was again next to the window and turned my head away from her direction. After getting a grand workout in Detroit, lugging my bags for what seemed like five miles, I board for the final leg of the trip, back to Providence. This time I am stuck in the middle -- never a good place to be in any circumstance. To my right sits a young woman, maybe twenty, pretty but with an anxious countenance. As I settle in my seat she offers barely a wan smile and I immediately notice she has her in-ear headphones on and is clutching her iPhone and know there will be absolutely no conversation with her. Passengers stream on by and I observe several men who look like cowboys, boots and hats and western shirts, some families with babies, Even though I am heading to Rhode Island, I don't see anyone I know, which is unusual. As I begin to think that perhaps the aisle seat won't be filled and I can move a seat away from the girl and have some space, a tall gent who could pass from Kramer on Seinfeld spends an inordinate amount of time trying to stuff his luggage in the overhead compartment and then flops in the aisle seat. He greets me heartily, and then apologizes as he procures an enormous paper bag and empties the contents on the seat tray -- a greasy cardboard to-go container loaded with fish and chips, cole slaw, tartar sauce. He offers me some and I decline. He inhales his dinner in about two minutes, crumples up the bag with its contents and stuffs it into the overhead compartment. He then buckles in and starts sprawling, arm on my seat rest, right leg in my space. I start moving toward the girl and she looks out the window. In flight, he wants beer and wine and is surprised to find out he has to pay for it. He skips the booze, takes a juice and when pretzels, cookies or peanuts are offered by the pretty flight attendant, he takes one of each. She has a French accent and they converse and he reveals he is from Toronto. My annoyance turns into sympathy (well, not much sympathy, but less annoyed) and I surmise he doesn't travel much or maybe they do things different in Canada. Do they serve free booze there?
We make it to Providence and taxi to the terminal. While passengers collect their baggage and impatiently await the door to open to let us escape, it is fairly quiet save for a female voice with a southern accent somewhere in front of me, loudly crowing about her four million dollar deal, how they have now sold over eight million dollars (of what, unclear) and how "one of "y'all are going to Paris". The voice grew louder, more animated and I started looking carefully at the passengers to see who the chest-thumping voice belonged to. Naturally, it was emanating from someone on a cell phone, a billowy blonde who finally exited the plane, still yelling into the phone about her sales prowess.
I'm finally off the crazy plane.
Of course, the actual flight is the most entertaining and as anyone who has flown knows, you're up close and personal with the people seated next to you. First flight from Providence to Detroit: I had the pleasure of sitting next to a woman, some years my senior, who as it turned out was a psychologist who works about a mile away from my office. She was intelligent, conversant, socially adept and the trip went by too fast. We exchanged cards. Second flight from Detroit to Knoxville: I had a window seat and the woman sitting next to me was not so friendly, with her nose in a book and nary a sideways glance. I read my own book.
On the way home, on the first flight, I was next to a forty-something year old woman, who I guessed was a business traveler. She spent the entire hour and a half working on her laptop, serious and seemingly in her own world, rather curt to the flight attendants. I was again next to the window and turned my head away from her direction. After getting a grand workout in Detroit, lugging my bags for what seemed like five miles, I board for the final leg of the trip, back to Providence. This time I am stuck in the middle -- never a good place to be in any circumstance. To my right sits a young woman, maybe twenty, pretty but with an anxious countenance. As I settle in my seat she offers barely a wan smile and I immediately notice she has her in-ear headphones on and is clutching her iPhone and know there will be absolutely no conversation with her. Passengers stream on by and I observe several men who look like cowboys, boots and hats and western shirts, some families with babies, Even though I am heading to Rhode Island, I don't see anyone I know, which is unusual. As I begin to think that perhaps the aisle seat won't be filled and I can move a seat away from the girl and have some space, a tall gent who could pass from Kramer on Seinfeld spends an inordinate amount of time trying to stuff his luggage in the overhead compartment and then flops in the aisle seat. He greets me heartily, and then apologizes as he procures an enormous paper bag and empties the contents on the seat tray -- a greasy cardboard to-go container loaded with fish and chips, cole slaw, tartar sauce. He offers me some and I decline. He inhales his dinner in about two minutes, crumples up the bag with its contents and stuffs it into the overhead compartment. He then buckles in and starts sprawling, arm on my seat rest, right leg in my space. I start moving toward the girl and she looks out the window. In flight, he wants beer and wine and is surprised to find out he has to pay for it. He skips the booze, takes a juice and when pretzels, cookies or peanuts are offered by the pretty flight attendant, he takes one of each. She has a French accent and they converse and he reveals he is from Toronto. My annoyance turns into sympathy (well, not much sympathy, but less annoyed) and I surmise he doesn't travel much or maybe they do things different in Canada. Do they serve free booze there?
We make it to Providence and taxi to the terminal. While passengers collect their baggage and impatiently await the door to open to let us escape, it is fairly quiet save for a female voice with a southern accent somewhere in front of me, loudly crowing about her four million dollar deal, how they have now sold over eight million dollars (of what, unclear) and how "one of "y'all are going to Paris". The voice grew louder, more animated and I started looking carefully at the passengers to see who the chest-thumping voice belonged to. Naturally, it was emanating from someone on a cell phone, a billowy blonde who finally exited the plane, still yelling into the phone about her sales prowess.
I'm finally off the crazy plane.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
This Morning on Facebook
Wednesday is my day off, and usually I would have some plans to get something productive done around the homestead. Instead, I watched the weather, confirming that another miserably hot and humid day is on tap....and then I browsed Facebook.
Today, I saw that my youngest daughter had posted a New York Times article on the upcoming release of "Black Mass" on my page. We're both eagerly awaiting the release of the film, next week, so that was good. Next, I saw a posted article on where the best places for a burger and shake are in Rhode Island. I didn't read that. I shouldn't be even thinking about burgers, shakes, fries or the like. Following that, there were a few depressing posts about a poor starved dog that had to be euthanized and how we should basically all rally to stone the dog's owner. Naturally, there was a horrifying picture to accompany the call to action.
Next up, some local news posts, all focused on some murder and mayhem....a missing couple in Connecticut and the arrest of their son on a gun-related charge...a poor child found dead on an island in Boston harbor....a local pol accusing another pol of being dishonest.
Now we have the Patriots and Tom Brady memes, but not being much of a sports fan, I only glance at those. The next news article posted by a local news station catches my eye: "Providence diocese says new annulment process emphasizes mercy". Under that, a post from a friend who is a feline aficionado entitled "This is what the workplace would be like if a cat were boss". I click on the link and get to read a series of vaguely amusing comic strips, "Adventures of Business Cat".
As I scroll down the page, I am quickly reminded that Friday is the anniversary of 9-11. While I do believe this should be observed as we observe Memorial Day, I cringe at the vivid images of the twin towers in flames, a plane flying into the second tower, and other trauma-inducing photographs. I wish these posts were less focused on the horrific, and more on patriotism and survival.
Happily, there are some photographs of friends' children, off to pre-school or college, camping, or driving a kid's motorized Jeep. Whew -- a pleasant interlude. But what is next? A post on Kim Davis, a fine example of a municipal employee, thanking her supporters. Next up: IKEA recalls crib mattresses due to concerns about flammability. And after that, Christie Brinkley, she's 61 and looks 31! What is her secret? (I don't know, didn't click to open this, I am going to be 60 and don't think there is much hope of looking like I'm 31.)
Now we have the admonitions: Don't live your life impressing others. People will judge you anyway. There only person you should try to be better than is the person you were yesterday. On a bad day there is always lipstick.
And next is an article on how much you need to save for retirement. I don't bother reading that either but have the gnawing feeling in my gut like I might have an ulcer.
Now my day is off to a wonderful start. I think I need to get outdoors and pick up dog poop.
Today, I saw that my youngest daughter had posted a New York Times article on the upcoming release of "Black Mass" on my page. We're both eagerly awaiting the release of the film, next week, so that was good. Next, I saw a posted article on where the best places for a burger and shake are in Rhode Island. I didn't read that. I shouldn't be even thinking about burgers, shakes, fries or the like. Following that, there were a few depressing posts about a poor starved dog that had to be euthanized and how we should basically all rally to stone the dog's owner. Naturally, there was a horrifying picture to accompany the call to action.
Next up, some local news posts, all focused on some murder and mayhem....a missing couple in Connecticut and the arrest of their son on a gun-related charge...a poor child found dead on an island in Boston harbor....a local pol accusing another pol of being dishonest.
Now we have the Patriots and Tom Brady memes, but not being much of a sports fan, I only glance at those. The next news article posted by a local news station catches my eye: "Providence diocese says new annulment process emphasizes mercy". Under that, a post from a friend who is a feline aficionado entitled "This is what the workplace would be like if a cat were boss". I click on the link and get to read a series of vaguely amusing comic strips, "Adventures of Business Cat".
As I scroll down the page, I am quickly reminded that Friday is the anniversary of 9-11. While I do believe this should be observed as we observe Memorial Day, I cringe at the vivid images of the twin towers in flames, a plane flying into the second tower, and other trauma-inducing photographs. I wish these posts were less focused on the horrific, and more on patriotism and survival.
Happily, there are some photographs of friends' children, off to pre-school or college, camping, or driving a kid's motorized Jeep. Whew -- a pleasant interlude. But what is next? A post on Kim Davis, a fine example of a municipal employee, thanking her supporters. Next up: IKEA recalls crib mattresses due to concerns about flammability. And after that, Christie Brinkley, she's 61 and looks 31! What is her secret? (I don't know, didn't click to open this, I am going to be 60 and don't think there is much hope of looking like I'm 31.)
Now we have the admonitions: Don't live your life impressing others. People will judge you anyway. There only person you should try to be better than is the person you were yesterday. On a bad day there is always lipstick.
And next is an article on how much you need to save for retirement. I don't bother reading that either but have the gnawing feeling in my gut like I might have an ulcer.
Now my day is off to a wonderful start. I think I need to get outdoors and pick up dog poop.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
A Few Antiquing Tips for Labor Day Weekend
I'm just about done with tomatoes. I've canned, frozen, made various sauces, eaten a lot of BLTs and Sungold cherries on salads. The garden is winding down and this drought hasn't helped, despite watering.
Today I took a pile of San Marzano tomatoes and put them in a freezer bag and stuck them in the freezer, whole. My friend Sarah told me that when they thaw, the skins come right off. Perfect!
Instead of slaving in the kitchen, I thought maybe going to the beach for a swim would be great....until I realized my one bathing suit was on the boat, 40 miles away. Plan B: browsing at a few local antique stores just over the line in Rhode Island.
I started at The Town Trader in Chepachet, RI. I really like this store; there is a lot to look at in the warren of small rooms and hallways. My little house is chock full of stuff already, but I like looking at the prices on things that I already have. Sometimes I am pleasantly surprised although it doesn't really matter because I would have a tough time parting with some of the things I have. If it is in my house, I most likely love whatever it is and there is some story behind it. Today, I bought some autumn decorations, even though it was over 90 degrees outside. I was sorely tempted to buy a green and cream enameled flour container but I don't even know where I would put it so I managed to restrain myself....today.
From there, I cruised south on Route 102 toward Foster. I stopped at a roadside flower stand, just north of the intersection of Route 101. I bought two gorgeous bouquets of sunflowers, zinnias and herbs for $5.00 each. It's an honor system -- you leave the money in the box or you can write an IOU note and leave it. I've treated myself to flowers from there for many years now.
At Route 6, I headed west, crossed Route 94 and the only traffic light in Foster, and then pulled into A Bee's Buzz, on the left. This is a huge barn that has two floors of antique and vintage collectibles and furniture, as well as displays by local artists and merchants. You could spend hours here! Again, there is a lot to look at, from handcrafted soap to locally made jewelry, antique oil paintings, glassware.....you name it. I bought a few more fall motif items for the house. I'll probably go back for a 1960's era purse I saw, a purse that has the kind of old school clasp that will pinch you good if you're not careful.
So if you're an antique lover like myself, check out these stores. In Chepachet. there is also Old Post Office Antiques, across from The Town Trader. I always stop there, but they were closed today. This is another amazing store, with tiny rooms on two floors of the old post office, crammed full of treasures. The Brown and Hopkins General Store -- the longest continually operating general store in the country -- should also be on the list of must-see stops in this historic village.
Take an afternoon or weekend cruise. You'll be delighted!
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Today's Garden
I am not very happy with my garden this year and have to admit, it has a lot to do with the gardener. My weed control failed; the straw wasn't laid thick enough and I spent too little time tending to it. But despite that neglect, this morning I again brought in buckets of Roma, Sungold, and yellow pear tomatoes. And, the fennel is ready. The corn looks good, too, but last year, the ears never quite matured.
Every year for the last five years, I've had the garden expanded. Looking it it now, I am thinking scaling back is in order, unless I hit the Lottery and hire a gardener. And a cook, too, because I wasn't planning on having to do something with tomatoes all day today, but I think that is what I must do.
I thought about making salsa, but I don't have enough peppers. There's not quite enough tomatoes to justify making a huge batch of Italian sauce, "gravy" to put up. So it might be just stewed tomatoes. Plain, but useful, my French Canadian memere canned them every year until she was well into her 80's. She and my grandfather always had a big garden, at their house, and then after they sold the place, they had a smaller one in a community garden at their apartment complex. Memere grew up on a farm in St. Valerian, in Canada, the eldest of thirteen, and she knew how to make everything from scratch. Waste not, want not.
The elderly couple that owned our house before us were French Canadian, too. They used every bit of space on this few acres, and of course had an expansive garden. When we cleaned out the basement we found a dusty cabinet full of canned tomatoes and canning supplies. The attic was stocked with dried bunches of herbs, long forgotten. The daughters told us about their pig pen, up in the southwestern corner of the property, their chicken coop, and the milking cows and horses for pulling the milk wagon.
It's nostalgic to think about an idyllic farm scene, and pleasant to do, but memere always said that working in the mills in Fall River was a lot easier than working on the farm. I can believe that. But today, for a short time, I'll continue the tradition and put up tomatoes.
Every year for the last five years, I've had the garden expanded. Looking it it now, I am thinking scaling back is in order, unless I hit the Lottery and hire a gardener. And a cook, too, because I wasn't planning on having to do something with tomatoes all day today, but I think that is what I must do.
I thought about making salsa, but I don't have enough peppers. There's not quite enough tomatoes to justify making a huge batch of Italian sauce, "gravy" to put up. So it might be just stewed tomatoes. Plain, but useful, my French Canadian memere canned them every year until she was well into her 80's. She and my grandfather always had a big garden, at their house, and then after they sold the place, they had a smaller one in a community garden at their apartment complex. Memere grew up on a farm in St. Valerian, in Canada, the eldest of thirteen, and she knew how to make everything from scratch. Waste not, want not.
The elderly couple that owned our house before us were French Canadian, too. They used every bit of space on this few acres, and of course had an expansive garden. When we cleaned out the basement we found a dusty cabinet full of canned tomatoes and canning supplies. The attic was stocked with dried bunches of herbs, long forgotten. The daughters told us about their pig pen, up in the southwestern corner of the property, their chicken coop, and the milking cows and horses for pulling the milk wagon.
It's nostalgic to think about an idyllic farm scene, and pleasant to do, but memere always said that working in the mills in Fall River was a lot easier than working on the farm. I can believe that. But today, for a short time, I'll continue the tradition and put up tomatoes.
Monday, August 10, 2015
Rhode Island's Victory Day
Today I am the envy of my Connecticut neighbors and Massachusetts family: I work in Rhode Island and today is a holiday. A holiday in August is in itself something to celebrate. Usually the question that follows is, what holiday is in August?
Rhode Island, long a symbol of rebellion and a middle-finger-up sort of attitude, is the only remaining state that observes Victory Day -- formerly Victory Over Japan, or VJ Day. Back in the 1990s, bowing to objections that the holiday was no longer politically correct, the legislature renamed the day and removed the reference to Japan. Some years after that, Governor DiPrete attempted to rename the holiday to "Governor's Bay Day" or some such non sequitur. That didn't stick, either. Everyone I know in Rhode Island, and I lived there for decades, calls today VJ Day.
As the holiday's name connotes, this marks the surrender of Japan and the close of World War II in 1945, 70 years ago this year. Everyday citizens of almost every country around the world took to the streets when the news spread on August 15. Newspaper headlines in the United States, New Zealand, Canada, the United Kingdom and Australia heralded "V-J Day". President Truman named September 2, 1945 and the formal surrender ceremony "VJ Day".
Why is Rhode Island the only remaining state to observe Victory Day? For starters, the tiniest state in the union sent over 100,000 of its residents to war and 10,000 of them were killed, wounded or missing in action.
In 2010, Scott McKay of Rhode Island Public Radio wrote in an essay:
If ever a state was at the center of the American war effort in World War II, it was Rhode Island. From Westerly to Woonsocket and everywhere in between, Rhode Island was focused on winning what has become known as, in Studs Terkel's famous words, "The Good War". Newport was home to the Atlantic destroyer fleet, where thousands of sailors trained for service abroad. Quonset hosted thousands of troops who built Quonset huts and trained engineers and Seabees to work on ships. PT boats were built on Bristol and the man who was to become the most celebrated PT commander i history, John F. Kennedy, received his training at the Navy's station in Melville....A state that suffered through the Depression suddenly blossomed into an industrial powerhouse when war came. Liberty ships were made in Providence, torpedoes in Newport, army blankets and uniforms in textile mills all over the state. The machine shops of the Blackstone Valley thrummed with parts for guns. Even the jewelry makers flourished, turning out medals for the arms forces.
So the Rhode Island legislature has repeatedly and stubbornly close to keep observing Victory Day, indicating that to stop celebrating it would be an insult to veterans. As the greatest generation slowly fades into history and memories, Rhode Island continues to carry the torch, remembering its soldiers, World War II and the joyous end of that dark, frightening time. I hope that never stops.
Rhode Island, long a symbol of rebellion and a middle-finger-up sort of attitude, is the only remaining state that observes Victory Day -- formerly Victory Over Japan, or VJ Day. Back in the 1990s, bowing to objections that the holiday was no longer politically correct, the legislature renamed the day and removed the reference to Japan. Some years after that, Governor DiPrete attempted to rename the holiday to "Governor's Bay Day" or some such non sequitur. That didn't stick, either. Everyone I know in Rhode Island, and I lived there for decades, calls today VJ Day.
As the holiday's name connotes, this marks the surrender of Japan and the close of World War II in 1945, 70 years ago this year. Everyday citizens of almost every country around the world took to the streets when the news spread on August 15. Newspaper headlines in the United States, New Zealand, Canada, the United Kingdom and Australia heralded "V-J Day". President Truman named September 2, 1945 and the formal surrender ceremony "VJ Day".
Why is Rhode Island the only remaining state to observe Victory Day? For starters, the tiniest state in the union sent over 100,000 of its residents to war and 10,000 of them were killed, wounded or missing in action.
In 2010, Scott McKay of Rhode Island Public Radio wrote in an essay:
If ever a state was at the center of the American war effort in World War II, it was Rhode Island. From Westerly to Woonsocket and everywhere in between, Rhode Island was focused on winning what has become known as, in Studs Terkel's famous words, "The Good War". Newport was home to the Atlantic destroyer fleet, where thousands of sailors trained for service abroad. Quonset hosted thousands of troops who built Quonset huts and trained engineers and Seabees to work on ships. PT boats were built on Bristol and the man who was to become the most celebrated PT commander i history, John F. Kennedy, received his training at the Navy's station in Melville....A state that suffered through the Depression suddenly blossomed into an industrial powerhouse when war came. Liberty ships were made in Providence, torpedoes in Newport, army blankets and uniforms in textile mills all over the state. The machine shops of the Blackstone Valley thrummed with parts for guns. Even the jewelry makers flourished, turning out medals for the arms forces.
So the Rhode Island legislature has repeatedly and stubbornly close to keep observing Victory Day, indicating that to stop celebrating it would be an insult to veterans. As the greatest generation slowly fades into history and memories, Rhode Island continues to carry the torch, remembering its soldiers, World War II and the joyous end of that dark, frightening time. I hope that never stops.
Saturday, July 25, 2015
JUSTICE FOR THERESA CORLEY
Camelot was over and the Summer of Love had ended over a
decade before. Viet Nam protest marches, the Kent State shooting, and the Nixon
era were a memory. It was December, 1978, winter in America, a time of
disillusionment and discontent. Darkness came early and every night seemed
starless. But even in that time of financial and cultural depression, the
humdrum of life bumped along. Those lucky enough to have a job worked, and if
you had an income, even a paltry one, it was probably enough then to allow some
discretionary income for having some fun.
In Franklin, the Train Stop, a popular watering hole, was as
usual hosting its odd assortment of patrons. From college students to plumbers,
orderlies from nearby Wrentham State School and townies, loud voices and
laughter were fueled by the great social equalizer, alcohol. Many of the
customers on Monday, December 4 were young, under twenty-one, attending a
birthday celebration, their jubilant mood interrupted by an argument, some
misunderstanding, and the abrupt exit of some of the party-goers.
Exactly what happened after that is not completely known.
But one nineteen year old girl, someone’s baby, someone’s sister, never made it
home. That girl was Theresa Corley, of Bellingham, one of nine children. She
was working in a local factory, attending junior college, just beginning to
become a woman, more independent and adventuresome, finding her own way. Her
nude body was found in a ditch on the side of 495 a few days later and she had
been strangled.
Thirty-seven years later, her sister, Gerri, still remembers
her mother’s anguished screams when she learned that her missing daughter would
never come home, a sound she says she will never forget. And she and the Corley
siblings feel the hurt and despair that her mother did, not knowing who did
this to their Terry. An investigation had taken place, to some degree, anyway,
and a disjointed story emerged, that Theresa had been sexually assaulted at an
apartment in Franklin, left there, was seen by other witnesses, was picked up
and dropped off at the Bellingham Police Department not far from her home but
was never seen alive again. No one was charged. Years went by and the case grew
cold. Investigators have retired. Some potential suspects or witnesses have
died.
This year, Theresa Corley would have been 56. For years,
there have been whispered allegations and overheard conversations in Bellingham.
And quite probably, those most directly involved or knowledgeable about the
crimes that were committed that night are out there. Among us.
Thirty-seven years. It’s a long time to wonder what
happened, knowing that someone has gotten away with murder. It’s not too late
to put this puzzle together. And that could mean taking a brave step forward.
Rumors could lead to facts. And that could lead to conviction and JUSTICE FOR
THERESA CORLEY. Can YOU help?
If you have any information at all, and every bit of
information can help, please contact any of the following:
Bellingham Police Tip Line at 508.657.2863 or email detectives@bellinghamma,org
Franklin Police Tip Line at 508.440.2780 or email at tips@franklinpolice.com
The Norfolk District Attorney can also be contacted at 617.593.8840.
A Facebook page has also been created: Justice for Theresa Corley Bellingham 1978.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
The Unlikely Visitor at the Putnam Post Office
Last Thursday was memorable for a few reasons. First, because I mailed my retirement application into the state retirement board; second, because of a surprising encounter with a visitor to the Putnam Post Office.
As I descended the steps of the post office, I heard the distinct "caw" of a crow, or so I assumed. The persistent cawing became so loud, I was sure some bird was going to land on my head. Stopping to look for the sound, I looked up to see an enormous black bird perched on the parapet of the stone post office building. He -- or she -- was doing sort of a soft shoe dance, and was making its crazy cawing noises which echoed between the downtown buildings.
Within a few minutes, more passersby joined me, standing in front of the post office, necks craned to marvel at the unusual sight. A woman said "it's not a crow, it's a raven." Someone else pointed out that there was another raven on a nearby steeple, and it did seem like they were occasionally calling to each other. This unexpected visitor seemed curious about the impromptu gathering below as it leaned over toward us, continuing its shrill cawing, and performing its skips and hops to our collective delight. We took pictures and videos with our phones, looking like tourists in our own town.
A raven! Of course! I wasn't sure if I had ever actually seen one. Perhaps my greatest familiarity with ravens was from the famed Edgar Alan Poe poem The Raven. "Quoth the Raven 'Nevermore'".
The Cornell Lab of Ornothology All About Birds website calls the common raven "intriguing" and notes that ravens are "among the smartest of all birds." And, "ravens are confident, inquisitive birds that strut around or occasionally bound forward with light, two-footed hops." A 2013 article in The (New London) Day, Ravens: Nevermore no longer (Robert Tougias, 1/4/13) explains that over the last few decades the raven has slowly extended its territory south from remote northern New England, probably due to global warming. It is a highly adaptable bird, but is still largely a wilderness bird. So its appearance in downtown Putnam was rather unlikely.
A few days later I told a coworker about my encounter. She in turn told me a story about a friend who had an owl fly into her house and die, and that was a bad omen, and the friend became very ill. The native American tribes people that the friend had lived near had used herbs and incense to try to rid the house of evil spirits but their efforts failed.
Although I am not of a superstitious nature, this suggestion was a little unsettling. I researched "ravens and superstitions" and learned that the raven is quite enigmatic, with different cultures embracing opposing beliefs about its spiritual significance. While some see the raven as a fore-teller of death (probably thanks to Poe), or a symbol of war, others identify the raven as a good omen, associated with wisdom and magic.The Celtics believe that a raven on the roof brings prosperity.
But I prefer this definition of the raven: The raven, bird of prophecy and bravery, protector of seers and clairvoyants.
And even if the raven is but a bird, with no exotic and mysterious association, it was a very cool experience. I've included a very short video -- not sure if Telegram readers will be able to upload it -- which isn't too good but captures the sound pretty well.
As I descended the steps of the post office, I heard the distinct "caw" of a crow, or so I assumed. The persistent cawing became so loud, I was sure some bird was going to land on my head. Stopping to look for the sound, I looked up to see an enormous black bird perched on the parapet of the stone post office building. He -- or she -- was doing sort of a soft shoe dance, and was making its crazy cawing noises which echoed between the downtown buildings.
Within a few minutes, more passersby joined me, standing in front of the post office, necks craned to marvel at the unusual sight. A woman said "it's not a crow, it's a raven." Someone else pointed out that there was another raven on a nearby steeple, and it did seem like they were occasionally calling to each other. This unexpected visitor seemed curious about the impromptu gathering below as it leaned over toward us, continuing its shrill cawing, and performing its skips and hops to our collective delight. We took pictures and videos with our phones, looking like tourists in our own town.
A raven! Of course! I wasn't sure if I had ever actually seen one. Perhaps my greatest familiarity with ravens was from the famed Edgar Alan Poe poem The Raven. "Quoth the Raven 'Nevermore'".
The Cornell Lab of Ornothology All About Birds website calls the common raven "intriguing" and notes that ravens are "among the smartest of all birds." And, "ravens are confident, inquisitive birds that strut around or occasionally bound forward with light, two-footed hops." A 2013 article in The (New London) Day, Ravens: Nevermore no longer (Robert Tougias, 1/4/13) explains that over the last few decades the raven has slowly extended its territory south from remote northern New England, probably due to global warming. It is a highly adaptable bird, but is still largely a wilderness bird. So its appearance in downtown Putnam was rather unlikely.
A few days later I told a coworker about my encounter. She in turn told me a story about a friend who had an owl fly into her house and die, and that was a bad omen, and the friend became very ill. The native American tribes people that the friend had lived near had used herbs and incense to try to rid the house of evil spirits but their efforts failed.
Although I am not of a superstitious nature, this suggestion was a little unsettling. I researched "ravens and superstitions" and learned that the raven is quite enigmatic, with different cultures embracing opposing beliefs about its spiritual significance. While some see the raven as a fore-teller of death (probably thanks to Poe), or a symbol of war, others identify the raven as a good omen, associated with wisdom and magic.The Celtics believe that a raven on the roof brings prosperity.
But I prefer this definition of the raven: The raven, bird of prophecy and bravery, protector of seers and clairvoyants.
And even if the raven is but a bird, with no exotic and mysterious association, it was a very cool experience. I've included a very short video -- not sure if Telegram readers will be able to upload it -- which isn't too good but captures the sound pretty well.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Remembering June
My mother and I were talking on the phone this morning, as we always do on the weekend, and the subject of the chilly weather this morning inevitably came up. We agreed that we didn't like to be cold and we had both turned the heat on upon arising. And then we talked about Junes gone by, and the weather. We didn't remember any hot weather in June, and in fact, every June event we recalled was marked by cool temperatures.
We used to always go to the Peterson Farm in Dighton for either a Memorial Day or Flag Day cookout. And this farm was a real, working farm, not a romanticized, gentrified farm, like mine. The Petersons had chickens, cattle, pigs and a large garden. They slaughtered and ate the poultry and animals and sold the meat, too. My folks sometimes would buy a side of beef, cut into steaks and roasts, and freeze it. I think they bought their first freezer just for this purpose. Anyway, when we went there for the annual barbecue, it would invariably be windy, cool and damp and we always be outside, sitting at picnic tables. No matter how cold it was, there were always flies. After a few years of uncomfortable chilliness forcing us to leave early, we would make sure we had sweaters, winter coats and hats in the car.
One of my memories of June involved swimming lessons when I was in grade school. I was a timid child, and didn't like to get my face wet in the water or swim over my head. Because we lived on the Taunton River, my parents were adamant that all their children would know how to swim and be able to save ourselves should some mishap occur. Swimming lessons started as soon as school ended, always on a Saturday morning at the town beach and I remember my teeth chattering and my lips turning blue. I don't think it was ever above 60 degrees outside and it didn't even matter if it was raining -- no cancellations unless there was a thunderstorm.
My family used to go on vacation in June, too. Usually the last week of June, before the Cape Cod rentals got more expensive for the high summer season, we would go for a week of camping at Nickerson State Park in Brewster. Actually, as I recall, we usually rented a very rustic "cottage", and sometimes my aunt, uncle and cousins would be there, too. We have some old photographs, probably circa 1960, of us older girls in flannel nightgowns, roasting marshmallows over a roaring fire in the massive stone fireplace.
We probably got a little spoiled this year with the May heat wave. Now June is what June should be, the Junes of my childhood. Cool enough to grow some lettuce and peas and to shut the windows before bed, and sunny enough at mid day to warm the earth. Maybe not warm enough for swimming, though.
We used to always go to the Peterson Farm in Dighton for either a Memorial Day or Flag Day cookout. And this farm was a real, working farm, not a romanticized, gentrified farm, like mine. The Petersons had chickens, cattle, pigs and a large garden. They slaughtered and ate the poultry and animals and sold the meat, too. My folks sometimes would buy a side of beef, cut into steaks and roasts, and freeze it. I think they bought their first freezer just for this purpose. Anyway, when we went there for the annual barbecue, it would invariably be windy, cool and damp and we always be outside, sitting at picnic tables. No matter how cold it was, there were always flies. After a few years of uncomfortable chilliness forcing us to leave early, we would make sure we had sweaters, winter coats and hats in the car.
One of my memories of June involved swimming lessons when I was in grade school. I was a timid child, and didn't like to get my face wet in the water or swim over my head. Because we lived on the Taunton River, my parents were adamant that all their children would know how to swim and be able to save ourselves should some mishap occur. Swimming lessons started as soon as school ended, always on a Saturday morning at the town beach and I remember my teeth chattering and my lips turning blue. I don't think it was ever above 60 degrees outside and it didn't even matter if it was raining -- no cancellations unless there was a thunderstorm.
My family used to go on vacation in June, too. Usually the last week of June, before the Cape Cod rentals got more expensive for the high summer season, we would go for a week of camping at Nickerson State Park in Brewster. Actually, as I recall, we usually rented a very rustic "cottage", and sometimes my aunt, uncle and cousins would be there, too. We have some old photographs, probably circa 1960, of us older girls in flannel nightgowns, roasting marshmallows over a roaring fire in the massive stone fireplace.
We probably got a little spoiled this year with the May heat wave. Now June is what June should be, the Junes of my childhood. Cool enough to grow some lettuce and peas and to shut the windows before bed, and sunny enough at mid day to warm the earth. Maybe not warm enough for swimming, though.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
The Obituary
And there was his photograph, a rather uncharacteristic beatific smile on a face I hadn't seen in over thirty years, gracing the obituaries. The text waxed eloquently, albeit briefly, about his hobbies and accomplishments, and I'm sure someone left behind wrote it with the goal of putting a positive flourish on a less than happy existence.
This was the man who taught me the shocking and bitter lesson that all men are not like my father; that some men control, abuse, consider it their right to treat their women with less respect than their dog. No one had ever warned me. We weren't taught about domestic violence in high school, or college. I didn't know anyone who was beaten by a boyfriend. It became apparent that it was a familial habit; his brother was no better to his wife. Somehow they had learned along the way that it was alright.
I was close with my family, but never told them anything about what was happening in my life. I knew, of course, that they would be worried. Ironically, he never met my family, either, not even at Christmas, because I knew I deserved better but I was also afraid.
Mercifully, the relationship didn't last long, maybe about nine months. During that time, he had moved into my apartment. By the time I left, fleeing to an out-of-town friend's house to hide, the bathroom and bedroom doors were splintered from his fists and my neighbors told me that they were petrified of him, and for me. That did it.
About ten years ago or so, I am quite sure I saw him, standing outside a small shopping plaza close to my home, in a nearby state. He was obviously waiting for someone to pick him up. I was terrified, although he did not see me. I knew my fear was irrational, that he wasn't at that place to find my house, or cause me harm, that he was there for some other reason unknown to me, but I had trouble sleeping for weeks.
Can abusers stop? Perhaps. I would certainly like to think so and I think that when violence is alcohol fueled, it can stop if the alcohol is gone. That wasn't the case here, though; this was perpetrated stone cold sober.
A post mortem social media review revealed that little had changed. Facebook posts were laced with vicious accusations and threats, directed at estranged friends and relatives. And after his death, a few others posted what a great guy he was. I am sure they were never cringing with terror behind the locked doors being broken down, hearing the screamed threats.
Rest in peace. I know I will.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
SPRING (off the couch and into action)
Although the "official" first day of spring hasn't quite arrived, in my book, St. Patrick's Day marks the start of the season of green. Despite the still chilly weather (and wind!) there is no missing the evidence of spring: tender golden-green shoots peeking up through the sodden garden soil, swollen forsythia buds and the feeling that the sun is getting warmer.
It sure was one memorable winter....not too bad at all until the one-two punches of snow in February and it just didn't stop coming. The cold was brutal. Driving was particularly hazardous, with the narrowed streets, ice and mountainous snow banks that obstructed any clear view at an intersection. All that contributed to a lot of time not doing much after work. I just didn't have the fortitude to brave the miserable elements and go anywhere or do much of anything besides surf the net or read. Oh, I did lug in firewood, but otherwise, was undoubtedly a total couch potato, a cringe-worthy description but true nonetheless.
So this little glimpse of early spring means it is time to abandon the scourge of Facebook and get to some projects around the house and spending some time outdoors. I have a few overdue interior painting duties ahead of me, but waiting until it's just a little warmer to open the windows and let some fresh air in. And the dooryard -- now that the snow is starting to melt, the piles of sunflower seed hulls have emerged around the bird feeder and are now being tracked into the house every time someone comes in. The seed hulls, and some mud....which reminds me that I need to get the old pickup fired up to get some pea stone for the walkway.
The barn and house need some scraping, priming and painting, too. Old houses just don't hold paint too well. The barn is stained and has been a little less maintenance-intensive, but this year it needs a little work, too.
When the remaining snow is pretty much gone from the north-facing slope I'll have the garden tilled and maybe for once, get the early crops in on time. Somehow the last of the lettuce crop always bolts, because it gets too hot.
And I would like to get all this done by June 1 to get an unobstructed summer of sailing in. No big deal, right?
It sure was one memorable winter....not too bad at all until the one-two punches of snow in February and it just didn't stop coming. The cold was brutal. Driving was particularly hazardous, with the narrowed streets, ice and mountainous snow banks that obstructed any clear view at an intersection. All that contributed to a lot of time not doing much after work. I just didn't have the fortitude to brave the miserable elements and go anywhere or do much of anything besides surf the net or read. Oh, I did lug in firewood, but otherwise, was undoubtedly a total couch potato, a cringe-worthy description but true nonetheless.
So this little glimpse of early spring means it is time to abandon the scourge of Facebook and get to some projects around the house and spending some time outdoors. I have a few overdue interior painting duties ahead of me, but waiting until it's just a little warmer to open the windows and let some fresh air in. And the dooryard -- now that the snow is starting to melt, the piles of sunflower seed hulls have emerged around the bird feeder and are now being tracked into the house every time someone comes in. The seed hulls, and some mud....which reminds me that I need to get the old pickup fired up to get some pea stone for the walkway.
The barn and house need some scraping, priming and painting, too. Old houses just don't hold paint too well. The barn is stained and has been a little less maintenance-intensive, but this year it needs a little work, too.
When the remaining snow is pretty much gone from the north-facing slope I'll have the garden tilled and maybe for once, get the early crops in on time. Somehow the last of the lettuce crop always bolts, because it gets too hot.
And I would like to get all this done by June 1 to get an unobstructed summer of sailing in. No big deal, right?
Sunday, January 18, 2015
January: The Longest Winter Month
I hear myself bemoaning January in New England. Why do I live here? When will this cold ever end? Dressing in layers, heavy winter coat, boots.....I feel the weight of it, the still short days, the bitter cold, the ice. This year, my ex-husband has now retired and moved south to be near our oldest daughter and her family. And one of my best girlfriends has done the same, moving even further south, away from the New England winter.
My Aunt Ruth used to always say that after this longest month, February flies by and at St. Patrick's Day, she would declare that it was now spring. I've adopted that view and it helps. Although I do think her frequent sojourns to the Southwest probably helped quite a bit. When I was much younger, I didn't dread this long cold month; it was a time to hope for a storm to cancel school, skate at the frozen salt marsh, sled with neighborhood schoolmates.
But it is really not so bad. It is easy to enjoy a roaring fire in the wood stove in the evening and fun to make a nice stew to warm up with after a Saturday of running errands. Being somewhat more housebound can get tiresome, but there are always closets and bureau drawers to clean and organize, interior painting projects or painting and writing. In the deepest time of winter, it is a time for solitude and reflection and perhaps some self-improvement, too. January is the springboard to a new year, and brings a time to look ahead and close old chapters that we need to leave behind, that weigh us down and hold us back. And in the words of New England's poet laureate, Robert Frost, "there are miles to go before I sleep".
My Aunt Ruth used to always say that after this longest month, February flies by and at St. Patrick's Day, she would declare that it was now spring. I've adopted that view and it helps. Although I do think her frequent sojourns to the Southwest probably helped quite a bit. When I was much younger, I didn't dread this long cold month; it was a time to hope for a storm to cancel school, skate at the frozen salt marsh, sled with neighborhood schoolmates.
But it is really not so bad. It is easy to enjoy a roaring fire in the wood stove in the evening and fun to make a nice stew to warm up with after a Saturday of running errands. Being somewhat more housebound can get tiresome, but there are always closets and bureau drawers to clean and organize, interior painting projects or painting and writing. In the deepest time of winter, it is a time for solitude and reflection and perhaps some self-improvement, too. January is the springboard to a new year, and brings a time to look ahead and close old chapters that we need to leave behind, that weigh us down and hold us back. And in the words of New England's poet laureate, Robert Frost, "there are miles to go before I sleep".
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