I grew up on an upstate New York dairy farm in the 1940s. An only child, I have always been petite, a nice word for small. Dad certainly could have used a strapping young man to help him care for the herd of 50 to 60 large animals. He hired those men.
Still, no matter what I asked to do, Dad never said, “You can’t do that. You are a girl.” He did say on occasion, “You can try it, but I don’t think you can do that.” It was true, I couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength.
When I was about twelve, he taught me to drive the doodlebug, which was an old 1929 car, cut in half with no cab that he used for a tractor. Manufacturers who built tractors were turning out tanks during World War II. A standard shift and I had to learn to deal with the clutch and changing gears.
One day I asked to drive our pickup truck on the road. About a mile from home I went around a sharp right hand turn on two wheels. In a normal voice Dad said, “Next time, slow down before the corner.”
After the war, we acquired a tractor which was fun for me to drive. One day I was driving it with the hay wagon and hay loader attached, making it nearly the length of a semi. Twice the same day, I cut the corner in the hay field too short causing the hay loader to catch on the rigging of the wagon. The first time, he called, “Whoa.” The second time, Dad hollered, “Lord, girl, what in hell are you doing?” He fixed the problem and we finished loading the hay with me being more careful to swing wide on corners.
One day, the tractor was on the third story barn floor. I asked to back it out of the barn and down the stone ramp. I climbed on the tractor, started backwards. I had my foot on the clutch and it began rolling. Dad yelled, “Brake!” I slammed on the break just short of going over the side of the ramp. I think Dad took over at that point. But a short time later, we were back in the barn. Dad pointed to the tractor. “Get on.” He climbed up beside me. “Now, back up. Keep your foot off the clutch!”
I’ve driven many vehicles with a standard shift over the past years. Each time the words, “Keep your foot off the clutch!” have kept me from making dangerous moves.
When he had back surgery in 1952, the doctor told him he’d spend most of the remainder of his life in a wheelchair. His response, “To hell I will.” He was never without pain for the next 35 years of his life, and he almost never complained. He just kept moving.
Dad has always been my hero.



Whether you embrace this new world of artificial intelligence and constant communication, or  using a computer is like entering a foreign country, may partially depend on your age.

I am of the latter age, but was lucky enough to be given a computer to use when I worked as a stringer for a daily newspaper in the mid-nineteen seventies, when the biggest share of you reading this were yet to be born. As a stringer (sometimes referred to as a correspondent) I submitted a lot of print to the paper via telecopier (look that one up). The editor or someone at the paper then had to retype it into their press computer. They decided giving me a Compugraphic computer would save the staff time and I could submit my writing so it could be edited and sent directly to the press.


The Compugraphic had five-inch discs. One had to kept in place because it was the operating system. A second disc would record up to 300 characters on a ring and there were 30 rings on each recording disc. If one story had more than 300 characters, I had to put the rest of the story on a second ring, etc. I could write over a recorded story, otherwise it would remain on its ring.


There was a red button on the keyboard, which I never touched because it erased the ring I was writing on. I had a cat who loved to hang out on my desk while I wrote in the morning. You guessed it. I had just completed a story when Rasputin walked across my keyboard and put his paw on that red key. He was persona non grata that day!


When I left that job and moved to a city, I found work which required me to learn to use an IBM Word Processor. The company sent out several hundreds of letters t
o town and village officials who were possible customers. I read about merging and how we could send letters that were far more personal. It took me several hours, but I taught myself and my coworkers the process.


My next job requiring use of a computer came for a Meals-on-Wheels program. We kept track or our clients on a computer with a 30MB capacity.


Now I am a writer and can’t imagine not having the use of a computer. This laptop might be called limited at only 596 GB. However, it is enough for me. It does what I need it to do because so much of what one can do, I don’t need for my life at this certain age.


My sweet loving cat, Van Gogh,—so named because he has one bad ear—had been losing weight in spite of eating and eating. Concerned I took him to have blood tests on Monday.  I pulled out my carrier, careful that he not see it, and loaded him into the car.

To say he does not like getting into the carrier is to highly exaggerate how he feels about it. He knows he doesn’t want to go. After the doctor is finished and it is time to come home, he feels much kindlier toward the carrier.

Tuesday, I discovered the tests showed his blood sugar was elevated and so, diabetic and will need insulin shots twice a day. My son had a diabetic cat so I knew how that worked. An all-day appointment at the vet’s office was required to have his initial insulin shots and discover what dose would be correct.

It was set for Wednesday.  I’ve usually been smart about putting him in a room so he couldn’t escape being put in the carrier, but Wednesday my smarts deserted me. I was ready to go by quarter to eight in order to be at the vet’s office between eight and eight-thirty.

The carrier was just outside my front door. I live in a mobile home with a limited number of rooms. Van Gogh saw the carrier and disappeared. I searched all of his normal hideouts. With a flashlight I looked and looked. There he cowered behind the electric fireplace TV stand that fits tightly into the corner of the living room. I closed the bedroom, office and bathroom doors, managed to maneuver the fireplace away from the wall and poke at Van Gogh enough to get him to leave there. He raced toward the bedroom only to be blocked.

I was pleased that now I certainly would be able to get him. Faster than I could blink, he jumped up on the washer and dryer and dove down behind them. There was no way to reach him other than to move either the washer or dryer.

What to do? I called the vet’s office to say I’d be late and would let them know when I’d retrieved my cat.

My friend, Cecile, came to my rescue with a can of shrimp cat food she knew he loved. She managed to move the washer and dryer a few inches from the wall. After many minutes of her sweet coaxing and the smell of the shrimp, he showed he’d like to come out, but he didn’t have room to jump. We solved that with a pillow.

Now he was out and was rewarded with a few bites of food while called to say I could be at vet’s by nine-thirty. That wouldn’t be too late.

Before he re-immerged, I put the carrier in the closed bathroom. He fought mightily against getting into it, but Cecile and I succeeded and I managed to get him to his treatment.

Next time he must go in the carrier, I will be more careful to hide my intentions.

Van Gogh is well. He hates waiting to eat until the twelve hours have passed since first meal of the day, but he doesn’t seem to notice when I give him his insulin shots, and has returned to his normal loving self.




What do you do while you wait for a doctor to see you, for the person ahead of you at the grocery store, for the pharmacist to fill your prescription, or for the stalled traffic on your way home?

Do you sit and steam because it is now 35 minutes past your appointment for which you left early so you would be on time?

Do you shift from one foot to the other as the person or persons ahead of you in line seem to have all the time in the world?

Do you drum your fingers on the steering wheel and say unkind things to whomever is keeping you from moving?

I could have said yes to all these questions at one time, and as I waited anger would build and I would think of all the things I could be doing. Whether or not I would actually be doing those things is doubtful.

The only way to eliminate the waiting is to leave: not to keep your appointment, walk away and not get what you need, or get out of the car and walk. All of these solutions would have consequences.

Through the years I’ve learned that waiting can be fun and restful.

Arriving on time at the dentist today for my eleven o’clock appointment, I discovered he was at least a half hour behind. I’d planned to buy gas after my appointment, so I went to do that. I returned and in a few minutes I was seated in the examining room. After five to ten minutes, I realized I was in for a long wait. What should I do? I’d not brought a crossword puzzle or a book.

Relaxation is always good for the body. I began with head and neck stretches; I sat back in the chair so my head was on the headrest, my arms on the armrests, my legs stretched out in front of me, I closed my eyes, and began quiet deep breathing. I’ve been known to fall asleep in the dentist’s chair or lying on the doctor’s examining table. Time passes.

After fifteen or twenty minutes today, I felt rested. I began thinking about what I needed to for my writing. I’ve wanted to post a blog for several days, but no topic seemed to blossom in my brain. Now it did. I pulled a little notebook and pen from my purse. This is result.

If you are a writer, the grocery or pharmacy can become character food. One day while I was next in line, I watched a woman in a wheelchair cart with less than twelve items, which someone had already put on counter. That should be quick, right? It must have ten minutes as she told the very patient clerk into which paper bag each item should go, then to put the paper bags inside plastic bags. Then the clerk went around the counter to put them in her cart. I’m sure those  minutes hold a story. Meanwhile, I discouraged out persons from standing behind me in the short line. The next cash register line was moving quickly.

In the car, you can catch up on the news with an NPR station, or listen to the music with more intention. While the music plays on my radio when I am driving, I only half listen. Stopped I can concentrate on what I’m hearing.

Wherever you are waiting you have time to pray. Pray for ones you know. Pray for the hungry and the homeless. Pray for the sick and lonely. Pray for all those you know and those you don’t. Pray for this world torn apart in so many, many ways.

Waiting will no longer be an annoyance, but an opportunity.




A picture of a little girl swinging in the wind on a storm door prompted this memory of the one-room Sanford Country School in the early 1940s.

When the weather turned cold, we started school with an additional ritual. Mrs. Parsons, our teacher, would ask if any of us had soup or something to be heated for lunch. A chorus of “I do” would respond. We’d open our lunch boxes to take out jars and hand them to Mrs. Parsons who put them on the top of the brown monster (a coal stove) in the back corner of the room. By lunch time the jars provided a hot lunch for us.

To make sure everyone had a hot lunch in the winter, Mrs. Parsons brought a sandwich toaster to school. At lunch time she sat in the back corner near the windows where there was one of the few place electric outlets in the room. All of us took our sandwiches to her. She cut them into quarters and laid them out on the shelf. She toasted a few quarters at a time and called us to collect them as each one was ready. They smelled so good whether they were peanut butter, tuna, bologna, along with steaming tomato or chicken soup. Now I know my thicker homemade bread was much better, but then I considered the kids who had square white store-bought bread for sandwiches and Campbell’s soup to be more fortunate.

On one particular winter day stands out in my memory. The snow started in the morning and built quickly into a blizzard. Snow piled up on the highway and was surely very slippery. I’m sure Mrs. Parsons must have been very concerned about getting all of us home. She had no way to call parents and close the school early. By the time school was finished, the unplowed roads were impassable.

Dad came to get me with our team of horses and a bobsled. A farmer’s bobsled was made with the body of a wagon on two sets of large sled runners. Dad waited with the horses just outside the fence that surrounded the school yard. The fierce wind scared me. It felt like it could pick me up and blow me away. I grabbed onto the fence to pull myself along. Finally, Dad had to leave the horses and to come and carry me to the wagon where he tucked me, Eleanor, Ruthie, Doris, and Betty and Bobby, all who lived on our road, under heavy black wool horse blankets to keep us warm while he faced the driving snow and wind to guide the team of horses back home.

I don’t remember, but I don’t think Mr. Parsons was able to get to Sanford with his school bus. I know there was one night the bus got stuck in the snow and all the students and Mr. Parsons stayed the night in someone’s home. I think Mrs. Parsons stayed with the family next door to the school overnight.





Flowers…Candy…Card…Dinner? What is your desire from your sweetheart?

Several years ago, my husband wrote this Valentine’s Day poem for me. What more could I wished for?


My best dream and poem,
idea and friend;

My closest kindred spirit,
company and lover;

My deepest thought and hope,
fantasy and spice;

The fullness of my past,
meaning of my present,
purpose of my future;

Joy in my laughter,
music in my step,
color of my visions;

Flavor of my banquet,
vintage of my wine,
mystery of my love;

And, so very much more!

Richard E. Lake



I’m confused. Why?

Shopping this afternoon in two of this nation’s popular stores selling all manner of decorations for the home and garden brought me up short.

I was dismayed to discover that I’d missed the seasons of Carnival or Mardi Gras, Lent, Easter, and Spring. I did find remains of Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day in post-holiday clearance.

I was plunged into enjoying Summer with beach towels, plastic pails and shovels, and summer garden flags.

When was the first day of Winter? Was it just 31 days ago? That can’t be right!

When is the Vernal Equinox in 2017? You say March 21? That’s 60 days away. You must be wrong. The Summer Solstice can’t be six months away on June 21. You must be joking!

I’m looking forward to the Autumnal Equinox. It’s only 243 days away. I’m sure the decorations will be out in only a few days. Right?

I’m confused.