Afghan

It was a work for Art – this afghan that hung across the back of the avocado green couch in Thelma's living room. You know the kind with the zig zags in sometimes - mostly - garish colors, this one in brown and orange and yellow in those too-synthetic hues. Crocheted in scratchy synthetic yarn that become more scratchy with time.

Ugly, just plain ugly.

"But Jane, my grandmother made it."

"It's still hideous," I said. 

But still it was kept, even plucked from the dumpster after our daughter discarded it along with the worn out pillows and threadbare sheets and old newspapers and even older magazines and the broken chairs that would be perfectly good if just repaired with a little glue and a clamp.

But he rescued the afghan and stuffed it behind the seats in his truck where I wouldn't see it – that's not until the day I was cleaning out the truck. The afghan purportedly so preciously had absorbed half a can of motor oil, miscellaneous discarded foodstuffs and perhaps even some deer blood.

I pulled it out and hung it on the clothesline. It disappeared again sometime later that day and he swears it's been eliminated but I fully expect to find it in the of a cupboard in the workshop.

I put together the words you read above on February 27, 2026 during a ten-minute writing practice session with the prompt "Afghan."

We're buried in such stuff here on the farm - not just our stuff, thought there's plenty of that! But we're living in a place where five generations of family - thrifty farmers for the most part - have lived. And if you know thrifty anybodies, you'll know that throwing 'perfectly good' things away is a challenge. You might need it some day.

Add those 'perfectly good' things that might need just a little tweak to restore them to the 'perfectly good' status, and you've described much of what has been squirreled away. And then, of course, the sentimental things - worn out baby shoes, old high school and college yearbooks from parents, grandparents and offspring, funeral calling books from family members who have been in the cemetery since early in the last century.

But we're determined at the end of yet another summer to made a substantial dent in the purging process.

But guess what showed up again draped across the futon on the upstairs back porch to surprise me?

But this time, in the interest of truly making the substantial dent, here's the rest of the story.

Maybe that's the end of that afghan story - but here's the last part of my "Afghan" writing practice from February.

My grandmother made me an afghan when we were married. It too is rather garish but soft with cotton yarn. Black borders with colorful knitted blocks. It's hidden away upstairs in a trunk in the attic and he doesn't know it's there.

 

Genesee Cheeseboxes

A trip to the Potter County Fair always brings a visit to the Oswayo Valley Historical Society building at the edge of the fairgrounds in Millport. This year as I made my way through the exhibits, my attention was captured by this:

While I imagine my grandfather (W.D. 'Golly' Fish) might question the syntax of the label affixed to this particular cheese box, I expect he'd wonder if it made at the cheese box factory in nearby Genesee Forks - known today as Genesee

His words from a long-ago "Golly" column.

When I was a young fellow, before I absorbed a lot of printers' ink in my system I learned to make cheese boxes. There was a cheese box factory at Genesee. Ambrose Veley owned the plant. It employed a dozen or so men at a mill a bit south from the present school building.

The plant made the heads for the boxes from bolts purchased locally. The bolts were sawed on a machine known as a "slasher," a vicious machine that every now and then clipped off a finger or two for the operator.

The heading was taken to an outdoor yard and piled loosely so it would dry quickly. After two or three weeks it was returned to the plant, pieces assembled wide enough to make a head, the pieces matched together and rounded on a small concave saw.

The sides for the boxes were of elm cut by a veneer machine but purchased from Oakes & Burger at Cattaraugus, N.Y. They were called "hoops."

The box maker was called a "nailer" and he was the elite of the plant and for the reason he earned more money than others, his work was "piece work." He received 80 cents for making 100 boxes and 100 covers. The best nailers, when all went smoothly, could complete 200 boxes in ten hours of top speed effort.

A dollar and sixty cents was real money when the common laborers were getting but one dollar or less. just the same the elite earned their pay as they drove nails and tacks at top speed for ten straight hours.

Board at Vern Teater's Hotel (not a trace now marks the site) cost $3.00 a week. Sweet Caporal cigarettes, ten in a package were five cents a pack.

This was around 1895 and before a brick plant was erected to manufacture sand-lime bricks and long before a long cement walk was built to the busy railroad station, a junction of the Buffalo & Susquehanna and the New York & Pennsylvania Railroads. It was long before the building of the huge milk plant with a high stack said to have cost $25,000.

It was even before Dick Coyle, hell-raiser and Irish wit, was a telegraph operator, and before genial Jim Sullivan was the village tonsorial artist.

This scribe knew a lot of people, fine people, years ago at the "Forks," but now only a few.

Even the "Old Folks Reunion," for years a big annual event with a brass band, a male quartet, silver tongued orators and a bountiful dinner has fallen by the wayside, with J.H. Tilburg as its moving spirit. Coming as it did in late summer politicians never missed the event with glad hands extended filled with campaign cards. 

A.J. Borden is no longer blacksmithing, and Henry Clark long ago stopped shoeing horses and hung his leather apron on a peg following his last lay at the anvil. Victor  Allen and the Genesee Times – gone!

How times change!

Where A Wendell Berry Poem Took Me

Though a busy late-summer schedule has taken me away from my online groups for the past several weeks, Thursday morning I set aside an hour to join others from all over our earth who make time to write together in a Zoom room.

Lucy, who leads this gathering from Spokane, Washington, chose this poem by Wendell Berry  – "Before Dark" – as the morning's first prompt and I was off - the thoughts evoked coming faster than I could move my hand across the page.

Written by Jane, September 3, 2026:
My mother's father was 94 when he left behind this place on our earth. When I remember him - remember him from my memory and not from the way I've been coming to know him through his writing - it's at camp. There he is – seated in the faded green canvas chair on the little porch that faced the pond where my little brother nearly drowned one August afternoon.

Wendell Berry, also a man who counted his years with a 90, wrote of kingfishers, and this morning we heard those words, and this writer felt that tug to remember, to put down the memories of a little girl and the kingfishers at the pond, at the camp.

He called it a miniature lake in his writing, my grandfather. But sometimes he called it a big mud puddle - that pond with a little island in the middle with its cattails in the fall and a riot of late blooming old-fashioned daffodils on its banks in May. And the water lilies that the big boys always had to be watching out for.

The Kingfisher, with its be-crowned head, perched on the wire that stretched to the springhouse tucked into the hillside. "Watch the Kingfisher. See the Kingfisher, Janie? He'll soon find his supper."

Then the swoop, the splash, the swift flight over the trees to the place where the creek – The Nine Mile – flowed to meet Commissioner Run on to Pine Creek. 

It's not just the Kingfishers I remember. It's the phoebes who made their nests on that porch, splattering mud on the gray shingles and white trim. As the young fledglings left the nest, white trails of bird droppings made their way down the picture window. Every spring the nests would reappear, moved only slightly from the prints left on that siding despite the scrubbing with a wooden handled scrub brush and a galvanized bucket of sudsy water.

One year someone – Uncle Bill perhaps – tacked up something I know now as hardware cloth into the corners of the porch. It looked even uglier than the muddy nests. The phoebes moved to the little stoop-like porch on the kitchen side.

... The rest of my camp memories I will save for a different day. But here are my grandfather's words from camp as he wrote in his Golly column in The Potter Enterprise:

Kingfishers (belted) often find a perch in a tree high above the little lake and evidently search the water for a meal. Their vision must be extremely keen to locate a fish in the water. Once located, a power dive is almost certain to reduce the fish population by one.

Our bird book tells us that the belted kingfisher is one of the few cases where the female is more colorful than the male.

Golly at times is provoked by their watchful waiting but when he thinks that it is the nature of the bird, he realizes that the kingfisher has to eat, and he is forgiving. Mother Nature takes care of all such things. Golly has shot at Kingfishers (never hit one) but he'll shoot no more. (1958)

And I'll finish on this Labor Day weekend in 2026 with this piece he wrote just before Labor Day weekend in 1961. Perhaps that weekend the Heimel kids were at camp too - though the peace and quiet would have been elusive.

The old-timer, who writes this column, is planning for a long holiday weekend at Golly's Folly.

An order has been filed at the weather factory for more sunshine and less rain.

That vine-covered porch invites Golly to loaf where he may watch the miniature lake.

Kingfishers perch at times in trees hoping for a fish dinner. A breeze sets the waves dancing. Autumn leaves fall and float on the surface. Occasionally a deer picks its way to the lick nearby and later drinks at the water's edge. When the light is just right the image of the graceful arrival is mirrored in water – a scene Golly loves to behold!

Birds come to the lawn to pick worms and insects from the grass, but at this season there are no lilting songs.

There is peace and quiet in the Black Forest.

100 Hundred Guns At Sunrise

Today is the 250th birthday of the United States Of America! And as is fitting for a nation's birthday observance,  Americans have been putting together celebrations for all these many years.

Memories from his childhood in Allegany County, N.Y. were particularly vivid for my grandfather as he often shared his charming recollections through the years of his newspaper career.

From 1943 –

We'll soon celebrate the National Birthday – 147 years of freedom. Maybe we'll recite the Preamble to the Constitution:

"We, the people of the United States – "

On second thought, maybe we'd better not – takes too much space – or maybe memory might let us down.

Memory is good, however, on how we used to save pennies and nickels for weeks and weeks, when a youngster, so we could buy firecrackers, punk, torpedoes, a bag of candy and maybe a banana, on the Fourth of July.

And when there was a celebration in the country village it opened with "100 Guns at Sunrise."

This was proclaimed by huge posters in bright red and blue ink, with a screaming eagle clasping in its talons, banner inscribed "E Pluribus Unum."

There was a stirring patriotic address by the noted Mr. Somebody, a fantastic parade, dancing all day, a greased pig to catch and a greased pole to climb, ball game, sack race and three-legged race and a pie-eating contest!

Picture a bunch of boys voraciously devouring blackberry pie with copious quantities of sticky juice running down over their chins.

Fireworks in the evening was the culminating event of the day. That was something else again.

But the day came to an end – as all good things must end. Dogged tired and with singed eyebrows, hands blistered here and there, we went wearily to bed, the day done but the memory to live on and on!

Do boys of today get as much pleasure from anticipation and the same joy of realization of the Fourth of July, and will the event remain green in memory's storehouse – we wonder – we hope so.

He wrote this one in 1967, those long-ago childhood memories still vivid in his early 90s.

An old time Fourth of July celebration poster – 

Ever see one printed in red and blue ink on white stock? Probably not unless you are an antique biped or there may be one in the vast collection of ancient relics in the archives of the County Historical Society, and that is unlikely.

This scribe remembers such sheets. As a matter of fact, he had a part in printing some of them.

To this day he can picture them with a huge screaming spread eagle and in large type "One Hundred Guns At Sunrise!"

Some of the attractions and contests were: Fantastic parade, music by cornet band, martial band, bicycle races, foot races, sack races, three-leg races; catching a greased pig with the pig the prize; climbing greased pole, with five dollar bill at the top for the prize; square dancing.

There was pink lemonade and peanuts, and usually a tight rope walker. For a big celebration there was usually a balloon ascension. And remember "excursion rates on all railroads." After all of these attractions and probably others this old timer may have forgotten, there was a "spectacular pyrotechnical display."

Even then there was dancing until dawn with fiddles supplying the rhythm and caller crying "salute your partner, balance all and grand right and left."

Of course these were descriptions of celebrations when Golly was a boy, and that was a long time ago –

It was before the advent of the gas buggy, when railroads transported people or horses hauled them about or –

They walked.

Maybe the younger set of today may think life was dull 75 years ago but they are just as wrong as though they had burned their shirt tails. 

Fourth Of July Victory Celebration!

In the year 1946, Coudersport planned a huge celebration for the July 4 holiday. With the long World War II just ended, there were even more reasons to celebrate. The newspaper headline related: 

Plan For Crowd of 7,000 At Fourth Of July
Victory Celebration; Arrangements Complete

The newspaper story on June 27 went on to describe all the preparations: 

High school bands, American Legion units and firemen from ten nearby towns are expected to compete for $150 in cash prizes at the Fourth of July Victory Celebration here.

With arrangements nearly complete, the celebration committee devoted itself Monday to combing a list of eligibles for workers to staff stands and ticket booths. It is expected that 150 men and women will volunteer for four- and six-hour shifts.

Athletic events for children will be directed by Harold B. VonNieda, a local merchant and former high school coach. Cash prizes will be awarded winners.

Edward D. Fisher is general chairman of the event.

With more than 1,000 veterans back in civilian clothes in Potter County and ready for a long-deferred good time on native soil, sie of the crowd has at no time been a question mark. The big 'if' has been in the corraling of enought wieners, sugar, rolls and bead, soft drinks, ham, butter and other hard-to-get foodstuffs to meet the anticipated demand. Nearly one half ton of frankfurters has bee contracted for. hundreds of cases of soda pop are already warehoused here with more arriving almost daily. Receipts of candy, crackerjack and chewing gum for the celebration already exceed the limit set by the committee.

Prizes purchased for distribution at the affair total nearly $2,500. Given away at night will be an electric washer, electric mixer, toaster, butter, cartridges, nylon hosiery and two bicycles. According to present plans, more than 250 pairs of nylons will be distributed.

A troupe of performing monkeys is expected to be an outstanding attraction. 

Are you wondering how it went, that big celebration 80 summers ago in Mitchell Park? Here's how it was reported the next week:

A record throng, observing the first peacetime Independence Day  infive years last Thursday, attended the victory celebration at Coudersport.

Held under the auspices of the Coudersport Community Association Inc., the celebration marked not only the independence of the nation, but a big stride toward the civic group's declared goal  sufficient funds to erect a recreation hall and pavilion for the use of Potter Countians.*

Ideal weather helped attract the crowd which by early afternoon overflowed the park. Those who came later found queues at the refreshment stands and at the three rides. Food ran low as the day wore on. Cold cuts were served in hot dog buns after the supply of wieners was exhausted. But these troubles did not dampen the enthusiasum of the celebrants.

Winners of the various contests and prizes were detailed here:

* The Coudersport Community Association was successful in its fund raising goal though it took several more years to raise the $15,000 necessary to construct the Coudersport Community Building which opened in 1950. That building continues to serve the community as the Coudersport Public Library.

R-O-T-A-R-Y, That Spells Rotary!

This photograph was in my mother's collection, slightly yellowed and no writing on the back to tell the story. I recognized my grandfather on the right, and it's noticeable that he's wearing a hat that says Coudersport. Was it taken at a Consistory Reunion? Or perhaps one of the Newspaper Publishing Association conventions? 

I filed it away in the thick blue file where I have saved other photos of this man - this W.D. Fish - father of my mother.

When Coudersport Rotary celebrated its centennial in 2024, I came across a personal history my grandfather wrote to tell the story of the local club's founding. That story was written in 1967 when he was 91 and while he was an honored guest at the Rotary meeting when his story was told, he tapped family friend, Rev. Robert Merten, himself a Rotarian, to read it to the group.

Hidden in that newspaper account, came the clue I needed to solve the mystery behind this photo!

And today I was the one who had the privilege of sharing my grandfather's story with the Coudersport Rotary Club, still going strong 102 years later!

Here's a portion of his story: 

A Rotary seed found fertile soil in Coudersport in the summer of 1923. It fell but did not germinate until early in 1924. It then took root and quickly became a healthy plant, become more sturdy all the 43 years since. It has produced many splendid blossoms and much valuable fruit, and it is still in production to this day. 

The Yellow Bowl Tea Room stood on Main Street (where Citizens and Northern Bank is today).  This writer visited the tea room for lunch on a Thursday noon, publication day for the Enterprise. A stranger was seated at a table. 

A copy of the Potter Enterprise, hot off the printing press, was handed to the man and it resulted in a conversation. Always ready to give the town a bit of a boost, I told, among other interesting points, that the town was famous for its prominence in Masonic fraternal circles over a very wide area.

My newly-found friend stated he was not a Mason but he was a Rotarian. Never having heard of such an organization, I asked questions. He told of what Rotary did, especially for crippled children and I was much impressed.

Asked if a town of 3,000, like Coudersport, could have such a club, he admitted he did not know but the information would be available from the secretary of Rotary International in Chicago. A letter was written to Chicago and quickly came a reply with printed information, and a promise I would hear soon from Rock Boyce, secretary of the Wellsville Rotary Club, within 32 miles of Coudersport.

Action came quickly. Within two or three days in breezed a bright, keen young man with the announcement, “I am Rock Boyce, secretary of the Wellsville Rotary Club.”

It was reported in the newspaper under the headline “A Live Wire Visitor”

Rock Boyce of the Boyce Hardware Company of Wellsville was a business visitor in town Tuesday. Rock is not only a live wire in his business but he finds time to boost all projects that benefit his town and community. For instance, he is secretary of the Wellsville Rotary Club and while in Coudersport, he scattered a quantity of Rotary Germs that may mean such an institution for Coudersport.

There was a winter slack in progress but by the last of March, 1924, with the Rotary year then ending April 1, the Wellsville Rotary Officers were anxious to form the new club during their term of office. A dozen or more members of the club came to Coudersport and Coudersport Club was established on the last day of March. But what a trip that was! The hard-surfaced road from Wellsville came only as far as Stannards and the macadam from Coudersport extended only four miles north. The 25 miles between was a sea of mud. 

The convention of Rotary International was held in Toronto that year, 1924. Probably because of my activity in the organization in the local club, I was selected delegate. I joined the Wellsville delegation at Toronto. The charter for the Coudersport Club had just been granted and this made me the delegate youngest among the thousands.

The official photographer captured a picture of the oldest and the youngest delegates. The picture appeared in The Rotarian Magazine, giving Coudersport considerable publicity.

There's the answer behind this photo of my jaunty-looking grandfather! Today, thanks to the miracle of the internet, I was able to locate a digital copy of the August 1924 Rotarian with this very picture and explanation.

Blooming and Burning

The world is both burning and blooming. That was part of the prompt for a recent session of Voices Rising, an online community where I gather with a small group to explore with my words the anger, grief and fire of these urgent times. In those 12 minutes, I composed much of this and later refined my thoughts as a Baltimore oriole perched on a dead branch at the top of the birch tree, catching the sun and sending his song out into the world.

The world is on fire and I feel chilled. That kind of chill that brings shivers from deep within, I struggle to find warmth. The world is on fire and I'm cold. Freezing cold, chilled to the bone, cold in my soul, cold to my community, cold to myself.

They call it dissociation, those wise people who can sometimes help the rest of us find our way. Defined as experiencing a loss of connection between thoughts, memories, feelings, surroundings, behavior, identity - that's dissociation.

Dissociation – closing my eyes and ears and singing "La, la, la, la" at the top of my lungs. But still I can't wish it away. Dissociation – the world is on fire and we avoid the fire, avoid learning of the latest assault on humanity unleashed by that sad excuse for a human who was handed the Presidency through a well-planned and executed campaign of lies, deceit and fraud. And then, it happened again, the campaign for the hearts and minds of Americans even more carefully planned and executed so he could grab and amass even more power, in ever more sinister and corrupt ways.

The man who called President Biden "Sleepy Joe" now nods off soon after his ample rear end is lowered thunderously into the gilded chair in the gilded office. Surrounded by his yes-men, and yes-women who court favor by praising his name (like some evangelical Christians praising the name of Jesus). Those people opening their mouths to repeat the best-selling, well-rehearsed talking points. It's at a point where it would be a comedy skit if it weren't frighteningly and chillingly real.

The man who called into question President Biden's mental acuity, himself not able to put together a coherent string of thoughts. Instead of focusing on how he can govern and lead the country with its three branches of government, he instead focuses on revenge and retribution. He's said he doesn't care about inflation, about the prices we all have to pay to fund his wars - but didn't he promise no more wars? Meanwhile, his family coffers grow and grow as nations and corporations and the worst among us "pay to play" with Donny and his blood-sucking minions.

The world is on fire and we're coerced into joining the celebration of this corpse of a human's birthday. What a celebration - watching people beating one another to pulp in a bizarre structure erected amid the marble and granite memorials in our nation's capital expressly to remind us of the accomplishments and sacrifices of the best of us. This man, this President, is the worst of us.

The United States of America is our nation, belonging to each of us, we were told as schoolchildren. We, the bright-eyed youngsters, dressed in our new clothes for the first day of school, pledging allegiance to the flag for the first time in first grade, so proud? And the lucky kid who held the flag as we said those words, turning to reverently replace it on the little hook at the corner of the blackboard.

I wasn't chilly then. Then, looking up to the office of President. "I Like Ike" we said and my people did like Ike, especially my father who flew bombing missions as a tailgunner in World War II. And later, my people voted for Nixon, though I wonder if my mother quietly filled in the square next to the name of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Looking up to and trusting the rest of the Presidents who came later, some good, some bad, some who earned our votes and others who did not. But, in my lifetime, none like this man elected on the strength of hate, grabbing power by manipulating emotions.

I need more reminders of the blooming, not the burning. I see the oriole in the tree, and images of my faraway grandchildren exploring their 21st century worlds with delight, and this morning the sound of Arthur singing and playing the piano downstairs. And with those reminders, I can believe there will be an end to this man's madness, his cruelty, his utter lack of regard for anything that is true and good. And I can believe that once more, we will claim that truth and goodness.

The World Is Both Burning and Blooming

by Karen Salmonsohn

You get the bad news

and the sunrise in the same day.

You cry over the headlines,

then you laugh at a baby

wearing a hat shaped like a bear.

This is the dual citizenship

of being alive.

Rage and reverence,

Grief and grace.

You are allowed to feel both.

You are allowed to scream,

and still notice how good the soup is.

You don’t have to choose.

Let it all in.