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Little Pond
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
What's up with all the goldfinches?
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Little Pond
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Today's Fun Facts
On this day in 1910, Samuel Clemens (a.k.a., Mark Twain) died. He was later buried here in Elmira in the Woodlawn Cemetery, right next to his beloved Olivia Langdon Clemens and all his children. Clemens spent many summers at Quarry Farm on a nearby hill, facing the valley. In fact, he would walk down into Elmira nearly every day to visit with friends.
Not so much Fun? Well, Samuel Clemens was born the same year that Halley's Comet came into view of the Earth. He felt it was a momentous omen for his life. Furthermore, he stated that he "came in with Halley's Comet" and wanted to "go out with Halley's Comet." He also said it would the "greatest disappointment of my life" if he didn't.
You may have already guessed that in 1910, Halley's Comet made its last visible pass by our planet.
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Little Pond
Not so much Fun? Well, Samuel Clemens was born the same year that Halley's Comet came into view of the Earth. He felt it was a momentous omen for his life. Furthermore, he stated that he "came in with Halley's Comet" and wanted to "go out with Halley's Comet." He also said it would the "greatest disappointment of my life" if he didn't.
You may have already guessed that in 1910, Halley's Comet made its last visible pass by our planet.
pb
Little Pond
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Considering new signage
When I get a minute and a frame, this is going by the door:
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No one knows better than we do that
pet hair is all over our place.
Don't be too shy to ask us for a
lint roller before you leave.
We have dozens of them.
The Management.
pb
Little Pond
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Duane E. Olthof and Dale Earnhardt
Two names that really don't go together, except this week.
Today Duane, my father-in-law, is being interred at Woodlawn Cemetery, Elmira, New York. He is entitled to a site at the attached National Cemetery, but chose instead to purchase his grave in the regular one, so that the love of his life, Carol Kelly Olthof, can someday be placed alongside him. They will lie together as long as this world will last.
The funeral was short and sweet, as befits the style of this regular guy and his wife. Just two hours of visitation, and a short talk by his pastor. Only then did I finally cry. We all have been shoring up each other to get through these last five weeks. Carol has not wept publicly.
Just a good guy. He and I agreed on very few things, except family, especially the children and grandchildren. Nevertheless, we loved and respected on another, and he will be sorely missed.
As for Dale, well, the 10 year anniversary of his death is this Friday. After Ernie Irvan, he was my favorite racer. I was working the night of Irvan's crash, and I remember handling his photo for publication and whispering "Please don't go." He didn't.
By the time I worked on anything for Dale, he was already gone. Dale's Number 3 is the only racing souvenir that I have: on a belt buckle.
Racing goes way back for me, in a very casual, once-in-a-while way. The Westboro Speedway was the local big-time venue when I was a teenager. I went once to watch funny car racing and was astounded that anyone could use nitroglycerin in a car. Until then, funny cars were simply collectible models my brothers built.
After moving to Elmira, New York, it was inevitable that Watkins Glen got into my psyche. I have never again attended a race, because I do not wish to ever witness a fatal accident. Still, I kept an eye on a few racers, Irvan and Earnhardt.
I thought Irvan was dashing, and Earnhardt daring. Now both are gone, Irvan from racing, and Earnhardt from amongst us living. I am still brokenhearted over both, but especially Dale.
Here is a link to a lovely tribute to Dale. Read and enjoy, and please remember my deceased father-in-law in your prayers to day. And give a thought to the Intimidator on Friday.
pb
Little Pond
Today Duane, my father-in-law, is being interred at Woodlawn Cemetery, Elmira, New York. He is entitled to a site at the attached National Cemetery, but chose instead to purchase his grave in the regular one, so that the love of his life, Carol Kelly Olthof, can someday be placed alongside him. They will lie together as long as this world will last.
The funeral was short and sweet, as befits the style of this regular guy and his wife. Just two hours of visitation, and a short talk by his pastor. Only then did I finally cry. We all have been shoring up each other to get through these last five weeks. Carol has not wept publicly.
Just a good guy. He and I agreed on very few things, except family, especially the children and grandchildren. Nevertheless, we loved and respected on another, and he will be sorely missed.
As for Dale, well, the 10 year anniversary of his death is this Friday. After Ernie Irvan, he was my favorite racer. I was working the night of Irvan's crash, and I remember handling his photo for publication and whispering "Please don't go." He didn't.
By the time I worked on anything for Dale, he was already gone. Dale's Number 3 is the only racing souvenir that I have: on a belt buckle.
Racing goes way back for me, in a very casual, once-in-a-while way. The Westboro Speedway was the local big-time venue when I was a teenager. I went once to watch funny car racing and was astounded that anyone could use nitroglycerin in a car. Until then, funny cars were simply collectible models my brothers built.
After moving to Elmira, New York, it was inevitable that Watkins Glen got into my psyche. I have never again attended a race, because I do not wish to ever witness a fatal accident. Still, I kept an eye on a few racers, Irvan and Earnhardt.
I thought Irvan was dashing, and Earnhardt daring. Now both are gone, Irvan from racing, and Earnhardt from amongst us living. I am still brokenhearted over both, but especially Dale.
Here is a link to a lovely tribute to Dale. Read and enjoy, and please remember my deceased father-in-law in your prayers to day. And give a thought to the Intimidator on Friday.
pb
Little Pond
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Time again for my favorite saint!
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Little Pond
BTW, My FIL died this week and his obituary is in the same paper. We are on the usual roller coaster, preparing to bury our dear patriarch. More comments here. Gonna be busy for a few. pb
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
For all us winter shut-ins...
Frosted Morning
I know you all are just dying to see our snowy Upstate aftermath, right? We did not get the huge dump gotten in Boston and other coastal areas.
Just sort of pretty. Click here.
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Little Pond
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Little Pond
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Welcome Winter. Yuck.
My first winter visit to see the GrandKids. First a scary trip through the poorly plowed streets of Elmira, then a nerve-wracking ride on the River Road between towns, and finally, another scary trip through the streets of Big Flats.
A twelve minute trip took a half-hour, trumped only by the unplowed driveway up to my daughter's home. I threw old Barbie (you may have guessed that she's a Malibu) into low and began the climb. Not 10 feet up and we were spinning our wheels. I rolled back and tried again. Barbie made it up 20 feet. I rolled back and got out to walk.
Nothing plowed, nothing shoveled, nothing swept. I climbed the snow-covered stairs, stopping when I detected a shout.
"Sweetheart!" In the next door neighbor's yard was a plow, it's driver waving to me. My daughter opened her front door, looked at me, then at the truck next door, and burst into tears.
I had arrived just in time to plug the entrance to their driveway. My latest admirer was her father-in-law, arriving unannounced to plow.
The kicker? My daughter wouldn't allow me to go back to move my car! She was appalled I had trudged up the hill. So there I was, preventing the driveway from being plowed, and my daughter nattering at me that I shouldn't have walked up the hill, because of my sprained back. Never mind that the snow and hill have nothing at all to do with my back.
I felt like a fool. And now the drive will not be plowed until Sunday.
pb
Little Pond
A twelve minute trip took a half-hour, trumped only by the unplowed driveway up to my daughter's home. I threw old Barbie (you may have guessed that she's a Malibu) into low and began the climb. Not 10 feet up and we were spinning our wheels. I rolled back and tried again. Barbie made it up 20 feet. I rolled back and got out to walk.
Nothing plowed, nothing shoveled, nothing swept. I climbed the snow-covered stairs, stopping when I detected a shout.
"Sweetheart!" In the next door neighbor's yard was a plow, it's driver waving to me. My daughter opened her front door, looked at me, then at the truck next door, and burst into tears.
I had arrived just in time to plug the entrance to their driveway. My latest admirer was her father-in-law, arriving unannounced to plow.
The kicker? My daughter wouldn't allow me to go back to move my car! She was appalled I had trudged up the hill. So there I was, preventing the driveway from being plowed, and my daughter nattering at me that I shouldn't have walked up the hill, because of my sprained back. Never mind that the snow and hill have nothing at all to do with my back.
I felt like a fool. And now the drive will not be plowed until Sunday.
pb
Little Pond
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Time to Return to Time
The physical stresses of the past year are beginning to ease. Even a sprained back can't hide the fact that I now feel my hands and feet. Still rather numb and tingly, but they are there again. There were times in the summer when there was simply Nobody Home at the ends of my limbs.
And once again, my mind is turning to the Infinite: this body that has a tenuous hold on the present surely can't last forever. And what is Forever, anyway, if all times we experience as ongoing, "flowing like a river," are simply the Now? When the Now is no longer ours, and the body that hold us to it is gone, then Forever becomes the Infinite Now.
So where is all this gobble-de-gook leading us, dearest reader?
Nowhere in particular on this Planet.
It's time to return to writing. My brain is finally healing. I have reviewed my previous attempts at the new book and have even culled out a brief chapter. You can read it here, before I delete it Forever.
This chapter actually led to a nicer one, featuring a certain bountifully gorgeous Diva. Anyone who knows Diva will recognize here when I finally release the book.
Let the writing begin again!
pb
Little Pond
And once again, my mind is turning to the Infinite: this body that has a tenuous hold on the present surely can't last forever. And what is Forever, anyway, if all times we experience as ongoing, "flowing like a river," are simply the Now? When the Now is no longer ours, and the body that hold us to it is gone, then Forever becomes the Infinite Now.
So where is all this gobble-de-gook leading us, dearest reader?
Nowhere in particular on this Planet.
It's time to return to writing. My brain is finally healing. I have reviewed my previous attempts at the new book and have even culled out a brief chapter. You can read it here, before I delete it Forever.
This chapter actually led to a nicer one, featuring a certain bountifully gorgeous Diva. Anyone who knows Diva will recognize here when I finally release the book.
Let the writing begin again!
pb
Little Pond
Monday, January 10, 2011
Cappy's will stay!
Recently there was an unpleasant buzz here in Elmira that Cappy's would soon close. Regular readers see lots of references to it as the goto store for almost any gift-giving, but especially spur-of-the-moment. It is a mandatory stop for anyone visiting our downtown shopping areas.
A visit to this site will tell it all. Lots of photos, too.
But Cappy's is here to stay. A piece in Sunday's Star-Gazette reassured us Cappy's patrons that all is well. Joe had a spot of bad health, but he's game for the long term.
Whew! That was a close call for someone like me. I'd really miss the place, come Father's or Mother's Day.
pb
Little Pond
A visit to this site will tell it all. Lots of photos, too.
But Cappy's is here to stay. A piece in Sunday's Star-Gazette reassured us Cappy's patrons that all is well. Joe had a spot of bad health, but he's game for the long term.
Whew! That was a close call for someone like me. I'd really miss the place, come Father's or Mother's Day.
pb
Little Pond
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Damned good point
In Leonard Pitts' column today, something caught my eye.
He wrote about how many blacks don't want to rehash the tragedies and injustices of the Jim Crow era.
He's right.
About a decade ago, my dear, now departed, coworker Carolyn Myles reacted very strongly to a Halloween decoration painted by one of our production artists. It showed the artist hanged from a black tree against a dark sky. It was meant to be funny, since he was constantly in trouble with the higher ups as a loose cannon.
Carolyn, an Afro-American with ties to family in Baltimore, was not the least bit amused. She ordered him to take it down. I can still hear her explaining that we Northerners cannot begin to understand the horror of such an image. She was very upset, and it was the beginning of my own re-education in the extent of damage done to our black brothers and sisters.
Please, let's not pretend that slavery and brutal discrimination is over and done. It isn't, and Black Americans will suffer the pain and injustice longer and longer, the more we try to sweep it all under the rug.
And I doubt that cleaning up the language in books like Huckleberry Finn will help matters, either.
Frankly, I thought the book overlong with a rather fairy-tale ending, but the brutality of the language and its accompanying concepts seemed instructive and necessary.
For crying out loud, when is American going to grow up?
pb
Little Pond
He wrote about how many blacks don't want to rehash the tragedies and injustices of the Jim Crow era.
He's right.
About a decade ago, my dear, now departed, coworker Carolyn Myles reacted very strongly to a Halloween decoration painted by one of our production artists. It showed the artist hanged from a black tree against a dark sky. It was meant to be funny, since he was constantly in trouble with the higher ups as a loose cannon.
Carolyn, an Afro-American with ties to family in Baltimore, was not the least bit amused. She ordered him to take it down. I can still hear her explaining that we Northerners cannot begin to understand the horror of such an image. She was very upset, and it was the beginning of my own re-education in the extent of damage done to our black brothers and sisters.
Please, let's not pretend that slavery and brutal discrimination is over and done. It isn't, and Black Americans will suffer the pain and injustice longer and longer, the more we try to sweep it all under the rug.
And I doubt that cleaning up the language in books like Huckleberry Finn will help matters, either.
Frankly, I thought the book overlong with a rather fairy-tale ending, but the brutality of the language and its accompanying concepts seemed instructive and necessary.
For crying out loud, when is American going to grow up?
pb
Little Pond
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Merry Un-Christmas
Christmas week in Little Pond.
Bring in the whirl-
wind!
Little VM begins to remove the ornaments one by one.
No big deal. A lifetime of living in households full of kids taught us to place only unbreakable ornaments along the bottom.
In fact, if we shift our thinking, it might even look as though VM is actually placing the ornament!.
Happy Holidays from the Little Pond.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
For all my internet buddies.
A Christmas Riddle:
How long did Santa spend in front of the Fireplace?
Answer:
He can't remember; he didn't keep a log!
From a Hallmark Peanuts card. Thanks Sharon!
How long did Santa spend in front of the Fireplace?
Answer:
He can't remember; he didn't keep a log!
From a Hallmark Peanuts card. Thanks Sharon!
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
It's that time of year again.
Enjoy the season.
pb
Little Pond
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
Hope you weren't offended by my last post.
I hate flying, and will only fly in an emergency.
The last time was to return home for my godfather's funeral. I hated every minute of it and upset all the people around me by looking like death warmed over. To call me white-knuckle doesn't begin to describe my fears.
But I wanted to be there for the widow, my Godmother, and my Dad, who lost his baby brother. My eldest uncle was wandering around saying he should have died first, and really needed all of us to assure him that we were thrilled to have him still with us as long.
Nevertheless, my dearest, darling, loving, accepting, sometimes funny and always good-humored Godfather had died. By the end of the weekend, I was depressed and self-medicating. Needless to say the trip back to Little Pond was wrapped in an alcohol-laced melancholy. That is to say, I remember nothing about it.
If I need to fly again, I willingly will submit to the scan. After all the MRI's due to MS, and the many mammograms due to a family history of ovarian and mammary cysts and tumors, a few more zaps ain't gonna amount to much more than a p-sshole in a snowdrift. And if I had to get groped, well, I guess I would request a cot so I could just lie back and enjoy it.
You see, when and if I am ever next to the religious-crazed nutbag who begins to light a match (or whatever), I will scream bloody murder. And I want everyone else around me to do likewise. I intend to go down kicking the $#!+ out of anyone who begins to look suspicious.
I'll deal with the legal ramifications later, if I'm wrong.
No one's likely to suffer unduly at my hands, but then again, with MS, I can take a few hits to the hands without feeling a thing until a tad later. By then, the other passengers can take over.
Who's with me?
pb
Little Pond
The last time was to return home for my godfather's funeral. I hated every minute of it and upset all the people around me by looking like death warmed over. To call me white-knuckle doesn't begin to describe my fears.
But I wanted to be there for the widow, my Godmother, and my Dad, who lost his baby brother. My eldest uncle was wandering around saying he should have died first, and really needed all of us to assure him that we were thrilled to have him still with us as long.
Nevertheless, my dearest, darling, loving, accepting, sometimes funny and always good-humored Godfather had died. By the end of the weekend, I was depressed and self-medicating. Needless to say the trip back to Little Pond was wrapped in an alcohol-laced melancholy. That is to say, I remember nothing about it.
If I need to fly again, I willingly will submit to the scan. After all the MRI's due to MS, and the many mammograms due to a family history of ovarian and mammary cysts and tumors, a few more zaps ain't gonna amount to much more than a p-sshole in a snowdrift. And if I had to get groped, well, I guess I would request a cot so I could just lie back and enjoy it.
You see, when and if I am ever next to the religious-crazed nutbag who begins to light a match (or whatever), I will scream bloody murder. And I want everyone else around me to do likewise. I intend to go down kicking the $#!+ out of anyone who begins to look suspicious.
I'll deal with the legal ramifications later, if I'm wrong.
No one's likely to suffer unduly at my hands, but then again, with MS, I can take a few hits to the hands without feeling a thing until a tad later. By then, the other passengers can take over.
Who's with me?
pb
Little Pond
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