December 2015

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DECEMBER 2015 1

Olde Barn Centre

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Volume 10 Issue 12

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Ten Gifts to the World

Mother Earth

By Gayle Morrow Small miracles.

34

Forecasts, Facts, and Fascinating Ideas

By Cornelius O’Donnell The new Old Farmer’s Almanac.

6

Tracking a North Woods Buck

38

Broken Down in the Last Great Place

By Roger Kingsly The hunt for an elusive buck ends in...well, you’ll see...

By Linda Roller

And giving thanks for the eternal season of giving.

42

Back of the Mountain

By Heather Mee White Christmas.

By Brendan O’Meara On this magazine’s tenth anniversary, we highlight ten great things the Twin Tiers gave to the world, from Mark Twain and Ernie Davis to night football, camping, the Main Street revival, fiber optics, and women’s rights.

22 An Ode to Beagles

By Don Knaus On Beagle Media’s tenth anniversary, we celebrate that noble hound.

Cover by Tucker Worthington.

This page (from top): Courtesy of Patricia Brown Davis; Bengt Nyman; and courtesy of Don Knaus..

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Olde Barn Centre ~ ANTIQUES ‘N SUCH ~

w w w. m o u n ta i n h o m e m ag . co m Editors & Publishers Teresa Banik Capuzzo Michael Capuzzo Associate Publisher George Bochetto, Esq. Advertising Director Ryan Oswald D e s i g n & P h o t o g r ap h y Elizabeth Young, Editor Tucker Worthington, Cover Design Contributing Writers Maggie Barnes, Melissa Bravo, Patricia Brown Davis, Alison Fromme, Carrie Hagen, Holly Howell, Roger Kingsley, Don Knaus, Cindy Davis Meixel, Fred Metarko, David Milano, Gayle Morrow, Cornelius O’Donnell, Brendan O’Meara, Roger Neumann, Gregg Rinkus, Linda Roller, Diane Seymour, Kathleen Thompson, Joyce M. Tice

Furniture and Accessories of all Periods

C o n t r i b u t i n g P h o t o g r ap h e r s Mia Lisa Anderson, Melissa Bravo, Bernadette Chiaramonte-Brown, Bill Crowell, Bruce Dart, Ann Kamzelski, Jan Keck, Nigel P. Kent, Roger Kingsley, Heather Mee, Ken Meyer, Suzan Richar, Tina Tolins, Sarah Wagaman, Curt Weinhold, Terry Wild S a l e s R ep r e s e n t a t i v e s Michael Banik, Alicia Blunk, Curt Fuhrman, Linda Roller, Alyssa Strausser

U.S. Route 220 N, 1/2 Mi. East of Pennsdale

Administrative Assistant Amy Packard

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ABOUT US: Mountain Home is the award-winning regional magazine of PA and NY with more than 100,000 readers. The magazine has been published monthly, since 2005, by Beagle Media, LLC, 25 Main St., 2nd Floor, Wellsboro, Pennsylvania, 16901, and online at www.mountainhomemag.com. Copyright © 2010 Beagle Media, LLC. All rights reserved. E-mail story ideas to editorial@mountainhomemag. com, or call (570) 724-3838.

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By Nessmuk (George Washington Sears), via Wikimedia Commons The History Center on Main Street

Patricia Brown Davis Riddle me this: what do old Christmas bulbs, George Washington Sears (alias Nessmuk), and the Mansfield State Normal School football team (1891 team pictured here) have in common?

They are all from the Twin Tiers, and they all changed our world.

Ten Gifts To The World On this magazine’s tenth anniversary, we highlight ten great things the Twin Tiers gave to the world, from Mark Twain and Ernie Davis to night football, camping, the Main Street revival, fiber optics, and women’s rights

By Brendan O’Meara

I

t’s Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday all around: Mountain Home has ten candles on its birthday cake this month. (Readers will note that in honor of the anniversary, we have re-published Tucker Worthington’s original painting for our Christmas cover from December 2006.) It was in December 2005 that Wellsboro native Teresa Banik Capuzzo and her husband Michael Capuzzo started the magazine, “Free as the Wind.”

But it’s the magazine’s 100,000 readers and advertisers in the Twin Tiers, and the scores of award-winning local writers, artists, and photographers in this creative borderland, who make Mountain Home our authoritative regional magazine, and the best darn small-town magazine in America.

In the seasonal spirit of gifts and giving, your correspondent looks at ten of the most influential, global-impacting movements, innovations, people, and just damn cool stuff that our region has given to the world.

See Ten Gifts on page 8

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Photo via Wikimedia Commons

Vagabond at rest: Mark Twain settled down in Elmira to be near his wife Olivia’s family, and wrote the great American novel, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.

Corning Glass’s Dr. Donald Keck once said, “The idea has always been, if you don’t invent it, someone will.”

So yes, had Mansfield University not hosted the world’s first night football game in 1892, someone would have.

If the Women’s Rights Movement didn’t start in Seneca Falls, New York, someone somewhere would have started it.

Had Samuel Clemens settled elsewhere besides Elmira, New York, he likely would’ve written Huckleberry Finn somewhere.

And a George W. Sears, father of modern-day camping, would have surfaced from the backwoods of some American rural outpost, but it was here in Wellsboro in the late 1800s.

If you don’t invent, someone will, and many of the “someones” took up arms, as it were, in northern Pennsylvania and southern New York 8

and the Finger Lakes. Simply put, these folks changed the world.

The Elmira Express There’s a photograph of Ernie Davis, c. 1961, holding the Heisman Trophy for his particular brand of physical excellence in college football.

His hair is neat and his smile neater.

You look into his eyes and they’re of the kind that look so damn happy, so grateful, and so full of life. He looks like the type of man who never knew what it meant to wake up on the wrong side of the bed; there was no wrong side of the bed for Ernie Davis.

He was the first black man to hold maybe the most famous trophy in all of sports.

He’d be dead by 1963, twenty-three years old.

They called him The Elmira

Express. At 6’1”, 210 pounds, his depot, as it were, started in Elmira, where he was a three-sport star with football, running away with his God-given Pennsylvania-grown capacity for steamrolling the hell over people.

Davis led the Syracuse Orangemen to a national championship, won the aforementioned Heisman Trophy, and was drafted by the Cleveland Browns, where he would join the immortal Jim Brown.

Two things would have happened. One, Davis and Brown could have been the all-time greatest backfield in the history of the NFL. Two, a precursor to modernday quarterback controversies, perhaps a running back controversy would have taken place. But there was also a third scenario: Davis could contract a particularly malicious and unsentimental form of leukemia and never set foot on the field again.

That’s what happened.

Ernie Davis would never want your pity. John Brown, a former teammate and best friend, told NFL.com, “Ernie Davis didn’t die at a young age, he lived at a young age.”

Mark Twain As you may or may not know, Samuel Clemens took up residence in Elmira, New York, holed himself like a hobbit in a twelve-foot diameter, octagonal house he filled with cats, papers, and the smoke of as many as forty cigars a day to write a book that made Ernest Hemingway say, “All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn. American writing comes from that. There was nothing before. There has been nothing as good since.”

The house on Quarry Farm, which moved to Elmira College in 1952, harbored Clemens, a.k.a Mark Twain, while he wrote his seminal works of fiction: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. The house was built to resemble the pilothouse of a Mississippi River steamboat.

You can take the man out of a Mississippi steamboat, but you can’t take the Mississippi steamboat out of the man.

So…why Elmira? The late Elmira College MT scholar, Michael Kiskis, said in a 2010 NPR interview about Clemens, “He had been such a vagabond for the years between seventeen and thirty, and this gave him a real chance to put down roots and be hugged by a big family.”

After a long day of writing, which, presumably, cramped up his hand and left his clothes smelling like 400 ashtrays, he’d sit in his rocking chair and read what he wrote that day to his wife and daughters.

How did they react when he read, “The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and looked out under them.” Or, “You don’t know about me without you have read a book

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See Ten Gifts on page 11 9

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Ten Gifts continued from page 9

by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly.”

Did they laugh at that?

Kiskis said, “If you look at the major novels though the major frame of his career, look how many of them deal with questions of family.”

And in Elmira, where he rests in Woodlawn Cemetery, he wrote the books—and maybe the book—from which all other American novels arise.

Our Gang and Laurel & Hardy It depends on the picture you look at. Hal Roach, nearing age thirty, a driver’s hat on, suit and tie, half-smirks like he’s about to laugh.

Once an extra in the silent films of the time, this Elmira native clearly had a voice, a voice that brought forth Our Gang and Laurel and Hardy, two of the most iconic comedies in the history of television.

Artists have ways of bringing their upbringing with them (see Samuel Clemens), and, it appears, Roach was no different. Take Our Gang, Peanuts before Peanuts. It was, in a small way, a reflection of early 20th century Elmira.

Rachel Dworkings, archivist at the Chemung County Historical Society, said, “Elmira was an ethnically and racially diverse town. He would’ve had experiences of seeing ethnically and racially diverse kids. He went to school with African-Americas and immigrants.

He felt a racially diverse group of children was a reality. They hung out together.”

Beyond that, Laurel and Hardy became a groundbreaking comedy.

Roach created one of the first—if not the first—comedy template that involved two performers. Chris Foran of the Journal Sentinel wrote that were it not for Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy (and by extension Roach), there may not be a Cedric the Entertainer and Martin Lawrence, Ralph Kramden and

From Media Age to Meatloaf, it’s Corning Fiber Optic Cables: First developed in 1970 by Drs. Peter Schultz, Robert

Maurer, and Donald Keck, the fiber optic cable makes it possible to speak on the phone and stream information on smart phones, tablets, and computers.

Gorilla Glass:

That glass on your iPhone or Droid? Gorilla Glass, the thin yet durable interface, is an industry standard. It does have some competition with Sapphire Glass, but nothing has yet to match the tensile strength and surface quality of GG.

Willow Glass: Willow Glass is the closest to glass paper you’ll see. Its major use is for making displays light while maintaining the same glass-like properties you find in more robust models. It may also be used for backsplashes and other vertical surfaces.

Glass Blank for Hubble Telescope: The Hubble Telescope photographs

the cosmos and makes us all feel about as significant as a single atom. Launched in 1990 and orbiting over 300 miles above the earth, it whips through the vacuum at 4.66 miles per second. At $2.5 billion USDs, it was a costly venture, but, if you’re being honest with yourself, totally worth it.

Pyrex: When staring up into the cosmos and wondering why we’re here and what

does it all mean, you may as well bake a lasagna in your sturdy glass Pyrex casserole dish, yet another innovation from Corning Inc.

See Ten Gifts on page 12

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Courtesy of Corning Incorporated

The world in an instant: Corning Incorporated has so many claims to fame that it’s hard to name them all. But at the top of the list would have to remain fiber optic cable, which has made the information stream—and our world—what it is today.

Ten Gifts continued from page 11

Ed Norton, or Abbott and Costello.

Roach passed away in 1992 at the age of 100, and he was interred at Woodlawn Cemetery in his native Elmira.

Nessmuk, and American Camping

George W. Sears, a.k.a the coolest, slickest nomme de plume (ever?)— Nessmuk—was a sports writer and minimalist canoer, the father of what we may call modern-day camping.

Henry David Thoreau once said, “The river is by far the most attractive highway,” and the Hook and Bullet Thoreau, our Nessmuk, took to the rivers as a German hits the Autobahn.

In the 1880s, he paddled a canoe there and back again—266 miles— through the Adirondacks. As Norman Sims and Mark Neuzil wrote in their as-of-yet-untitled forthcoming book on the North American canoe, Sears’ vessel, the Sairy Gamp, was a mere nine feet long and weighed ten-and-half pounds.

He could portage with ease and be back on the river.

The boat was a symbol, the canoe

equivalent of Sears himself. Weighing barely over 100 pounds and standing barely taller than a fifth grader, Sears was stoic in his philosophy, stripped to the bare essentials.

After returning from a three-year voyage on a whaler headed for the South Pacific in 1841, the same year Herman Melville shipped out from the same port to the same whaling grounds, Nessmuk in his early twenties moved to Wellsboro, where he lived the rest of his life, between adventures, and is buried.

He served as editor of The Wellsboro Agitator, was a star writer for Forest and Stream, and helped birth American outdoor writing, penning his famous book on camping, Woodcraft, in 1884, a book that remains in print to this day.

Football Under the Lights The thing with Mansfield being the birth of night football is that if it wasn’t for one industrious man, Monday Night Football would owe another town a debt of gratitude.

Tioga County hadn’t been wired for

electricity, and most people probably hadn’t even heard of it. General Electric took its electricity on the road to show people the light.

To have the most impact, GE figured it needed a large gathering, a spectacle, and the Great Mansfield Fair of 1892 seemed the perfect venue.

At around the same time, Mansfield University had started a football program because, as Steve McCloskey, sports information director of MU, said, “We were being a real college because real colleges in the east had football teams.”

One of the players approached GE and wanted in, wanted to promote his team. And what better way than to play an exhibition under the lights?

As with anything in its natal stages, the logistics were simplistic and a bit careless, but they got it done. In the middle of the 110-yard field stood a pole with six lights hanging from it. Strings of lights hung from the grandstands. The luminary effect?

“It’s similar to what you would get with three street lamps today,” McCloskey said.

See Ten Gifts on page 14

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WELCOME TO

WILLIAMSPORT

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Ten Gifts continued from page 12

By day, the field was used to showcase livestock. By night, all anyone did was remove the livestock. You do the math.

Wyoming Seminary (from nearby Scranton), a prominent prep school at the time, arrived by train. The teams played beneath the lights, the game becoming increasingly hazardous as the sun went down. Players ran into that pole. They tackled the wrong players. Naturally, the officials called the game at halftime, a 0-0 tie.

You could call it a successful failure.

Now, Mansfield didn’t play another night football game for 121 years, but what can’t be taken away from is this: MU was first. The seed of Friday Night Lights and Monday Night Football came from a little town in the late 19th century thanks to one industrious, opportunistic spirit.

“It’s led to an identity for Mansfield and Tioga County,” McCoskey said. “‘I’m from Mansfield, Pennsylvania. We’re the birthplace of night football.’”

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You can almost imagine a Hallmark made-for-TV Christmas movie that takes place during World War II, and opens with a dark world of Douglas and balsam firs unlit by ornaments. Why? Because the illuminated spirit of Christmas was German by descent, and the Fuhrer wasn’t concentrating on making and exporting pretty Christmas bulbs.

Enter the Corning Glass Works factory in Wellsboro and, specifically, the ribbon machine, for it was the ribbon machine that allowed for mass production of light bulbs, and, given the bellicose nature of Germany at the time, this ribbon machine saved Christmas.

“It’s faster than a bullet comes out of a gun,” said Pat Davis, whose father, Ellsworth Brown, worked at the factory.

The ribbon machine, which could make 300,000 blanks a day, is the Henry Ford-ian assembly line for glass blowers.

Technologies come along and render people to the sidelines.

Fitting that a ribbon machine stands in the Henry Ford Museum as one of the ten most important inventions that changed the world.

Brown’s designs for split molds for the glass blanks led Wellsboro to be called The Glass Christmas Ornament Capital of the World.

“The machine was really made for light bulbs, but they also got the idea they could make these glass ornaments as well, and that really is what spawned the actual making of the Christmas ornaments,” said Wellboro Historical Society’s Scott Gitchel. “Then it became cheaper for the general public to get.”

And so lights came on and the Christmas trees glowed, as they should, and it was all because of the ribbon machine of Wellsboro, Pennsylvania.

The American Main Street Revival Restored Main Streets are the new black. Dilapidated Main Streets are the low-hanging fruit of any ambitious city planner. Most are uniquely positioned because the street’s “old style” is suddenly charming, inviting, urban chic.

The 1970s, a decade that seems to have a smoggy, distinctly Gingham Instragram filter, made Virginia Wright, a Corning rez since 1958, take stock of her surroundings: bars and men’s shoe stores. (Nothing brings in the tourists quite like dive bars and a size eleven 2E Red Wing—or not).

Along with business owners and city leaders, she helped usher in the Main Street Renovation Movement.

In a Mountain Home story written by Alison Fromme, Tom Buechner, a founding director of the Corning Glass Museum, said, “Nowhere has the main street of an industrial American city been restored to its turn of the century appearance while serving as a lively, modern, shopping center. We could become a model for the nation—an 1870s living museum street merging in a 1970s renewal complex.

Perhaps we could do it by 1976, the bicentennial year.”

Market Street became the North Star for towns looking to draw people in with that idyllic channel of shops, restaurants, and galleries.

Mary Means, the Director of the National Trust for Historic Preservation’s Midwest Office, said, “Corning was quite important to the birth of what is now the National Main Street Center, and more than 1,200 towns and cities in the US and Canada have used its technical assistance and trainings to bring life back to their historic downtowns.”

Towns followed suit all across the country, something so simple that it was hard to believe that it was all right there the entire time.

Cornell University, and The Elective System Just think, it was because of Andrew Dickson White, the first president of Cornell University, that Matthew Leinart, the former University of Southern California quarterbackturned-terrible-pro, was able to elect ballroom dancing as a course to finish out his studies.

The Elective System of picking one’s classes started in 1868 as a way for students to pick classes better suited to their passions, not a strict curriculum put into place by people who say they have the students’ best interest in mind.

It wasn’t universally lauded. In point of fact, several people (professors, disgruntled admissions employees?) thought it was a blight. Take this article from 25 April 1906 in The Cornell Daily Sun: “…There is a feeling among the students in the academic department that the great diversity in the selection of courses has kept them apart and has prevented a satisfactory espirit

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See Ten Gifts on page 16

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Ten Gifts continued from page 15

de corps like that possessed by some of the other colleges.”

The deeper controversy was that Dickson, in league with Harvard University President Charles W. Eliot, who generally gets the credit though Cornell was first, was installing the German-style modern research university designed to find new knowledge to better the world, and tossing out the age-old English-style rote, character-building curriculum focused on the classics and the Holy Bible—in other words, a neutron bomb in the culture wars that continue unabated today.

The Elective System survived. Actually, it thrived, and took over the academic world. Now, of course, students eventually have to drill down and set aside the bong and stop ordering uncountable pounds of chicken wings as graduation looms and parents’ patience expires, but that’s the nature of ADW’s vision: these are our choices. Live with them, because you’ll be paying for it until your forty-six-years old.

Corning Incorporated: Fiber Optics, et. al Isaac Newton would most definitely give a sturdy and enlightened high five to the inventors at Corning Incorporated. Newton was a dabbler in many things, optics was a particularly fine hobby when he wasn’t, you know, inventing calculus as a way to make sense of all cosmic phenomena.

Corning supplied the glass blank for the Hubble Telescope. Yes, that HT, which delivers images of the universe that can turn a once optimistic day full of possibility into the most existential bummer with one look at the Butterfly Nebula.

The fiber optic cable, which allows the modern-day user to stream cat videos with ease, may be the one of the single greatest technological contributions of the 20th century.

Drs. Peter Schultz, Donald Keck, and Robert Maurer invented low-loss optical fibers in 1970. Thirty years later they received a National Medal of Technology. (The committee must still be using dial-up.).

The Smithsonian features the low-loss optical fiber in its Innovation Wing alongside a page of Dr. Keck’s notebook with the word “Whoopie!” signifying the breakthrough.

There’s Gorilla Glass, Pyrex, and Willow Glass.

It’s, um, clear that Corning is a daily—if not hourly— influence in your life.

Women’s Rights: to Vote, et. al.

Right in the Finger Lakes, Seneca Falls, New York, the first Women’s Rights Convention was held in 1848. Lucretia Mott and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, two abolitionists, organized the event, which hosted two hundred people.

See Ten Gifts on page 33

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December 4th-6th, 2015 Wellsboro, PA Friday, December 4th

Saturday, December 5th

All Day

All Day

Merchant Sales & Discounts 9:00 am - 7:00 pm Professional Dickens Portraitures Deane Center for Performing Arts 10:00 am - 4:00 pm Indoor Book Sale (Nov. 30th-Dec. 5th) Green Free Library 10:00 am - 6:00pm Festival of Trees Goodwill Building in the Wellsboro Plaza 3:00 pm - 8:00 pm Indoor Craft Show United Methodist Church 3:00 pm - 8:00 pm Indoor Craft Show Wellsboro Senior Center 4:30 pm - 7:30 pm Dickens of a Dinner Trinity Lutheran Church 7:00 pm “It’s a Wonderful Life” Movie Arcadia Theatre 7:00 pm - 9:00 pm VESTA Craft Show & Sale Gmeiner Art & Cultural Center 7:30 pm Dickens of a Concert St. Peter’s Catholic Church

Merchants Sales & Discounts 8:00 am - 10:00 am Breakfast with Father Christmas Trinity Lutheran Church 9:00 am Wellsboro High School Dickens Choir Arcadia Theater 8:00 am - 4:00 pm Indoor Craft Show Wellsboro Senior Center 9:00 am - 4:00 pm Model Train Show St. Paul’s Episcopal Church 9:00 am - 4:00 pm Street Vendors, Street Musicians, 9:00 am - 4:00 pm Indoor Craft Show United Methodist Church 9:00 am - 4:30 pm Indoor Craft Show Fireman’s Annex 9:00 am - 5:00 pm Professional Dickens Portraitures Deane Center for Performing Arts 10:00 am Victorian Stroll Meet at the Deane Center for Performing Arts

10:00 am - 2:00 pm Alternative Christmas Fair w/Band First Presbyterian Church

Event sponsored by: Wellsboro Area Chamber of Commerce, the Wellsboro Foundation, & Members 114 Main Street, Wellsboro, PA 16901 • (570) 724-1926 www.wellsboropa.com

This schedule brought to you by:

Indigo Soldiers + Sailors Memorial Hospital

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10:00 am - 2:00 pm Open House (w/ refreshments) Tussey-Mosher Funeral Home 10:00 am - 3:00 pm (On every hour) Trolley Rides to Highland Chocolates – Factory Tours First Citizens Parking Lot 10:00 am - 3:00 pm Tours St. Paul’s Episcopal Church 10:00 am - 3:00 pm Open House Tioga County Historical Society 10:00 am - 3:00 pm Live Music & Refreshments United Methodist Church 10:00 am - 3:00 pm VESTA Art Show & Sale Gmeiner Art Center 10:00am - 4:00pm Indoor Book Sale (Nov. 30th-Dec.5th) Green Free Library 10:00am- 4:00pm Clara’s Court w/story time, crafts & Nutcracker Characters Deane Center Lobby 10:00 am – 6:00 pm Festival of Trees Goodwill Building in the Wellsboro Plaza 10:30 am HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol,” Coolidge Theatre, Deane Center 11:00 am & 2:00 pm “It’s a Wonderful Life” Movie Arcadia Theatre 11:00 am HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol,” Warehouse Theatre 11:00 am – 2:00 pm Open House (w/ refreshments) Green Free Library 11:30 am & 1:00 pm New Heights Dance Theatre to Perform “Nutcracker in Motion” Deane Center Main Street Window

1:00 pm – 3:00 pm Victorian Tea The Laurels 1:00 pm HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol,” Warehouse Theatre 1:30 pm HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol,” Coolidge Theatre, Deane Center 2:00 pm Victorian Stroll Meet at the Deane Center for Performing Arts

3:00 pm New Heights Dance Theatre to Perform “Nutcracker in Motion” Deane Center Main Street Window 3:00 pm Wellsboro Men’s Chorus Arcadia Theatre 3:20 pm Wellsboro Women’s Chorus Arcadia Theater 3:30 pm HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol,” Coolidge Theatre, Deane Center 3:40 pm Combined Chorus Sing-a-long Arcadia Theater 4:00 pm HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol,” Warehouse Theatre 4:00 pm Choral Evensong Service St. Paul’s Episcopal Church 5:00 pm Candlelight Walk for Peace Packer Park to the Green 5:30 pm Tree Lighting Ceremony The Green

Sunday, December 6th 12 pm - 5:00 pm Festival of Trees Goodwill Building in the Wellsboro Plaza 2:30 pm HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol” Black Box, Deane Center

And much, much more! Impromptu performances, concerts, poetry, and skits will take place as the Christmas spirit moves throughout the community.

Won’t you make Dickens of A Christmas your celebration? Plan now to join us...you’ll have a Dickens of a Good Time!

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Mother Earth

ANNUAL PRE-CHRISTMAS AUCTION 2015 th th

Small Miracles

To be held @ our gallery 3530 Lycoming Creek Road, Cogan Station, PA 17728

By Gayle Morrow

Friday & Saturday, December 18 & 19 2015 @ 10:00 A.M. each day

Shawn Carpenter

Richard Stone Reeves ‘Secretariat’ Print (26” x 23 1/2” i.s.)

Civil War Items ‘S. Roesen’ Oil Painting (20” x 16” i.s.)

Tobacco Trade Sign (60”l.)

Tanzanite Pendant

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t is mid-November as I write and, despite an October snow and this morning’s dusting, numerous twenty-degree nights, and vigorous winds, there are still flowers out there—dandelions and hardy mums and, at my house, a few very determined snapdragons and Johnny-jump-ups. Isn’t that a miracle, one might be inclined to say, perhaps a bit absently, as it is a busy time of year, after all, with more pressing tasks at hand than pondering the staying power of plants.

It’s true that the big miracles get all the press. The birth of Christ, the Buddha’s enlightenment, a large-scale disaster averted, the serendipitous discovery of a life-saving medicine— those kinds of miracles rather one-up the quiet, diminutive sort we encounter daily but tend to not see or acknowledge.

A friend got me hooked recently on a series of books

by Alexander McCall Smith. The “No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency” stories are set in Botswana; the protagonist is Precious Ramotswe, a lady who helps people solve an assortment of problems, problems that are not, in the scheme of things, earth-shattering, but the solving of which does bring a measure of peace and contentment—small miracles—to the lives of her clients. At the conclusion of The Miracle at Speedy Motors, ninth in the series, Mma Ramotswe talks with her husband about miracles, about a large one that he especially hoped would come to pass but did not, and about the small ones of which she is acutely cognizant and which are, in their unassuming, work-a-day way, well...miraculous.

Perhaps as you read this you will be feeling overwhelmed, finding yourself in the midst of frantic holiday preparations, a bit anxious over whether the UPS man will show up on time with the Amazon order, wondering if you have spent enough to dazzle the people you feel you need to dazzle and if the outside lights are properly strung. Christmas may be the white one we dream of or the gray-brown one we don’t view as quite so picturesque. The flowers may finally be frozen.

The miracles are that the flowers will return in the spring, that the days will soon be getting longer, that though the world we live in is not always a kind place, we can be. We can find miracles; we can be a miracle.

Keystone Press Award-winning columnist Gayle Morrow is the former editor of the Wellsboro Gazette.

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21

Bengt Nyman

Tracking a North Woods Buck The Hunt for an Elusive Buck Ends in...Well, You’ll See...

By Roger Kingsley

T

he hoof prints in the snow were unlike any other deer tracks I’d ever seen. Wider than my cartridges with well-rounded toes, the tracks were plainly visible in a line straight up the middle of the snowcovered road. The huge buck that made them had casually passed through here just a few hours before dawn, and now the three men staring at his tracks were eager to engage in the hunt for him. It was Saturday morning in late fall. Four of us had booked a weeklong hunt with Cedar Ridge Outfitters in Jackman, Maine, to hunt big-woods whitetails, and this was our last day. Two members of our party, Dean Jackson and Bill Shaffer, were hunting on a distant mountain, while my son-in-law Jason Alderfer and I were with our guide, Rocky Achey, when we spotted the hoof prints I just mentioned.

The tracks veered to the lower side 22

of the road and led us through a wet, brushy area and then into a sizable stand of cedars and firs. On the opposite side, the evergreens opened up to a brushchoked skid road left by loggers. The buck ambled down the road a short distance, then stopped momentarily to rub a sapling. Fresh bark shavings lay on the snow at the base of the tree, and printed on both sides were the unmistakable marks of his antler beams imprinted in the snow during his rubbing fury.

A short distance away we found his hours-old bed tucked neatly inside a dense stand of beech saplings. From there, the buck angled down through the woods toward another stand of cedars and firs where he joined some other deer. Even in the maze of deer tracks, his hoof prints stood out like no other. His rounded toes were no doubt worn down from years of roaming

these secluded swamps, ridges, and mountaintops, under the weight of a massive frame that north woods bucks are so noted for. Jason and I both had visions of seeing this buck piled up just beyond our smoking guns, and the excitement intensified as we continued on the track.

With Rocky in the lead, we kept up the pace on the tracks that zigzagged hither and thither as they circled a large picturesque bog. When the tracks headed northwest, Rocky had it all figured out that the trail we were on would probably take us back to the road where we parked the truck, but we had to pursue our course to confirm it. Sure enough, they did. Apparently the buck had hunkered down in this area during the snowstorm the previous day, and the tracks we were following were his first wanderings afterward.

We wasted very little time taking

up the original track and following our footprints back to the spot where the buck had joined the other deer.

Circling the area, we cut the tracks we were looking for, where they led us to a fresh scrape. The discovery of the scrape brought a smile to Rocky’s face, and his optimistic expression was a thumbs-up signal for his two clients.

As we huddled over the exposed soil, Rocky whispered, “He’s got females on his mind and that’ll give us an advantage.” Round toes certainly didn’t grow old by being stupid, so we’d need every possible advantage we could get.

The disadvantage at this point was that there were three of us on his trail, which meant three times more chances of messing something up.

Not far from the scrape, Round Toes skirted the edge of the cedars and then crossed the brushy skid trail once again. As we rounded a bend in the trail, Rocky pointed to our left. Poking up out of the snow was the tip of a shed antler from a moose. This area was prime moose country, too, and we’d seen some nice bulls during the past six days. This particular shed came from a bull whose spread would measure fifty plus inches. Could finding it bring us hunters luck?

The tracks continued on through a dense stand of head-high firs and then cut back somewhat and angled down over a steep bank to a small beaver pond. We followed them along the water’s edge to a fallen tree that Round Toes had swept the snow off as he lunged over. At the inlet to the pond, his tracks cut to the left, crossed the stream and entered another dense stand of evergreens. Reading the sign, Rocky had a hunch that Round Toes had no intentions of bedding down. Rather than stay on the track, Rocky suggested we circle again. Sure enough, we cut the huge buck’s smoking hot tracks exiting the upper side and heading through a fir and hardwood mix that offered much better shooting opportunities. With our rifles ready and still on the move, we

scanned the woods around us searching for anything that resembled a piece of a deer.

We were gaining on the buck. His tracks were as fresh as homemade bread.

He was still walking, which was good news. With the utmost caution we continued on, all the while preparing ourselves for a flash of brown that meant Round Toes had spotted or heard us. At the upper side of the hardwood mix, Round toes veered to the left to stay below a steep incline in the woods.

The trail leveled out and Round Toes purposely stayed parallel with the bottom of the slope. As we followed the sign, Rocky suddenly stopped and pointed directly in front of us to a spot where Round Toes had pawed the snow.

As we stood there scanning the terrain, Rocky whispered, “There he is!”

I immediately saw the dark outline of an animal standing in the shadows of some evergreens nearly fifty paces away. My first reaction was: moose.

Rocky stepped to the side for a better look while peering intently through his binoculars, while Jason and I had both rifles shouldered and ready to fire as soon as one of us could identify the animal.

As I focused on the outline through the Leupold scope, the animal slowly turned its head to the side revealing the ear and antler of a whitetail. Rocky verified it too. “I’m going to shoot,” I whispered. My only shot was at his neck through a narrow opening between two trees in the offhand position. And I was shaking! I lost sight of the deer after the recoil from the Tikka 7mm08, but Rocky and Jason saw a deer standing momentarily then run away.

A sickish feeling engulfed me. I had no clue whether I’d hit or missed, and their sighting of a runaway deer didn’t help matters.

Walking up to the spot where Round Toes had made the pawing, we noticed he had made a sharp turn to the right, walked up the slope several yards and made two more pawings in the snow. From there he had turned back

and headed for the shadows where the encounter took place. Rocky was in the lead when suddenly he shouted, “There he is! You got him!” Just ahead laid a large-framed eight-point buck dead in his tracks. The scene was instantly filled with high-fives and handshakes. What a grand moment.

As the celebration tapered off, we began examining the buck. Something was amiss. There was an unmistakable lack of maturity about this buck, and this buck had pointed toes. What had happened to the buck we were following with the unmistakable round toes?

With a puzzled look, Rocky began backtracking and soon uncovered the mystery.

On top of the slope, just above the pawings that Round Toes had dug, Rocky found the fresh bed of another deer. When Round Toes had moved on down the trail, the other deer left its bed to follow him. That’s how the two deer met in the shadows. Since we hadn’t arrived at this piece of evidence, we assumed the buck I was shooting at was Round Toes. As it turned out, Round Toes was the runaway deer that Rocky and Jason saw after I shot.

Even though he was a young deer, the buck now lying at our feet was a trophy to behold. With eight points and a muscular frame, we would later learn at the check station in town that he would field-dress 191 pounds. After a photo session and a long, tortuous drag back to the vehicle, Rocky and Jason hustled back to hunt for Round Toes.

After a couple hours of trailing, they came across the footprints of another hunter who was now on the same track.

For Rocky and Jason, it was the end of the trail. As for Round Toes…we’ll never know.

A hunter and photographer, awardwinning writer Roger Kingsley’s articles and photos have appeared in Deer & Deer Hunting, and Pennsylvania Game News, among others.

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25

Don Knaus

Going to the dogs: the author’s grandaughter Regan with puppy Annie, who taught her more than a few good lessons to live by.

An Ode to Beagles

On Beagle Media’s 10th Anniversary, We Celebrate That Noble Hound

By Don Knaus

T

his issue of Mountain Home marks the magazine’s tenth anniversary. Our regional award-winning magazine is published

by Beagle Media, LLC. The publishers’ beagle, Cosmo (painted on the cover in 2006, and reprinted on this issue), was the inspiration for the name and, though he is now happily wagging his tail in doggie heaven, he is still listed on the masthead as “The Beagle.”

His name comes from Cosmo in the movie Moonstruck (“Look! It’s Cosmo’s moon!”), but might have come—and more appropriately—from the Seinfeld character Cosmo Kramer, who was very adept at mooching food from his friends. That is talent all beagles share.

I’ve said before, if you can hold a beagle puppy and not instantly fall in love, you have no heart. I’ve known beagles my entire life. Since adulthood, my lovely bride and I have owned a half-dozen dogs…all beagles and all females. Our Tippy produced puppies and it broke our hearts to give them 26

away. We couldn’t face that again and all girls were spayed after that. But Meg, despite an inability to have pups, had the urge to show love. We first noticed that when potatoes and onions started showing up from the pantry with little tooth marks. An investigation led us to Meg’s bed, where she was cuddling a spud as though it were a puppy. When our cat had a litter and then abandoned them, Meg adopted the kittens and spent hours each day tending them.

For a few years, I worked “away” and Meg was allowed to sleep in “Mommy’s” bed. She manifested a look of sheer disgust when I came home weekends and displaced her from the bed. In fact, she got so mad that she peed on the bed.

A friend who owns hunting beagles once remarked, “When I say, my dogs are barking, I ain’t talking about my feet.” All our beagles were hunters, save Baby. But what love we had for the only beagle we ever had that was a special needs dogs. If they had had special ed.

for dogs, she would have qualified. As the old saying goes, “That dog won’t hunt.” And so it was with Baby. Maybe she wasn’t so dumb after all. While I was out in the bluster and cold looking for bunnies, she was snuggled next to the heater inside.

Usually, I can tell by the pitch of the beagle’s bark whether the dog is running a rabbit or a pheasant. Our current flop-ear gets so excited when her sisters (our daughters) arrive that she goes spastic with joy. I can tell by the pitch of her squeals which of our daughters has entered the house.

A beagle can run a range of emotions and loads of looks in seconds.

My beagle can be sound asleep on her pile of blanket and ignore the television audio. But she can hear someone touch a doorknob during a thunderstorm. The initial vibration might warrant a slow opening of her eyes. A footstep and she lifts her head. An opening door and she stands, straining to hear. Should the visitor be someone she knows, she enters

WELCOME TO

full sprint mode to excitedly greet them. Like all beagles, she is stubborn. It’s impossible to call her off a rabbit track. And when it’s time to go outside for “potty,” she chooses who will take her. If it’s Mommy’s turn, I’d better not grab the leash.

But, you have to love ’em. Cosmo’s humans knew that.

I got to thinking about what we might learn from beagles like Cosmo…and a long list of the beagles I have known and owned.

Here’s a top ten list: 1) Be passionate about what you do. When beagles are snuffling the ground searching for rabbits or game birds, their tails wag constantly. A mere whiff of the right scent speeds up the wags. Finally assured that the smell is a wascally wabbit, they get so excited that they bark about it.

2) If you are excited, show it. There’s nothing wrong with enthusiasm…with “wagging your tail and barking your excitement.” Don’t be afraid to bark about success and to enjoy the journey.

3) Work hard. Beating the brush brings results. A good beagle will run through obstructions, under branches, over logs, and through water in order to accomplish the task at hand. Follow that example.

4) Things worth doing may present obstacles—even pain. Keep at it to succeed. I’ve known hunting beagles who worked so diligently through high grass, briars, and bushes to end the day with sore and bloody noses…but it was a successful hunt.

5) Sleep well. Fluff your blanket. Spin in circles to find just the right spot to plop down. You are at your best when rested.

6) Hunt for the important things in life and, when you get a whiff, shout for joy as loud as you can.

7) Stay alert while sleeping: someone may try to sneak some human food on a plate. That’s just a beagle’s way of saying, “Stay alert: you might miss some good things.”

8) Speak up. Let people know what you want. Our dogs have always told us when they needed to go out or when they were hungry or needed water. Do that in your life, as well. Don’t be afraid to ask for what you want. It works.

9) Let others love you. Take pleasure in cuddling.

Puppies know that instinctively. Our daughters and granddaughters have learned a lot about love from beagle puppies.

10) Be yourself. Every one of our beagles has had distinctive personality and each quirk has only made us love them more. You need to know that those people in your life who matter will love you for you.

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CORNING’S GAFFER DISTRICT

䌀椀琀礀 䌀栀爀椀

氀 愀

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WELCOME TO

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32

Ten Gifts continued from page 16

The two met eight years earlier in 1840 at a World Anti-Slavery Convention and weren’t allowed on the floor on account of their gender.

Eight years later, and no doubt royally pissed off, the two started the conference.

Day 1 was for women only.

Day 2, men could attend. Among the forty men who arrived was Frederick Douglass. Soon Stanton’s Declaration of Sentiments and Grievances was signed by the entire convention.

Stanton petitioned for a woman’s right to vote, something that was met with no shortage of chortles and guffaws. Some people withdrew their endorsement. The sentiment being you can have your little convention and a small bullhorn from which to proclaim your ideals (First Amendment and all), but leave the voting to the men, sweetheart.

And thus, the women’s suffrage movement was born.

“This area was very progressive for the reform movement,” said Susan Murphy Abbamonte, the Director of Communications at the Susan B. Anthony House. “Susan was raised in a Quaker community and her religious beliefs informed her reform work.”

Anthony, who didn’t attending the first conference or the one that cropped up two weeks later in her native Rochester (she did have family attend), would later take up the mantle and, at long last, in 1920 (just fifty-two years later!) women could cast a ballot, a right that finally belonged to them.

Trail-Wide

Award-winning writer Brendan O’Meara is the author of Six Weeks in Saratoga: How Three-Year-Old Filly Rachel Alexandra Beat the Boys and Became Horse of the Year.

33

&

DRINK

Courtesy of The 2016 Old Farmer’s Almanac

FOOD

Forecasts, Facts, and Fascinating Ideas The New Old Farmer’s Almanac

By Cornelius O’Donnell

A

nd there is another word beginning with “F” that I’d like to add: fun. There, that describes, for me, the annual The Old Farmer’s Almanac. This is a reintroduction of sorts, as I hadn’t seen the last dozen or so editions.

As I write this, I have a copy of the 2016 book at my side. It’s the so-called Collector’s Edition, meaning it is in hardcover, contains a nice addendum, and was priced at about sixteen dollars.

Paperback copies run less but, ah, the splurge, the cost of an indifferent

34

restaurant martini, is worth it.

The first thing I noted is that this will be a leap year. So, as a single guy, I immediately changed my telephone number and e-mail, if you get my drift and supremely unfounded conceit.

But, seriously, how can you resist a publication that includes an old saw from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (and I used to stay just down the road from his house in Cambridge, Massachusetts): “Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something

done, Has earned a night’s repose.”

Some Task Attempted It’s a happy task I’m starting, and that is to urge you cooks out there to check out this almanac. A few folks may feel it is written for some grizzled Yankee farmers working the fields like a character in a Van Gogh painting. Well it is a product of New Hampshire’s Yankee Publishing, the gang who are also responsible for that beloved magazine. I look forward to

WELCOME TO

The Finger Lakes

getting Yankee monthly, and almost always sit down and go through it cover to cover when it arrives. That’s perhaps because of my many (many) years of living next door to, and frequent visits to, New England. Plus, I had a nearlyyear-long residence in Massachusetts thanks to Uncle Sam. And, most especially, I harbor a deep respect for the style of cooking of the area.

As far as culinary topics, the Almanac is an excellent resource. Even the ads draw me in: “Freeze dry at home,” proclaims one, “…better than canning and dehydrating... retains color, texture and 97% nutrition.” And there is an ad for a kit that instructs one on making a family cookbook (www.morriscookbooks.com). If you own a trove of those dog-eared cookbooks, index cards, or pieces of food-stained paper or clipped recipes, what an opportunity to share these with the extended family.

“New, Useful, and Entertaining Matter” That’s what the Almanac tries to provide, and provide it does! It is such a fascinating mix of topics so useful for cooks. Here are valuable Kitchen Safety Tips, a Table of Measures, Metric Conversions, a terrifically edited section listing Substitutions for Common Ingredients including a recipe for “making” buttermilk (one tablespoon lemon juice or vinegar added to enough milk to equal one cup).

Barring that, use plain yogurt. Or this one, so useful when a recipe lists balsamic vinegar: one tablespoon red or white wine vinegar plus one-half teaspoon sugar, add to a screw top glass jar, and shake like crazy to dissolve the sugar.

Other features are instructive. I don’t know a rod from a reel, but I now know that the best fishing days (listed here) are between a new moon and a full moon, and that, barring clouds, there will be a “supermoon” (it being the closest to earth in so many years) on November 14, 2016.

A good day for the last cookout of the season, I’d say. By the way, I can make myself available!

Strange Juxtapositions What makes the Almanac a delightful read is the anticipation the turning of a page can bring. A good instance: tucked between the features on bulb-planting and another such as “How Clean is Your Kitchen?” is a story about the infamous Typhoid Mary (1906) who evidently never washed her hands. Not only was she caught spreading the disease and imprisoned, but after her release she did the same sowing-sickness trick again. I wonder how clean her kitchen was?

Parsley Pesto Strata

The Almanac sponsored a “Dips and Spreads Recipe See Forecasts on page 36 35

Forecasts continued from page 35

Contest” this past year and this strata won second prize.

There were two other winners cited in the article, but this was so simple and used such straightforward ingredients that I tried it (and tweaked it), and am featuring it here in case you need something delicious and even healthful for New Year’s Eve or an Open House. I will use it, and maybe add some smoked salmon strips and lemon zest to the layers.

(I’d leave out the Parmesan and add about a tablespoon of finely chopped fresh dill to the pesto.)

For the pesto: 2 c. (loosely packed) Italian parsley, without stems ¾ c. grated Parmesan cheese (please try to use the imported Parmigiano-Reggiano, for superior taste) 1 large clove garlic, peeled and smashed 3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil 1 slice bread ½ tsp. kosher salt Several grinds of the pepper mill

For the filling: 16 oz. Neufchatel cheese, at room temperature 1 stick unsalted butter, at room temperature Combine pesto ingredients in a food processor or blender and process until smooth. Add additional oil if necessary to create a smooth paste.

Mix the cream cheese and butter together and set aside.

Line a rectangular or round container with plastic wrap.

Put one-third of the filling on the bottom, followed by one-third of the pesto. Repeat the layers two more times.

Cover and place in the refrigerator. When ready to serve, invert onto a serving dish. Serve with celery, carrot, or fennel sticks, crackers, bagel chips, or toasted baguette slices. Garnish the plate with halved cherry tomatoes on picks for a touch of holiday color. Makes 10-12 servings.

One Final Comment on the Almanac

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36

At the end of the 300-page book is a section entitled “Anecdotes and Pleasantries.” Who can resist such a title? I wasn’t disappointed when I read “How Happy is a Clam?” I now know that you can tell the age of a clam by the bands on the shell, much like the rings on a tree stump. Clams can live as long as 150 years and show no other signs of aging, maintaining “amour” (if you know what I mean) through their life. So the article concludes with the line: “How happy are clams? REAL HAPPY.” And a Real Happy New Year to you from me and all my chums at Mountain Home.

Chef, teacher, author, and award-winning columnist Cornelius O’Donnell lives in Elmira, New York.

See In the Shade on page 40 37

Paul L Dineen

Broken Down in the Last Great Place And Giving Thanks for the Eternal Season of Giving

By Linda Roller

S

unday night, and I’m returning home from a family christening— Gavin’s baptism and a gathering of friends and family. It’s 5:40, I’m back in Pennsylvania, planning the evening’s activities awaiting me a mere seventy minutes away when it happens. A pop, and a shuddering shimmy as the van skids across lanes, and then a loud BANG, BANG, as the carcass of what was once a rear tire slammed against the wheel well. I have enough control to coast to the right berm, off the road, and even beyond the rumble strip.

After the adrenaline ebbs just a bit, it’s time for assessment. All in all, things are pretty okay. I’m fine. The van, other

than a smoking, shredded hulk of a tire, is okay. I’m actually off the road, and it is warm for November in my neck of the woods, without rain, sleet, or snow—all of which were present two weekends ago.

The motor runs, the heater works, and most importantly, I am on a stretch of highway where there is cell phone signal (not a given in much of Northern PA).

I call my insurance roadside assistance...and begin to look at the “non-silver” side of this little cloud that has visited my personal bubble. The friendly assistant wants to know where I am, which is about fourteen miles north of Mansfield, Pennsylvania, on US Route 15.

“Is that old Route 15?”

“Oh, no,” I assure her. “The brandspankety new four-lane US Route 15, with guard rails, and mobile phone service.”

“Uh, okay...what city are you in?”

“None. I am fourteen miles north of Mansfield, Pennsylvania.”

“Well, then, what town is that?

What is the closest cross road?”

Obviously, the call center is somewhere in a metropolis, and the lovely lady I’m talking to has no real idea of how much of America is just empty. I finally convince her that I am not near a city, and that I have identified the largest population center near me. I have slipped See Broken Down on page 40

38

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the bonds of the top fifty cities and markets of the USA and am roaming in the wilderness. We then move to phase two of the story, new to my phone friend, but “oh-so-familiar” to those who drive clunkers on Sunday.

“I cannot find a service provider in your area that is open.” (Of course not. It’s now after six on Sunday evening.)

Eventually, the service contacts a tow truck—eighty minutes away—and provide the name and phone number as they contact them. I call and get the guy on duty, who is an old pro at towing, old vans, and rural life. With this contact, I now have professional help. But, there is a catch.

He can only take me fifteen miles. Mind you, it will take him seventy miles to get to me from his home base, and he is actually thirty miles east of that on a call, so we are now looking at help over 100 miles away, who will be able to take me to Mansfield. He will be here around 8:15 and will keep me updated. Having tried to get help on weekend nights all over rural America, I know he is realistic, and I truly believe he will be here as soon as he can, and that is not a given in any “stranded on the road” saga. As he hooks up the lumbering beast and gets me to the tire shop, he tells me that he and the “wet behind the ears” part timer are taking care of all the breakdowns in most of five or six counties—an area the size of Connecticut.

On to damage control, for I have to take Tracy to the dentist tomorrow. I need to let her know that my horse is shot, and I suspect that I will be out of commission for a couple of days while I negotiate repairs and the van’s return to home in Avis. So I text (she doesn’t have cell service except for texting where she lives—see prior comments on signal in rural Pennsylvania). The appointment is important, she is now out of a ride, and her first text back is “Are you all right? Do you need help??”

And it is right there that the paradigm shifts and I get gobsmacked by the depth of grace in this world. For her partner calls me (to do this he is standing on the road outside their house) and says, “Where are you? Are you okay? I’m coming to get you now!”

Now, I do help them occasionally. Their sons are my grandsons, without quotation marks. We say it’s so—it’s so.

They treat me as special, and thank me often for the things that I do, which is mostly taking Tracy and the boys to medical appointments. It’s easy to get into the rut of helper and helpee, and it takes something like this to point out that is simply not the way of it. The tie that binds us flows both ways, without hesitation. I do ask Jeff to wait until I get the tow and get the van off the road, and then ask him to pick me up where I have to leave the van. He is there and waiting as I pull in, around 9:30 p.m. He then takes me home and says that he is so happy that when I needed him he had a vehicle and gas in the tank, so that he could come get me.

And the kicker? I have a serious plumbing issue that reared

Mountain Home contributor Linda Roller is a bookseller, appraiser, and writer in Avis, Pennsylvania.

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its ugly head early Sunday morning.

He comes in, looks at it, (at 11 p.m., thank you...) and will call a friend tomorrow, so that I can get it fixed within the friends and family circle.

I go to bed at home, safe and secure.

And the Grace is not just in one family, in one spot. This morning, over coffee, I began to tally who I could call on the side of the road.

The list got mighty long, and I simply couldn’t see the end of it.

It included my brother and sisters, and all the people who call them family. In the case of my blood family, we all have family by blood/ marriage and family created by the bonds of heart and soul. It makes for a great circle of love and care. It means that I could call the adopted “heart” daughter of my sister’s life partner, and she would most likely come for me, or send help. There is a sea of people between us with ties, and that is enough, even though neither of us has needed the other’s help before.

Then there are friends, including a dear friend with many vision and mobility problems who I talked to while waiting on the road. Her first response to finding out I was stranded: “Do you need me to come get you?” I thought of other sticky situations in many other places, and the friends who came to help. Again, the list stretched on and on.

Yes, I’m lucky. I’m blessed. But I’m not alone. So many of us are so lucky and blessed in a circle of care, concern, and love. It took a few hours in the dark of a Pennsylvania night with the semis roaring by to jog my memory and feel the power.

But it’s always there. It was a fine use of a beautiful Sunday night.

Thank you, all!

Mountain Home

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41

© Heather Mee www.wellsborowoodlands.com

B A C K O F T H E M O U N TA I N

White Christmas

By Heather Mee

“I

will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year,” Charles Dickens wrote, and that whispers in my head through this image. I captured this photo on a cold winter day when the sky was heavy—almost purple—as the snowflakes fell around me. I am privileged to call Wellsboro my home, and the stately gaslights regularly call for my attention, but this day was one-of-a-kind. I remember feeling as if I were in a snow globe or a childhood dream. It was quiet and lovely. This photo seems to stir emotion in others, just as it does for me, and has become a much-requested image. When, in this dark world, a photo brings feelings of peace, light, and calm, it feels right to share it. I hope it stirs something inside of you as well.

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