Genetics

 My maternal grandmother, known to all of her grandchildren as Danny and to her friends as Steve, had a thing about revealing her age. That, of course, was a thing about women of her generation but she took it to great lengths as I remember her cautioning my mother not to reveal her own age as that might tip people off that she (Danny) might be a bit older than the 39 years she claimed. 

It was such a thing that her obituary, which I looked up today, did not mention her age nor her year of birth.

It was then I remembered my mother telling me that Danny had threatened to haunt her if she published her age in the newspaper obituary!

I went in search of the year of my grandmother's high school graduation because of this.

Grace Winifred Stevens

This is her high school graduation picture, found in a box of old family photos I maintain custody of. It reminded me of this photo, also a high school graduation marker.

Jane Elizabeth Heimel
1969

Pep! Punch! Pith! Piffle!

My grandfather and his first business partner published this little magazine "Writ, Printed, Done Up and Mailed by Arch Bernard and Bill Fish in the Wilds of Potter County."

It made its bow in January 1919 and as far as I can tell, lasted until early 1922.

From October 1921: Excerpts from 'A Sermon on Humbuggery.'

"I have a great respect for true religion; but for the brand of holiness that's put on with the Sunday shirt and laundered collar – that makes a man cry amen with unction, but doesn't prevent him selling five and ten cent cigars out of the same box, oleomargarine and creamery butter out of the same tub, benzine and bourbon whiskey from the same barrel; which makes long prayers on Sunday and short weights on Monday...

Too many people presume that they are full of the grace of God when they are only bilious...They put up long prayers on Sunday and they bombozzle a green gosling out of his birthright on Monday. They are doublefaced, they have one face to confront the Lord and another with which to beguile their brethren; one who worries over the welfare of good looking young women, but gives the old dames the go-bys."

Each issue features pages of 'Hammer Gloom Chasers." 

• There are some worse things in the world than the man who thinks he knows it all, and one of them is the man who seems to be proud of the fact that he doesn't know much of anything.

• The chap who said truth is stranger than fiction died before fiction reached its present state of development.

• If women could make up their minds as easily as they can their faces they'd be the fastest thinkers in the world.

• If men paid more attention to the home brood, and less to the home brewed, times would not be so bad for a lot of families.

And I leave you with this:

Potter County Leeks

March 24. Just one more week and then - April!

Even now we are dreaming of April showers, May flowers, spring peepers, and nature's spring tonic - whew! How can one be so incongruous to mention May flowers and leeks in the same breath!

It seems Golly was NOT a fan of leeks! Every spring through the nearly 50 years he piloted the community newspaper, he shared his opinion! 

We have evidently shot off too much about those stinking greens already, but every day we get wind of them – they won't let us forget!

Along with the end of the maple sugar season and the beginning of trout season comes the odor of leeks. That's one of the unpleasant features of the springtime.

All through the thousands of acres of woodland down in the leaf mold, roots are stirring, They are rootlets of the famous Potter County leek – as well as other plants. On mountainsides, sloping to the north, there is still a covering of ice and snow, but the rootlets are struggling just the same to reach the surface and drink of the sun's rays.

Some old timers still believe that eating leeks in goodly quantities in the spring season will ward off various diseases that trouble humanity. To get ample protection they stuff themselves day after day

The breath from such a person is exceedingly offensive. It is even described by some as "effluvium." To really be punished by bad breath, one should come in contact with a man who not only has become saturated with leeks, but for good measure has become beastly drunk on cheap whiskey. Boy, oh boy, that is something!

St. Patricks Day Memories

From my Golly Files:

It makes us happy when a Jewish store owner gives this old protestant scribe an emerald green necktie to wear on St. Patrick's Day.

Some of the best friends Golly has ever had have been of Jewish and Catholic faith.

Golly is reminded of the story of the farmers of the different faiths taking their grain to the same mill for processing. The miller did not ask by which route they had arrived. his only question was –

"Is your wheat good?"

perhaps this is the St. Patrick's Day Tie

Golly wrote this in 1957:

Fifty-five years ago –

Quite a spell –

Golly made his first sojourn in Coudersport on St. Patrick's Day - 1902.

For a month he was employed by the Potter Democrat as a printer. His salary – we like that word 'salary' - was $14 per week and the week was 60 hours of work.

The late John B. Coulston was the editor and publisher of the Democrat. The employees were the late Arlie Corwin, the late Mrs. Effa R. Beaver and Miss Cora Buck, later Mrs. Willard of Schenectady, N.Y.

Golly boarded at the Hotel VanBuren that stood where the Potter County Garage now stands at East Second and North East Streets. Of his $14 weekly stipend, five of it went to Landlord VanBuren.

It was 12 years later that Golly again came to Coudersport. He then went to work for the late M.J. Colcord, editor and publisher of the Journal, but this trip he received $20 a week, the week was still 60 hours.

From that day to this – more than 42 years – he has called Coudersport his home, and there's no other place on earth where he would rather live.

Dreamscapes

In my dream last night - actually it was in the predawn hours, when I'd decided to settle back into bed just after my trip across the creaky floor to the bathroom - I was at a public event. It was a very public event on Potter County's courthouse square, and there were people milling about everywhere. I was at a table, under a canopy, likely hearkening back to the days I'd be at our table at Farmer's Market on summer Friday afternoons. 

A woman who looked Katie Britt-like stopped and looked me in the eyes before unleashing a torrent of hate. There were no understandable words and I didn't even grasp what she was talking about in my dreaming state. But it was hate, brutal, cutting, sharp, darkening the air. Hate that made my stomach clench and brought my shoulders - still a little sore from a strenuous orchestra practice last night - up to my ears as I tried to retreat much like a turtle into its shell.

I looked at her and said, "You're an asshole." Now at this point in my recount, I will tell you that I am not one to talk like that, especially in public! While you might be thinking hey, that's not so bad, I am the woman, while  laboring in the transition stage, was saying "gosh, gosh, gosh," a story my midwife has often repeated.

As happens in dreams, everything stopped, complete silence in what had been a hum of activity. One of my brothers (who shall remain un-named) came up behind, gently moved me aside and spoke to this woman, "You'll have to forgive her," and I felt a flame of embarrassment, like a menopausal hot flash.

Dreamlike change of scene and I'm offering my own abject apology in front of some kind of court or tribunal.

But then I was back in my dark bedroom, under the covers with the aroma of morning coffee making its way up the stairs. This time I did decide to get up, but reaching for my bathrobe, looking forward to my waiting coffee, I still felt the sting of the shame, and even now, hours later, writing this.

But here's the thing: I had nothing to be sorry about. I am only sorry I didn't offer a nearby pie to the face of that woman in my dream.  In my dream, fighting my dream battle, I was speaking out - confronting - what I saw and felt as hate, powerful, evil, dark. But even so, it is not without risks - both internal and external.

In the real world just a few days before, I had used my personal writing practice to share my reaction to Senator Britt and her mis-statements and outright lies. Sometimes putting my reflections out there feels uncomfortable - as evidenced by my subconscious bringing that discomfort forward in a dream.

Many friends and  acquaintances have communicated privately to me that they have read my words and share many of my thoughts but are too uneasy or scared to react in any public way that might tip off other friends or neighbors.

There are many layers here but I am fully aware that Potter County is a small place, a conservative place and it's impossible to remain completely anonymous. I publish my blog for a public audience and I announce a new post on social media. I want people to read my words and I want people to think about what I choose to share in my writing.

The post on my blog which received the most hits is this one, followed closely by this one, and then this. And while I've hit the orange publish button on 77 blog posts since beginning this blog, there are 38 in draft form - some nearly ready to publish when I choose and others that will likely never be offered to the public. 

This is my choice and my blog - out there, in public, in writing, part of the writing practice that has become a daily part of my life since the pandemic lockdown.  Thanks for reading and do leave a comment - you can remain anonymous!

From The Kitchen Table

They worked hard to get the lighting just right. Upstairs the wardrobers and makeup artists and hairdressers prepare this young mother for her moment in the spotlight. The lip gloss, the eyeliner and false eyelashes. None of this is new for this beauty pageant veteran who can claim the title of Alabama's Junior Miss.

What color should she wear? Which cross shall we dangle at her neck? How many buttons should we leave unfastened at the neck of her silk blouse? Which undergarment highlights her breasts to strike just the right chord - not too much but enough to hint of her 'real' womanhood? And downstairs, the set decorators were working to transform the suburban kitchen - you know the ones like they show on all the home improvement shows on HG-TV – into a backdrop for this particular raven-haired puppet.

And while the President of the United States addressed Congress and his country, her drama coaches went over the last minute details - smile here, soften your voice, slow down here, bring a note of sadness to your voice. Don't forget to shake your head here. The tears should well up in your eyes here - don't worry, your makeup is secure. The hands - be sure to highlight your wedding band when you're gesturing. And one last thing - resist the urge to say "bless his heart" until just the right moment!

It's all these days later and I'm still fuming about the performance of Senator Katie Britt, the Alabaman selected for the Republican response to the State of the Union address by Democratic (and democratically-elected, by the way) United States President Joe Biden.

But what really set me to grumbling and ultimately to write this post was her harrowing and gruesome account of a young Mexican woman who told of being repeatedly raped. Here's a transcript of what she said.

"When I first took office, I did something different. I traveled to the Del Rio sector of Texas, where I spoke to a woman who shared her story with me. She had been sex-trafficked by the cartels starting at age 12. She told me not just that she was raped every day, but how many times a day she was raped. The cartels put her on a mattress in a shoe box of a room, and they sent men through that door, over and over again, for hours and hours on end. We wouldn’t be OK with this happening in a third-world country. This is the United States of America, and it’s past time we start acting like it."

The problem with this horrific story she tells is that it did take place in a third world country - Mexico. It's the story of Karla Jacinto Romero, who has spoken for years about being a victim of child prostitution in Mexico, and it happened when George W. Bush, a Republican, was President of the United States. Romera has told  the story - in front of Congress too - of how her mother threw her out on the streets, and a pimp trafficked her to more than 40,000 clients over four years. Romero said many of the clients were foreigners who had traveled to Mexico for sexual interactions with minors like her.

So Katie Britt, well-scrubbed and coiffed, sits perched at the edge of her seat at her kitchen table and brings this story into her speech, complete with tears welling up in her eyes,  hoping that she could heap coals on the fires lit by a defeated former President who is counting on the immigration mess to bring him victory in November.

It was only after she was called out by the reporting of an independent journalist and later picked up by mainstream media, that Sean Ross, a spokesman for Senator Britt, confirmed on Saturday that she was indeed speaking about Ms. Romero. Yes, this Christian wife, mother and Senator who was selected to deliver the speech, lied to the American people. Ross concluded people are still victims of "disgusting, brutal tracking by the cartels" while leaving out the fact that among the despicable humans are those availing themselves of the services provided. Of course, we just don't talk about the crimes of the men who raped that child. But when your leader is a convicted rapist, it's wise not to bring up the subject of rape.

 Katie Britt went on Fox News Sunday and did not offer any sort of apology  and continued down the path of misleading the American people, the diamonds on the cross hanging around her neck catching the camera lights.

And as Pete Buttigieg said, "I'll leave it to her to explain the falsehoods, but I think it illustrates the bigger issue. She's a United States Senator, and the United States Senate right now could be acting to help secure the southern border.

Penns Woods Fungi

Late winter in Penn's Woods - gray trees reaching toward the glowering ever-gray sky, brown leaves underfoot, empty milkweed pods, dried goldenrod seed heads, the faraway tat-a-tat tat of a woodpecker, remnants of snow no longer sparkling and white. But then,  this ...

perhaps Cinnabar Polypore

along the Billy Lewis Trail

Such a beautiful array in unexpected places, subtle and riotous, often overlooked in other seasons of the year when there's so much to compete for our attention. It was only after I began to look at the pictures I'd snapped on several hikes that curiosity kicked in and I attempted (shaky attempt at best) to put names to what I'd observed. 

Read more about the winter fungi in Pennsylvania here.

green bracket fungi

brown on brown

perhaps this one is King Alfred's Cake