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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.