December 2016

E E R F he wind

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Our Unknown Soldier The Hidden History of the First American Land Casualty of World War II

By Bonnie Kyofski

The Twelve Wines of Christmas Santa at The Thomas Taber Dressing for Dickens

DECEMBER 20161

Volume 11 Issue 12

Our Unknown Soldier

20

An Outdoor Christmas

By Don Knaus

By Bonnie Kyofski The hidden history of the first American land casualty of World War II.

When the hunt becomes more than shooting guns.

32

For the Love of Paper

By Maggie Barnes

Developing connections through art.

34

The Gift of Music

By Teresa Banik Capuzzo

6

The Todd Thomas Music Scholarship gives back to Chemung County.

Get Yourself a Dickens of a Costume

37

The Twelve Wines of Christmas

By Maggie Barnes And then enter the first Dickens best dressed contest to win a Christine Moore hat!

By Maggie Barnes

My true love gave to me...a nice Riesling?

38

A Very Barnes Christmas

By Maggie Barnes

Falling trees, flying crosses and— hopefully—spiked eggnog at the ready.

42

14 Santa Claus is Coming to Williamsport

And the Gift Reads...

By Cornelius O'Donnell Open me last.

46

Mother Earth

By Gary W. Parks Actually, it will be Santa Clauses, and the Thomas T. Taber Museum plays host.

By Gayle Morrow Bee-ware of buzzing.

Cover by Tucker Worthington; courtesy https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws. com. This page (from top): courtesy Bonnie Kyofski; courtesy Wellsboro Area Chamber of Commerce; courtesy Thomas T. Taber Museum...

24 3

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Editors & Publishers Teresa Banik Capuzzo Michael Capuzzo Associate Publisher George Bochetto, Esq. Managing Editor Gayle Morrow O pe r a t i o n s D i r e c t o r Gwen Plank-Button Advertising Director Ryan Oswald Advertising Assistant Amy Packard Circulation Manager Alyssa Strausser D e s i g n & P h o t o g r ap h y Tucker Worthington, Cover Design Contributing Writers Melissa Bravo, Patricia Brown Davis, Alison Fromme, Carrie Hagen, Holly Howell, Roger Kingsley, Don Knaus, Cindy Davis Meixel, Fred Metarko, David Milano, Cornelius O’Donnell, Brendan O’Meara, Gregg Rinkus, Linda Roller, Diane Seymour, Kathleen Thompson, Joyce M. Tice, Melinda L. Wentzel, Maggie Barnes 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, James Fitzpatrick, Ann Kamzelski, Jan Keck, Nigel P. Kent, Roger Kingsley, Tim McBride, Heather Mee, Ken Meyer, Bridget Reed, Suzan Richar, Tina Tolins, Sarah Wagaman, Tim McBride, Curt Weinhold, Terry Wild, Deb Behm, Linda Stager, Bill Crowell S a l e s R ep r e s e n t a t i v e s Alicia Blunk, Maia Stam, Linda Roller, Richard Trotta D i s t r i b u t i o n T eam Michael Banik, Layne Conrad, Gary Hill, Grapevine Distribution, Duane Meixel, Linda Roller T h e B ea g l e Cosmo (1996-2014) Yogi (Assistant) 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, 87-1/2 Main Street, Wellsboro, Pennsylvania, 16901, and online at www.mountainhomemag.com. Copyright © 2016 Beagle Media, LLC. All rights reserved. E-mail story ideas to editorial@mountainhomemag.com, or call (570) 724-3838.

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DISTRIBUTION: Mountain Home is available “Free as the Wind” at hundreds of locations in Tioga, Potter, Bradford, Lycoming, Union, and Clinton counties in PA and Steuben, Chemung, Schuyler, Yates, Seneca, Tioga, and Ontario counties in NY.

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Our Unknown Soldier The Hidden History of The First American Land Casualty of World War II

By Bonnie Kyofski

S

eventy-five years ago, December 7, 1941, was the day that would “live in infamy,” according to the President of the United States as he announced the bombing of Pearl Harbor and declared America's entry into war. But strangely, America's first soldier lost in the Second World War had been killed more than a year before, in Norway, a neutral country half a world away from Pearl Harbor.

Our first casualty was a young man who belonged to Tioga County. Army Air Force Captain Robert M. Losey, graduate of West Point and Cal Tech, expert in meteorology and aeronautics, was the great-great-grandson of arguably the first of the Revolutionary War veterans who settled Tioga County. The 1804 History of Tioga County cites Jesse Losey as a veteran of Bunker Hill and a witness to the execution of British spy John Andre as well as a probable soldier in further battles in New York and New Jersey.

Bob, military attaché to the American minister to Norway, was struck in the heart by a splinter from a Nazi bomb on April 22, 1940, while helping to evacuate American Legation civilian families during the country's invasion. Hailed as a brilliant young man and military officer, his death was big news in newspapers all over, and even made

“Ripley’s Believe it Or Not.” The first land death in the war was held to be a curiosity to rival legendary Philadelphia Athletics’ pitcher Rube Waddell chasing his entire team except the catcher from the field in a 1907 game and striking out the side. That’s an urban myth (he did it in exhibition games, but never in a regulation game). But Captain Losey’s story is true.

Many Losey relatives live in the county today. Captain Bob's father was born in Nelson, and his great-grandfather, grandparents, and two aunts, Mary Losey Brown and Lillian Losey Preston, are buried there. Jesse, the Revolutionary War veteran, who died at eighty-five in 1844, rests in the Fairview Cemetery in Holiday.

The Loseys and my family were neighbors for generations, and Bob and his sister Margaret shared a dear aunt with my brothers and me—the Loseys connected to Aunt Lill by blood, and John, Tony and me (the Luggs) by “courtesy.” Bob Losey was the love of Aunt Lill's life, and I owe her many stories of the Northern Tier, including those of her family.

American roots run deep in a place like Tioga County, Pennsylvania, connecting all of us to our families and the land and its history, some of it remarkable and hidden out of sight. This is See WWII on page 8

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WWII continued from page 7

a family story I heard as a child and pass on now; somehow each time it means more with the telling. In 1791 or 1792, the Revolutionary War veteran Jesse Losey and his wife, whose name is lost, came by canoe from New Jersey to settle in what is now Tioga County, back when it was mostly wilderness in the far west of the young republic he’d helped make possible.

Jesse and his wife had one son, Artemus, born in 1799. Mrs. Jesse died young and was buried in an unmarked spot close to the verge of the Williamson Road, near Tioga. Losey men were craftsmen, highly skilled with all tools and machinery.

Artemus and his son James bought the Campbell sawmill at Beechers' Island, now Nelson, in 1830, built a lovely home and a dam to divert water from the river to a mill race for power for the mill. They built furniture and wagons as well as sawing the lumber for many of the town's 19th century homes and the Presbyterian Church. Jim died when my father was six; and Dad remembered his childhood awe that Jim was the first person in the region to own a flashlight.

Two strands of my family—the Bottoms and Luggs—arrived in Tioga County nearly three decades after the Loseys. Their friendship began in 1930 when the Loseys bought the Nelson mill. Charles Bottom, my great-greatgrandfather, had settled in Farmington, bought the Beecher farm on Beechers' Island in 1828, and worked it while his family still lived at their farm on the hill two miles or so south of the Island. The Charles Lugg family arrived from England in 1830 and settled adjacent to the Bottoms in Farmington. Their first child to be born in the United States, Robert S., married the girl next door, Rebecca Bottom. The two decided to raise tobacco and persuaded Rebecca's father to grant them the Island farm, with its wonderful land. Tobacco was a natural and soon very popular, thanks to the alluvial soil, as well as to the fact that General Ulysses S. Grant, hero of the Civil War and presidential candidate, was taken with the taste of the broad leaf cigar wrapper tobacco when he tried it at the Philadelphia Centennial Exposition in 1876. Since it was identified with our region and as President Grant was identified in photographs with a cigar in his mouth, northern Pennsylvania tobacco received a

boost and was grown successfully on the Island until 1954, as it was at most farms in the Cowanesque Valley until the 1930s.

Tobacco made the Luggs and Loseys next door neighbors, their land since the 1970s under the Cowanesque Lake. The tobacco business required large sheds, which helped create a demand for lumber just at the time that Jim Losey, at age twenty-three, returned safely home from four years of fighting in the Civil War. Jennie Merritt had grown up by the time Jim returned, and they were married.

Robert S. and Rebecca Lugg both died in 1893 and their son and his wife, Charles and Emma Preston Lugg, remained in the old Beecher house. The very close relationship between the families began then, according to Aunt Lill.

Mary Losey was born to Jennie and Jim in 1871, and Leon, who would become Captain Bob Losey's father, was born in 1883. Jennie, at forty-three, with a twentytwo-year-old daughter and a ten-year-old son, discovered she was pregnant; at the same time Emma Lugg was expecting her first child. The Lugg child was stillborn; the Losey child was our Aunt Lill. The Luggs were to lose several subsequent babies and, as one might expect, Lill was much loved and cosseted by Emma and Charlie Lugg.

One of the most precious lines I have ever read is from Jennie Losey's diary entry for December 29, 1904: “A live boy at the Luggs.” It was my Dad, Robert Preston Lugg, terrifically premature, the only Lugg baby of his generation in our branch to survive. They piped a gas line through the living room floor and installed a little gas stove, soaked the baby in olive oil and cotton, hired 24-hour nursing care, and he thrived.

Leon, Captain Bob’s future father, had been growing up as what I have always envisioned as a typical Nelson boy. His diary from his early teens centers on learning the woods and hunting and trapping muskrats in the river and selling hides. Leon was serious, curious and very bright. One entry in the diary was a trip Leon made, escorting Mary to the “Mansfield Normal” by train in the 1890s.

Leon entered Princeton University, and upon graduation in 1907 married Nell Moore from Trenton. The Loseys were devout Presbyterians, and Leon was destined to be a Presbyterian minister.

courtesy Bonnie Kyofski Nelson kin: The local ties of Robert Losey (the infant above) included his great-grandfather Artemus, his paternal grandparents, Jim and Jennie, and aunts, Mary Losey Brown and Lillian Losey Preston; all buried in Nelson, PA. His father, Jesse, is buried in Holiday.

Persuaded by a Princeton classmate to “go west� to consider mission work, Leon and Nell moved to Andrew, Iowa, where Bob was born in May, 1908. In Leon's 1923 obituary there are glowing reviews about his ministry and particularly about his outdoor adventure work with the boys in his congregations and the respect he garnered for his mentoring of the young people. To me, his son Bob's teen interests in geology and weather nurtured in Montana echo Leon's love for the Pennsylvania outdoors.

In 1920, Leon's family moved back to the West, and Bob spent his teenage years in Montana, where he continued pursuing his interest in weather and geology. Lill always wore a pinkie ring set with an unusual stone that Bob had found as a boy and had set for her. It was naturally marquise-shaped with two tones of gray curved together, and it was the final adornment she slipped on every day. Leon's career thrived, but it seems that tragedy was never far from the Losey family. Leon was stricken with appendicitis in 1923, and died within the week.

In the meantime, my father had been appointed to West Point in 1922 and spent a year there. At midyear, when my grandmother told Dad that there was no way that Grandpa Lugg could continue handling the farm, that Dad would have to choose between continuing at West Point and coming home to take over the farm; he chose the farm and claimed never to regret

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it. Dad completed his college work in animal husbandry at Penn State, his military commitment summers in the Reserve, and life on the farm was lovely if not very lucrative. Bob Losey was appointed to West Point in 1925 and loved it, graduating in 1929.

Mom, Ila Hess, graduated from Mansfield in 1925, and taught for a few years in the region. In 1928, she was playing the piano for the Nelson school's Christmas celebration at the church, and Dad, home from Penn State, asked for an introduction. She had just enrolled to begin her master's degree at Columbia the next year and Dad decided it was time to visit Lill more often and incidentally do some courting. Mom and Dad were married in 1934 in the chapel at Valley Forge, with Lill as their only attendant.

In time, Lill moved to Brooklyn and attended Pratt Institute, where she earned her degree in domestic arts, and was hired at Western Electric's main office in New York, where she worked until her retirement in 1954. Lill's job for Western Electric was at the base of the communication mega-industry of the twentieth century. During World War I and for decades after, she trained and supervised the telegram delivery boys for New York City, scheduling, advising, and, I suspect, mothering. She was terrifically proud of her “boys,” and would often say about many of them, “He went straight to the top!” After Lill's retirement a number of them as retired company managers were to visit Nelson for a weekend with their wives and savor the wildlife and beauty, as well as Lill's cooking.

Bob Losey had selected the option of joining the Army Air Corps after West Point. He was stationed in Texas for his flight training before his work at Cal Tech in meteorology and aeronautics. He was referred to in the contemporary records as “the Air Force's crack meteorologist.” Cal Tech professors later called him “perhaps the most brilliant student who ever attended the school.” He was assigned to Gen. H.H. Arnold's central staff. If you didn't happen to have a big brother, as I did, who considered “Hap” Arnold next to Jimmy Doolittle in his list of heroes, I can tell you that during World War II the general was credited by many to have been the “father” of the modern Air Force. Bob was stationed then in Washington, D.C., where he and Lill could see each other more frequently. Part of Bob's duty at this time was evaluating aircraft for its performance in various climates. The Russo-Finnish War was ongoing, and military observers were convinced that a large war which might be imminent would be certain to be fought in sub-zero temperatures and therefore aeronautics would be more vital than ever in the design of aircraft.

One winter day in early 1940, my parents received a phone call from Bob Losey. “I'm in Elmira and I won't be able to get to Nelson. Could you meet me for dinner at Hill Top tomorrow night?” Of course, they did, and surely there would have been a good deal of laughter in their reminiscences. They talked about family, of course. Brother John had been born December 1, 1937 and Margaret's daughter Penny was born two days later, both first children and first grandchildren in families that never had babies enough. And they talked about Bob's presence in Elmira: he was at Harris Hill, watching airplanes, of course, and he would have been able to share his interest in their behavior without affecting security. He told them he was headed to Finland as assistant to the military attaché there. It was the last time they saw him.

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Russia and Germany were involved at points, and I still don't know why Russia and Finland ended up on the same side ultimately. (Didn't they?) Bob was able there to examine both Russian and German planes that had been shot down, and after his death it was reported that his findings and recommendations had been inestimably useful in design modifications for U.S. planes.

The best source for information on Bob's personality and the direct facts of his story is Florence Jaffrey Harriman's autobiography of her time as minister to Norway, Mission to the North. The Nazis invaded Norway April 9, 1940, and the Legation evacuated Oslo to move north and east toward Stockholm in Sweden.

Bob was ordered to Norway from Finland as full military attaché and found Mrs. Harriman's group in a small inn at the border of Norway and Sweden around midnight April 12. One senses from Mrs. Harriman's narrative that the remarkable coverage of Bob's death in the United States media was personalized, thanks to the affection of two war correspondents with her group who had been in Finland with him. I revere that coverage, but I am even happier to know that he was among so many friends who truly appreciated him. Mrs. Harriman had quickly become one of them.

Mrs. Harriman's instructions were to “follow the government and the Royal Family,” who were on a divergent route from the civilians. Since the family members of the Legation were following a plan that had been set out before, north through Lillehammer, it was determined that Bob would take the diplomatic car with the chauffeur to try to meet with the families somewhere south of Trondheim.

Mrs. Harriman tried to persuade Bob she should accompany him, but he discouraged her, telling her that the observations she would make were as valuable as his, and that her loss would be more significant than his: “I certainly don't want to be killed, but your death would be the more serious as it might involve our country in all kinds of trouble, whereas with a military attaché...” His final argument was that if he and the chauffeur went on alone, they could travel day and night without stopping, and Bob was relieved that the minister acceded. He then said, “Our first

Believe it! Ripley gets it right: This newspaper clipping challenges readers as to whether the facts are true or not. In this case, the answer is "true."

job now must be getting those women out.” (There were also eight children.) They agreed, and from there the goal for both was Sweden. And so they left.

Two days later Mrs. Harriman received the news: “Captain Losey was killed yesterday by a German bomb.” The chauffeur later told Mrs. Harriman that the group had reached Dombas, a small town where there was an important railway junction. They had just loaded the car on a train when there was an air attack.

Passengers went into a tunnel for shelter, and Bob stayed about thirty feet into the tunnel—judged relatively safe but where he could, of course, observe the performance of the planes. The shrapnel hit, and he was gone. Five British citizens—also neutrals— were killed at the same time. When the minister arrived in Stockholm, she met with the senior Scandinavian attaché: “... he and Captain Losey had been together in the Finnish War. The boy was dead, and suddenly one saw how everyone who knew him had the same impression that I had. Menken [United Press] and the correspondent from the Paris Soir were very much cut up. He had been so young, so disinterested, so thoughtful...” Then, after a description of the lovely, simple funeral ceremony with royalty, many journalists, and representatives of the diplomatic corps, Mrs. Harriman added

her own feelings: “I had known the young Captain only a few weeks, but the circumstances had been so full of danger and problems that I felt I had known him a long time, for I saw what his character was, and as taps were sounded, it seemed as if I had lost a son.” One of the American newspapers had headlined that the American minister had wept at Bob's funeral. Aunt Lill gave copies of Mrs. Harriman's book to several friends, and though we had owned one for years, I had not read it closely until perhaps fifteen years ago.

And I have read it again since. I had cried with Lill over Bob more than once in my youth, and decades later, I could see from the book that Aunt Lill felt that Mrs. Harriman's words and tears really had suggested that someone like herself in many ways stood in for her near to the place and time of Bob's insupportable loss.

When Bob's body was returned home for a burial service at West Point, Dad and Mom went to New York to be with Lill for the service. They never talked about it to us, at least to my knowledge; in fact, it had not occurred to me to ask. After that time, in fact, Dad never again visited either New York City or the Point; the first we talked of it with Mom, I think, was after Lill's funeral in 1973.

And how had Lill and my generation in Nelson become so close? In the 1930s at Nelson, the infrastructure bolstering of the New Deal was in hand and Lill's brother-in-law rented the Losey house to groups of workers for the WPA projects and lent no supervision in the treatment of the house. After some very rough use, it came up for tax sale, and my grandfather bought it. At Lill's next visit home, he announced that it was to be hers whenever she wanted it. She was single and he was much worried about her future. He acknowledged the house was visibly in bad shape but had the admirable Losey structure and he had had the roof replaced and would be responsible for expenses until she wanted it. Mom and Dad painted and papered the interior and it was rented to responsible neighbors.

In 1953, Lill called one summer day, and Mom and Dad laughed at her See WWII on page 48

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Courtesy Linda Stager

Get Yourself a Dickens of a Costume And Then Enter the First Dickens Best Dressed Contest to Win a Christine Moore Hat!

By Maggie Barnes

I

t’s an event that has “lifted my town out of the ordinary” for thirty-three years, says Larry Biddison, one of the founders of Wellsboro’s Dickens of a Christmas.

While many communities celebrate the holiday season with festive decorations and vendors on the street, the Wellsboro happening has always offered a layer of performance art and visitor interaction that takes it from an event to an experience.

Larry and his wife Barbara have participated in every Dickens since the first one in 1983, always in period costume, and

14

will be on hand again Saturday, December 3, from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. in Wellsboro.

“Part of the fun is that it’s different each year,” Barbara says. “We really don’t even know all that will happen. As long as folks enjoy themselves, anything goes!”

It is that spirit which prompted the newest addition to Dickens, a “best dressed” contest. The idea for the contest came about rather abruptly, says Sara Vogt. During last year’s event, Sara, of Wellsboro Home Page, was participating in the stroll for costumed participants with Julie VanNess, director of

the Wellsboro Area Chamber of Commerce, and Christine Moore, the famed New York City hat maker who has been vacationing at her parents’ log cabin in Tioga County since she was a little girl, and who considers Wellsboro her “second home.” When the idea for a contest was mentioned, Christine immediately offered to create a hat for the winner.

That’s right. Win the first Dickens Best Dressed Contest and you will receive a basket overflowing with local products and a custom-made chapeau from Christine

Decked out for Dickens: Participants in Wellsboro's 33rd Dickens event carefully dress to provide an experience that takes visitors to an early Victorian marketplace.

Courtesy Linda Stager

Moore, the milliner to the Triple Crown.

Anyone who wants to participate in the contest needs to register at noon at the stage outside of the Deane Center on Main Street. Preregister by emailing sara@ wellsborohomepage.com with your name and the best way to contact you. Judging will take place at 1 p.m.; the winner will be announced immediately. Whoever wins will have a place of honor in the second stroll at 2 p.m. Sara’s husband, Wellsboro Home Page’s John Vogt, will be master of ceremonies. The panel of judges features some of Wellsboro’s favorite people—Larry Biddison, Rachel Tews from The Fifth Season, Sara Vogt, and Mountain Home’s very own publisher, Teresa Banik Capuzzo.

Now, before you shrug off this opportunity because you don’t know much about Victorian period clothing, read on. Accuracy or authenticity of the outfits really won’t play that large a role in the judging. Most anything that could be described as “old-fashioned” could work, advise the Biddisons, who offer a yearly costume workshop to give guidance in how to play along at Dickens.

See Dickens on page 18

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“No jeans, sneakers, or ski jackets,” Larry laughs. “But nobody is going to say, ‘Oh, that’s not Victorian, it’s Elizabethan,’ or any such thing.”

Consider Larry and Barbara. The outfits they wear are, for the most part, adaptations of clothing anyone has in his or her closet. The red velvet cape that covers Barbara’s shoulders is actually a Christmas tree skirt. Larry made a cut-away jacket with an old suit coat and a handful of safety pins. His walking stick is a combination of wood, duct tape, and plastic wrap. Okay, his top hat is the genuine article. Good thing, as that would have been tough to make (except for Christine Moore, of course).

Dust ruffles from bed covers, tablecloths, curtains, doilies, and such provide a treasure trove of the type of material and look you want. A strip of lace to cover the top of a turtleneck, a hat pinned up in back to make a bonnet, a wool coat, and you are ready to stroll. “Not everyone needs to look like the gentry,” adds Larry. “There should always be scruffy looking street urchins and working class folks.”

“Dress warm,” advises Barbara. “Your feet are the coldest part. We often use hand warmers in our socks. And some of those elegant long skirts are hiding sweatpants or long underwear.”

The Best Dressed Contest is meant to add to the celebratory nature of the day. Larry and Barbara can tell dozens of stories of the fun they have had while in costume. “From the first year, people would ask if they could take our picture,” says Larry. “We would tell them there was a fee and you could see their faces fall—until we told them the cost was to tell us where they came from. It always started a great conversation.”

Unlike reenactors, who often adopt the persona of a historical figure, the folks at Dickens are still themselves. The Biddisons say it does happen that a friend or neighbor wants to talk about something current, but, as Barbara remarks, “most of them want to stay in the moment with us and have fun.”

The costumes play perfectly into the plays, songs and skits that happen throughout the day. “We’ve had just about everything from a snake oil salesman to firemen with a pulled hose cart rescuing a person from a second floor window. ‘Put-pockets,’ the opposite of pickpockets, have been known to slip a schedule of performances into folks’ jackets. People do poems and songs and you can always find the characters from A Christmas Carol,” says Larry. Ebenezer Scrooge himself has been known to scowl his way up and down the street, bestowing hunks of coal to anyone brave enough to wish him “Merry Christmas.” Hamilton Gibson Productions will present A Christmas Carol at the Coolidge Theater and the Warehouse Theater several times throughout the day; Friday evening the Hamilton Gibson Choirs will perform.

Tickets may be purchased at the door. For more information and a full schedule of activities, call the Wellsboro Chamber of Commerce at (570) 724-1926 or visit www.wellsboropa.com.

So don’t sweat the costume details. But do tap into your inner Victorian and make plans to kick your holiday spirit into high gear in the prettiest little town in Pennsylvania.

Maggie Barnes is a recipient of both the IRMA and the Keystone Press Award for her columns in Mountain Home. She lives in Waverly, New York.

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Childhood cravings: For generations, children like Don Knaus (not pictured) have dreamt of tearing open that tall, slim gift to find a shiny scouting tool—a gun.

An Outdoor Christmas

When the Hunt Becomes More Than Shooting Guns

By Don Knaus

I

love old movies. I’ve seen the best of them numerous times, and I pine away for those days when life was more romantic. I just saw White Christmas for maybe the fiftieth time. I always get a tear in my eye at the end. Same with It’s a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th Street. They bring a flood of memories of wonderful Christmases past. I love Christmas.

I remember going on the hill behind Peake’s Gas Station. Some pensioners remember Peake’s place, a long-gone full-service station.

Putnam Oil offices now sit where the gas pumps filled your tank at twenty-three cents a gallon. My church youth group bought all the pine trees we wanted from old man Peake at fifty cents apiece. We sawed the trees down, loaded them onto a flatbed truck borrowed from Patterson’s Lumber Company, and took them to our church parking lot where we sold them for two dollars apiece. While we were cutting the trees, we noticed lots of rabbit signs and, after Christmas, Dad and I assailed the bunnies with beagles and a cadre of good friends.

I remember finding an old J.C. Stevens .22 rifle under the

20

tree. I had longed for a .22 for some time and, somehow, Dad had found the few shekels necessary to purchase it for me. I was pleased to no end. You couldn’t wipe the smile off my face all Christmas day. The next day, Dad and I threw our deer hides into the trunk of the car and headed toward Galeton. In those days, Smith’s Gloves of Galeton would take your raw deer hide in exchange for a pair of deerskin gloves. I’ve never found gloves that would begin to measure up to Smith of Galeton gloves since. Even soaking wet, they kept your hands warm. On that trip I took my .22. Along the way, I spied a grouse sitting on a tree limb. I asked Dad to stop and I got out, slowly stalking and sneaking toward it. I took the shot and Mr. Grouse fell to the snow. My first shot from that used .22 brought some game home—thanks to Christmas.

Just like the song’s opening lines, we were all dreaming of a white Christmas. It was that romantic thing about snow on Christmas, but it also made rabbit hunting easier. In those days, a midnight Christmas Eve church service was a must. I recall with a lump in my throat those evening services. So many times, there was

not a speck of snow when we entered church at eleven o’clock. The service was one of those hour-and-a-half “high church” marathons.

So when the rites ended with “Joy to the World,” it really was Christmas and the Lord had come. All the congregants hugged and shook hands and repeated “Merry Christmas” over and over. And it had started snowing. Huge flakes sailed down from the heavens just like those angels 2,000 years ago. The service, the warmth of community, and the snow made it Christmas.

The season was a time for family. My extended family always gathered at a relative’s home to kick off the holiday following the church service. The merrymaking might be at Aunt Catherine’s or Aunt Louise’s or Aunt Flossie’s place. But, after I started hunting, we always gathered at Cousin Louie’s. The festivities involved singing carols to a player piano and imbibing Louie’s hard cider.

With the snow, a rabbit hunt was in the offing for the day after Christmas. In between songs and sips, hunts were organized and plans were finalized. After a couple of glasses of the potent cider, Louie insisted on frying up some eggs and venison steak so that the gathering had breakfast before the party broke up. Of course, the men gathered in the kitchen to kibbutz and to retell deer hunting stories. It was Christmas.

The season was also a time for friends and forgiveness. The Christmas I was seventeen, I had had a foolish fight with my best friend, Artie. We were both stubborn and hadn’t spoken to each other for a month. I’d been a jerk and he had followed suit. After the midnight service, before I went to Louie’s place, I stopped at Artie’s home. I had worshipped at Trinity but I knew that he would have gone to the service at St. Paul’s. I knocked on the door and Artie answered. I simply said, “Artie, I’m sorry.” He hugged me and the friendship was tighter than it had ever been. I invited him to Louie’s where he was introduced to hard cider, “We Three Kings,” and “Star of the East.” The day after Christmas, Artie and I joined my Dad and Louie and Craig for a rabbit hunt. A few days later, we all munched on fried rabbits while we watched Penn State play football. It became a ritual for a few years—bunny busting and eating rabbit at Artie’s place. A few years later, I was his best man. And that wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for family, friends, and a thing called forgiveness given freely out of love—love at Christmas.

And the time is for giving and receiving. On our first Christmas, my lovely bride allowed me to purchase a Remington Model 700 BDL 30-06 (she let me get it a month before the holiday so I could use it for the coming deer season). I got the rifle mounted and bore-sighted, equipped with a Leupold Gold Ring 3x9 variable scope, and a box of shells—all for $200. That ought to tell you just how many Christmases ago it was. Over the years, I’ve killed fifty-plus deer with that rifle, and it’s still the only deer rifle I use. Okay, forty-six years later, I need a rest for my rifle and I need to remind myself to squeeze the trigger and not jerk it.

Yes, I love Christmas and all those warm outdoor memories.

May you have a happy holiday. And, to quote Tiny Tim, “God bless us, every one.”

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Santa Claus is Coming to Williamsport

Actually, It Will be Santa Clauses, and the Thomas T. Taber Museum Plays Host

By Gary W. Parks

I

n my mind, the Christmas season and the anticipation of Santa’s arrival began the day the Sears Wish Book appeared in the mailbox. And, oh, what a glorious book it was—filled with the heart’s desire of many a child! I was careful to write the item’s name and the page number on my list, which was promptly posted to Santa.

And then the wait for the “jolly old elf ” began.

This year, the wait will be a little shorter, as the Thomas T. Taber Museum of the Lycoming County Historical Society (www. tabermuseum.org) will exhibit a display of Santa Claus figures from Saturday, December 3, through Saturday, January 7.

Children have been waiting for Santa Claus and his European counterparts for centuries. The origins of the appearance of a kindly man who would bring presents to good boys and girls probably

24

started with stories surrounding the gift-bestowing, benevolent St. Nicholas. However, the Dutch figure of Sinterklaas, the French Pere Noel, and Babbo Natale in Italy certainly influenced the images that emerged. Though the United States had embraced European Santa traditions, perhaps the largest influence on the popular perception of Santa was a campaign by Coca Cola, which commissioned the illustrator Haddon Sundblom to create an image of Santa Claus.

Sundblom used Clement Moore’s classic poem A Visit from St. Nicholas (’Twas the Night Before Christmas)—composed during a sleigh ride, for inspiration. The poem, first published in the Troy, New York, Sentinel on December 23, 1823, portrayed St. Nick as a warm, friendly, pleasantly plump, and human Santa.

“My Hat’s Off” was the first of Sundblom’s Santas. It appeared in ads during December 1931 to remind people that Coke could

be consumed all year ’round, not just on summer afternoons. Sundblom’s artistic renderings quickly became the standard for depictions of the “jolly old elf.” In the January 1, 1881, edition of Harper’s Weekly, illustrator and political cartoonist Thomas Nast published an image that endures as the popular image of Santa—the one with a fat belly, rosy cheeks, white mustache, and beard.

In 1897, eight-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon questioned her father, Dr. Philip O’Hanlon, about the truth—did Santa exist? O’Hanlon suggested that she write to The Sun, a prominent New York City newspaper of the time, assuring her that “if you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Editor Francis Church framed his famous answer in an editorial entitled “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”

To place the answer in twenty-first century vernacular, his reply went viral.

Santa’s opposite, a Belsnickel, might also make a Christmas-time visit to deposit lumps of coal in the stocking of a naughty child. Belsnickel originated in the Rhineland and came to America with the Pennsylvania Germans. In this tradition, Belsnickel

visited homes prior to Christmas and knew exactly which children had misbehaved!

A rap on the window or door prompted the children to answer a question or sing a song. In exchange for the performance, candies would be thrown on the floor. If the children jumped too quickly for the treats, Belsnickel might switch them. Although he may seem like a harsh character, children anticipated his annual return.

Perhaps the oldest Santa in the Taber Museum exhibit is a cloth depiction based on Nast’s rendition of Santa. Edwin Peck of Brooklyn, New York, designed the fabric pattern for a cut-and-sew doll, which then would be put together and stuffed with a cotton and animal hair mixture. He offered this to the public in December 1886.

Toy companies quickly realized the potential for selling dolls resembling the lovable character. Albert Schoenhut, a German immigrant, began producing toys in Philadelphia in 1872. His company led the market in the production of flexible toys, including a fully accessorized circus.

They ultimately increased production to produce dolls, dollhouses, blocks, and wooden toys. A Schoenhut roly poly toy,

circa 1910, has been loaned to this exhibit and features a round Santa.

An important Santa, recently donated to the permanent collection, is a mechanized version that once delighted shoppers at the L.L. Stearns Department Store in downtown Williamsport. He is not traditionally dressed, clothed instead in a light turquoise jacket, breeches, and white boots accented with gold roses.

A number of signed collector’s items have also been loaned to the museum. Sue Miller produced a tall and lanky Father Christmas, and Sharon Tishler of Benton designed a Santa with a long scroll—no names written on it. Kay Stamm of Mifflinburg created Belsnickels, based on original designs.

Admission to the museum is $7.50 for adults, $6 for senior citizens (sixty-five and over), and $5 for children three to twelve years old. The museum is located at 858 W. Fourth St.; Phone (570) 326-3326.

Gary W. Parks is the executive director of the Thomas T. Taber Museum.

SALES • SERVICE • PARTS w w w. s i m m o n s - r o c k w e l l . c o m 25

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 2 ALL DAY Sales & Discounts 9am-5pm Dickens Photos $ 10am-4pm Indoor Book Sale 10am-6pm Festival of Trees 3-8pm Indoor Craft Show 3-8pm Indoor Craft Show 3:30-5pm Dickens Eve Home & House Tour Check-in $ 4:30-7:30pm Dickens of a Dinner $ 7pm Special Movie “It’s a Wonderful Life” 7-9pm VESTA Craft Show & Sale 7:30pm H-G “Dickens of a Concert” Sponsored by Wellsboro Electric SATURDAY, DECEMBER 3 ALL DAY Sales & Discounts ALL DAY Warm-Up House 8-10am Breakfast w/Father Christmas $ 8am-4pm Indoor Craft Show 9am Wellsboro High School Dickens Choir 9am-4pm Indoor Craft Show 9am-4pm Model Train Show 9am-4pm Vendors Open - Street Musicians 9am-4:30pm Indoor Craft Show 9am-5pm Dickens Photos $ 9:30am-3pm Trolley Tours to Highland Chocolates 10am-2pm Alternative Christmas Fair 10am-2pm Open House - Refreshments 10am Victorian Stroll 10am-3pm Refreshments & Live Music 10am-3pm Open House 10am-3pm VESTA’s Holiday Art Show & Sale 10am-4pm Indoor Book Sale 10am-4pm Clara’s Court with Story Time, Crafts & Nutcracker character 10am-6pm Festival of Trees 10:30am H-G Productions - “ A Christmas Carol” $ Sponsored by Fifth Season & Indigo Extreme Internet

Area Merchants Deane Center Lobby Green Free Library Goodwill Lobby, Wellsboro Plaza United Methodist Church Wellsboro Senior Center Deane Center

8 3 12 10 11 8

Trinity Lutheran Church Arcadia Theatre Gmeiner Art Center St. Peter’s Catholic Church

2 9 3 15

Area Merchants Arcadia Theatre Parking Lot Trinity Lutheran Church Wellsboro Senior Center Arcadia Theatre United Methodist Church St. Paul’s Episcopal Church Main Street Firemen’s Annex Deane Center Lobby First Citizens Community Bank First Presbyterian Church Tussey Mosher Funeral Home Deane Center United Methodist Church Tioga County Historical Society Gmeiner Art Center Green Free Library Deane Center Lobby

13 8 16 4 6 8 10 5 3 3 8

Goodwill Lobby, Wellsboro Plaza Coolidge Theatre

12 8

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Annual

Dickens of a Christmas

Map

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Christmas trees on Main Street, compliments of

First Heritage Credit Union

Seeds of Hope Drive sponsored by Shell Appalachia

WWW.WOCENERGY.COM

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11am 11am & 1:45pm 11am-2pm 11am & Noon 1pm 1pm 1:30pm 2pm 2pm & 3pm

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3:40pm 4pm

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4pm 5pm 5:30pm 7pm

H-G Productions - “ A Christmas Carol” $ Sponsored by Fifth Season & Indigo Extreme Internet Special Movie “It’s a Wonderful Life” Open House - Refreshments New Heights Dance Theatre perform Nutcracker in Motion H-G Productions - “ A Christmas Carol” $ Sponsored by Fifth Season & Indigo Extreme Internet New Heights Dance Theatre perform Nutcracker in Motion H-G Productions - “ A Christmas Carol” $ Sponsored by Fifth Season & Indigo Extreme Internet Victorian Stroll New Heights Dance Theatre perform Nutcracker in Motion Wellsboro Men’s Chorus Wellsboro Women’s Chorus H-G Productions - “ A Christmas Carol” $ Sponsored by Fifth Season & Indigo Extreme Internet Combined Chorus Sing-a-long H-G Productions - “ A Christmas Carol” $ Sponsored by Fifth Season & Indigo Extreme Internet Choral Evensong Service Candlelight Walk for Peace Tree Lighting Ceremony Special Movie “It’s a Wonderful Life”

Warehouse Theatre

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Arcadia Theatre 9 Green Free Library 3 Deane Center’s Main Street Window 8 Warehouse Theatre

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Deane Center’s Main Street Window 8 Coolidge Theatre

8

Deane Center 8 Deane Center’s Main Street Window 8 Arcadia Theatre Arcadia Theatre Coolidge Theatre

9 9 8

Arcadia Theatre Warehouse Theatre

9 14

St. Paul’s Episcopal Church Packer Park to Green The Green Arcadia Theatre

7 11 1 9

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 4 Noon-5pm Festival of Trees Goodwill Lobby, Wellsboro Plaza 12 1:45pm Special Movie “It’s a Wonderful Life” Arcadia Theatre 9 2:30pm H-G Productions - “ A Christmas Carol” Black Box Theatre 8 $ Sponsored by Fifth Season & Indigo Extreme Internet ***TOUR BUS PARKING ..............................................................................17 AND MUCH MORE... Impromptu Performances, Concerts, Poetry & Skits will take place as the Christmas Spirit moves throughout the Community!

WHEELAND LUMBER COMPANY, INC.

27

Bernadette Chiaramonte-Brown

Curt Weinhold

The Light of December

“I Bill Crowell

Deb Behm 28

n the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, / earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; / snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, / in the bleak midwinter, long ago.” Christina Gabriel Rossetti, in her poem “In the Bleak Midwinter,” follows those cold lines with the warmth of the Babe in the manger, born to spread his light into her heart.

But regardless of your faith, December is—for all of us—the month of light, with or without the capital L, as the calendar turns on the solstice and the sun graces us with lengthening days. Light returns. Hope grows.

In all of that, all of us here at Mountain Home wish all of you a season of joy and peace.

Bernadette Chiaramonte-Brown

Santa Claus is Coming to Town An exhibit at the

Thomas T. Taber Museum of the Lycoming County Historical Society 858 West Fourth Street, Williamsport

Sat., Dec. 3, 2016—Sat., Jan. 14, 2017 Tim McBride

A loan exhibit of Santas from members of the community.

Be sure and visit our Art Gallery, Lumber Gallery, Hall of Industry, and the Shempp Toy Train Collection

www.tabermuseum.org • 570.326.3326

Curt Weinhold 29

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Memorable mail: Patrick O'Connor (with wife, Mary) provides buyers with masterpiece mail.

For the Love of Paper Developing Connections Through Art

By Maggie Barnes

“C

orresponding is a lost art.” It may sound like a strange thing for an art gallery owner to say, but Mary O’Connor and her husband, Patrick, have a special connection to the written word. They opened the 60 East Gallery almost exactly a year ago on Market Street, featuring Patrick’s large canvases as well as the work of other painters, sculptors, and glass workers. But it is Patrick’s smaller paintings that bridge the space between the visual arts and the fading practice of sending paper mail.

The O’Connors’ son, Tyler, serves our nation as a Navy SEAL. When he deployed overseas, they wanted to send him something that would truly represent his home and all he, and his comrades, are fighting for. They wanted him to know how very proud they are of him.

So Patrick used masking tape to frame the front half of a sheet of watercolor paper, folded into a note card, and painted within that frame. He recalled the pastoral scenes of his family’s heritage in Ireland and their love of being in the woods.

“When you create something that is truly personal and you add words that come straight from your heart, as Mary does, you have sent more than a card,” says Patrick. “You have sent them a tangible piece of home.”

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The cards are true works of art, and framing them is the perfect way to keep them safe and preserve the cherished words inside.

“Tyler will group three of them in the order in which they came and frame them together,” Mary says. Other folks have turned the cards into wine bottle labels.

The O’Connors have shared their passion for paper mail with school children in Elmira. Bringing a stack of blank cards, paints, and a hair dryer, they have taught them to make their own masterpieces. “When we pull the tape off and they see what they created as a real card to be mailed, they are amazed,” Patrick smiles.

For the rest of us, the cards are available for purchase at the Gallery or online (www.60eastgallery.com). 60 East also, of course, sells the art adorning the walls. Mary and Patrick, who both work full time jobs in the fitness industry, strive to feature artists not represented elsewhere on Market Street. Open primarily on the weekends, the O’Connors are hoping to tap into area colleges to find students who will help them expand their hours, while gaining gallery management experience.

“Art is about connections between people,” Mary says, “and we enjoy helping that engagement happen.”

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33

The Gift of Music

The Todd Thomas Music Scholarship Gives Back to Chemung County

By Teresa Banik Capuzzo

A

s the rest of us are preparing for the holiday season, opera baritone Todd Thomas is at this moment in Winnipeg, Manitoba, preparing for the title role in Verdi’s Falstaff.

2016 has been a busy and far-flung year for the Elmira-born singer, and it’s not over yet. Antibes, France, is up next on his schedule this month. But, after Christmas with his wife and kids in Philadelphia, his musical year will end closer to home and to heart on Thursday, December 29, at 7:00 p.m. at Elmira’s Park Church, with his fourth annual “Home for the Holidays” concert.

One hundred percent of the proceeds will go to the Todd Thomas Music Scholarship; the twenty-dollar seats are available at the door or in advance by calling the church at (607) 733-9104.

Todd speaks with unchecked affection about the Elmira area. “The reason I do this scholarship is that I think they have the best music teachers of anywhere in the country,” says Todd.

“This area is really blessed.”

His vocal education started in elementary school music class, taught by Marjorie MacPherson. “She was very inspiring. She 34

did two- and three-part solfège singing that has now gone by the wayside. You learn better when you learn music in that way,” says Todd of education in general. “You comprehend and reason. So much of the process of learning is enhanced by music education.”

His junior high school teacher, Jacqueline Coon, taught him as his voice was changing. And it was in junior high that he did his first solo performance: two verses of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” in the Christmas concert. Encouraged to enter the New York State School Music Association (NYSSMA) competition, Jackie Coon suggested he take voice lessons, and so he did. “My first voice teacher was Helen Pletsch, who now lives in Victoria, British Columbia,” says Todd. He visits her whenever his performance travel lands him in her neighborhood.

As he got more deeply into music, he started thinking, “I kinda want to do this.” But “this” was teach music, since every musical performer he knew was a music teacher by day. It wasn’t until he got to high school at Elmira Free Academy, taught by music teacher Larry Aderfer and influenced by band teacher Lou

Coccognia, that, “I realized you could major in voice.”

He has not forgotten one of his instructors. “It’s important to tell teachers from forty years ago that they made an impact on you,” he says with the voice of someone who knows. “Bob Gazzara was very inspiring. He was conductor of the Elmira Symphony Choral Society (now part of the Orchestra of the Southern Finger Lakes). Kimber Billow was a teacher at Southside High School. All of these people have stayed in touch with me.

It has been very endearing and important to me.”

But he gives the most credit to his parents, Zelda Thomas Gabel, who now lives in Addison, New York, and his father Donald, who passed away in 1981. “I would not have had any career in music without them,” he says. “In 1969 it was difficult for my family to see a way financially for me to take piano lessons, which I wanted so badly. Mary Mattoon agreed to teach me for half her fee, if I was serious and would practice. For more than six years my mom paid $2.50 for a half hour piano lesson, which often lasted closer to an hour.”

This is why Todd Thomas wants to give away scholarships.

And this is why you will get the opportunity to hear his rich Verdi baritone in his hometown during Christmas week. “What’s important about this is that this is about payback for me. It wasn’t just the music teachers, but the whole non-academic musical society. The whole county made a big influence on my education.

So I mentioned this idea to Mary Jane [Eckel, president of the board of directors of the Corning Civic Music Association] five years ago. I was tired of waiting for Elmira to invite me back to sing,” he adds with a chuckle.

Music has expanded into his own family. Wife Lisa Helmel Thomas, a singer by training now studying at the Lutheran Theological Seminary of Philadelphia, will be appearing with Todd in Elmira (His Philadelphia accompanist Jeff Uhlig, from the Settlement Music School, will also be in attendance.)

Sons Samuel, seventeen, and Noah, nine, are both members of the Keystone State Boy’s Choir in Philadelphia, and will accompany mom and dad to New York for the week. Besides his mom in Addison, Todd’s sister lives in Horseheads, and Lisa is from Pittsford, so the scholarship concert has become a happy sidelight for the peripatetic singer. “By putting this date on my calendar, it gives me a chance to get home every year.” (Whether or not oldest daughter Lydia, a Temple University graduate who works in production for the QVC Home Shopping Network, or Gabriella, a member of Temple’s crew team, will make the trip is still up in the air, given their own holiday commitments.)

All graduating seniors who live in Chemung County and are pursuing music in college are eligible to apply for the $1,000 scholarship (and a performance opportunity with Todd) with a YouTube video audition. Todd and a panel of impartial judges make the selection. Ironically, a voice performer has not yet won the competition; so far, a saxophonist, a percussionist, and a flute player have all been awarded the prize. Encouragement awards of $500 have also been awarded as the fund has grown with some generous donations, says Todd, especially “if there is someone really deserving and someone we think would benefit.”

For more information about the scholarship fund or the concert visit www.ToddThomasBaritone.com.

And of course most of the musical community that created Todd Thomas the musician will be in the audience. “It’s a big emotional thrill for me,” says Todd quietly, “with all these dear people.”

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The Twelve Wines of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me...a Nice Riesling?

By Maggie Barnes

H

e (or she) would if he knew about the awesome bottles waiting in New York’s Finger Lakes region.

So we asked Seneca Lake vineyard folks to name a fave wine for the holidays, and then recommend a bottle from a neighboring winery. The answers, presented in no particular order, will serve you well in this season of cozy gatherings, unexpected visits, and quiet moments of warmth.

Members of of Lakewood Winery’s Stamp family did not hesitate a moment.

“Our favorite for the holidays is the newly released 2015 Chardonnay,” says Liz Stamp.

“It is rich and buttery with a nuanced oak and lovely fruit expression. Great with holiday foods or as a satisfying wine to sip by the fire.” As for the best from another winery, Liz likes the Fox Run Lemberger.

“They do a great job with that grape.”

Chris Missick of Villa Bellangelo agrees the holidays call for good wine.

“When I want to share a special bottle from our cellar to elevate gatherings, I generally pull out our 2012 reserve riesling,” Chris says. “A special limited production wine, we are still selling this gem in the tasting room.” As for a non-Villa bottle? “A bottle from Kemmeter. Johannes crafts spectacular

wines, and his entry level riesling, Sonero, is a bright, beautiful treat!”

Jeff Dill, owner and winemaker at JR Dill, thinks the holidays call for a little glitz.

“I would have to say our Cayuga Sparkling, known as Cayuga White Rise. The holidays are about celebrating and what better to celebrate with than sparkling wine? It also pairs well with a diverse array of dishes on the table.” When it comes to another’s best, “I would choose the rosé from Atwater. I love sipping chilled rosé on Seneca Lake!”

G l e n o r a’s w i n e m a k e r, S t e v e DiFrancesco, says, “I love the Glenora riesling for the holidays because the semidry finish is appealing to both dry and sweet wine drinkers, and it goes with many types of food, from turkey to ham to vegetarian.”

Getting a bit sweeter, he also enjoys the Valvin muscat from Lakewood. “It’s very flavorful with a medium sweet finish and will go with all kinds of meals.”

The idea of sparkle appeals to Evan Miles as well. A third generation winemaker and vintner at Miles Wine Cellars, he recommends their Cache, made from early harvest riesling and described as “very fruit forward.” It is, he says, “festive and fun and brings out the flavor of holiday meals.” As See Wines on page 41

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A Very Barnes Christmas

Falling Trees, Flying Crosses and—Hopefully—Spiked Eggnog at the Ready

By Maggie Barnes

“D

id you clear the door yet?” Bob was dragging the trunk of the evergreen into the living room. I was wrestling with the top half of the fifteen-footer and the answer was no, I was not yet inside the door.

We did it again. Cut down another beast of the forest to be the centerpiece of our Christmas celebration. It was our fifth holiday season on the hill, and our confidence was growing that we had developed a nearly infallible system to choose, cut, and stand a majestic evergreen against the wall of glass that encases the front of our home.

We always did our reconnaissance trip in October, when the warmth of the autumn sun made selecting a tree comfortable.

Gone were the days of freezing off various body parts until one of us gritted our teeth and said, “Yes, it does look like it’s diseased, but we can cut that part out. Let’s go.”

This year, the crop had been bountiful, so we took our time and got a nearly perfect specimen. Waiting for us in the front room were the bucket, bricks, twine, and sand that were the essential tools for securing the tree. While we had gotten much better at doing this over the years, I still had trepidations as I pulled on my gloves and prepped myself for battle.

The system was deceptively simple: jam the stump of the tree into the bucket, stand the thing upright, use the bricks and sand to steady the tree in the bucket, tie the top portion to the ceiling beams and, when the seismic activity calmed, cut the ropes to unfurl the tree.

My role in this operation was also easy: don’t let the damn thing fall. It was my job to steady the tree by hanging on to the trunk while Bob locked it into place. Often, we resembled firsttime Twister players as he crawled around between my feet while I performed an awkward ballet, jumping over him and switching hands on the tree. We would certainly never win any style points,

38

but we got the job done. Conversation during this process is usually frowned upon, as we are both in deep concentration on our respective duties. What is said is not exactly poetic.

“No, your other left. My right!”

“Move your feet, Mags, I can’t get…”

“Ow!” “Sorry! The brick slipped.”

“Are we back, ya know, toward the glass thing?”

“You mean the window?”

“Don’t get snarky with me, pal. I’m being blinded by evergreen spears here.”

“Tis the season to be impaled.”

“Oh, stuff it!”

The words of love.

This year, things were going suspiciously well. It’s like when your toddler has been an angel for the entire church service, but you just know, come the sharing of the peace, he is going to spit up in the rector’s hand.

The tree stood, accompanied by a chorus of our grunting, but the darn thing wouldn’t stop. It went beyond vertical, continuing toward the windows, while Bob fought to control the weighted bucket with his foot. “Too far! Bring it forward!”

I marshaled my meager strength and shoved the tree back.

What I didn’t see, through my sweat and needle-filled eyes, was that the tree, while colliding with the windows, had hooked its boughs behind the crucifix that adorned the center beams of the glass.

The cross had been handed to me when I was ten years old, on the day of my godmother’s funeral. It had hung in every home I had lived in since. It was simple by today’s standards—just a brass cross with the figure of Jesus, encased in a wood frame. When we moved into this house, it fit perfectly on the wood beams of the front windows, and I felt secure with it watching over us.

The evergreen, clearly an atheist, had latched onto the cross and, when we brought the tree forward again, it ripped the crucifix from the beam and flung it into the air.

Bob and I, both helpless to do more than watch, shared a panicked look as the cross performed a perfect mid-air somersault and crashed to the hardwood floor, skidding a solid eight feet into the foyer.

Silence.

A voice that vaguely sounded like mine whispered, “Oh, no.” The tree began to shift again and my attention was back on keeping my grip on it. I leaned around the greenness and found Bob looking back at me. “This is probably not good,” he panted.

“Now, we’ve angered both Santa Claus and God.” “I’ve always wanted to spend Christmas in Belize,” I shrugged, doubtful that we could ever outrun this batch of yuletide karma.

We tied the tree into submission and went to assess the damage to the cross. The wood was split all the way down the back and the brass section of the cross was bent. But the worst part was the fact that Jesus’ left hand was nowhere to be seen. “Well,” Bob chirped, “at least it’s not his right hand. You know how God is about that.” I elbowed him in the stomach with a glare. “Don’t say things like that! We don’t have insurance against a plague of locusts! You think Allstate covers bleeding walls? Don’t think so!

We’re in real trouble here!"

A search commenced for the missing hand, but it only turned up two guilty-looking felines. I shook a finger at them. “Did you eat Jesus’ hand?” Okay, I admit it. I would have lost a lot of money betting against the likelihood of ever saying those words. “I don’t think they ate it, but I suspect they batted it around and dropped it down the floor vent,” Bob said, peering into the dusty abyss of our heating system. Whatever its fate, the left hand of our Lord and Savior was never recovered. Bob straightened up after another search attempt and looked at the tree, boughs gracefully stretching as it settled into form.

“It’s probably cursed now. Bet we come out in the morning and there’s nothing but mounds of needles on the floor. The tree will fling itself off the deck in remorse.”

I do not take heavenly matters lightly, so I was soon in contact with our favorite member of the clergy, Father Hunter, for guidance. “The tree did what?” His deep laughter filled my ear. “The heathen!”

“I know, I should have asked its denomination before bringing it home. They’re natives of Germany, right? Maybe it’s a Lutheran,” I surmised.

Father roared again and then settled into his comforting, pastoral tone. “Maggie, God isn’t nearly as concerned with such things as we are. But, for your own peace of mind, have the crucifix unblessed and then you can dispose of it with a clear conscience.

God doesn’t want you losing sleep over this.”

That’s what we did, and this year there is a new cross in the front room. It’s a little more modern than its predecessor, with a low profile design that hugs the beam it is gracing. It does not have hands.

I’ve already got enough to explain when I get to Heaven.

Maggie Barnes is a recipient of both the IRMA and the Keystone Press Award for her columns in Mountain Home. She lives in Waverly, New York.

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Wines continued from page 37

for another winery, Evan goes to the opposite end of the flavor scale. “Lakewood does a wonderful port. It’s a ruby style and goes great with heavier meals with lots of gravy.”

Bubbles make another appearance on the list of favorites from Atwater Winery. Manager Denise Clappier says the 2013 Blanc de Blanc looks great in a fluted glass. “Tiny, bright bubbles.

And it pairs well with so many foods,” she says. Owner Ted Marks completely loves the Governor’s Cup winner, the Billsboro syrah.

“The flavor genuinely picks up the flavors of the vineyard. It shows the winemakers' art by giving the blend of cab, sav, and syrah a creaminess unmatched in the Finger Lakes.”

The staff at Hector Wine Company had no trouble choosing a favorite. “Our 2015 syrah is the perfect holidays wine,” says Jennie Scarbrough. “It’s naturally fermented and unfiltered, a bare bones example of Finger Lakes terroir. The hints of spice on the palate will pair perfectly with the flavors of a holiday table.”

Damiani’s Bollicini is also a favorite among the Hector folks for holiday celebrations.

That 2015 syrah from Hector must be a good choice, as it is also the favorite bottle of the staff from Anthony Road when they aren’t drinking their own. “It was the consensus,” says tasting room manager Liz Castner. “As for our selections, we went with the 2015 rosé of Cabernet Franc. It’s colorful and dry, a perfect bright wine for celebrating.”

Make the 2015 syrah from Hector an excellent choice, as vintner Vinny Aliperti at Billsboro Winery also gave it his nod for best of other winery offerings. From Billsboro itself, he suggests the 2014 pinot noir. “Not only a great quaffing wine, but it is quite versatile on the holiday table...perfect with duck, lamb, and even pasta,” says Vinny.

The first merlot on the list comes from the collection at Wagner. Spokesperson Katie Roller says their 2013 offering has a great nose. “And since merlot is a cool climate grape, they only grow on the east side of Seneca Lake where the water is the deepest and the widest.” Standing Stone’s saperavi is a Wagner staff favorite.

“It is the darkest, inkiest red around,” Katie says. “Perfect for those cold nights and hearty stews.”

“The best wine is always the one in my glass,” says Marti Macinski, co-owner and winemaker at Standing Stone. Especially if that glass takes us back to the saperavi, Marti’s recommendation. “It has a crispness that goes great with everything, not just beefy dishes.”

And Wagner’s Caywood East Riesling gets a vote from Standing Stone. “People think riesling is just for warm weather and light foods. But it fits the holiday season so well. It’s a knockout bottle.”

Even though Fulkerson Winery is known for its juicy sweet series, winemaker Sayre Fulkerson admits to a drier palate, and thinks nothing goes better with holiday food than pinot noir. But, right now, “We have three different batches of Grüner Veltliner,” he says with excitement of the Austrian grape, “and we haven’t really decided how we are blending them.” As for a favorite neighbor: “Ravines Dry Riesling. That’s a nice one!”

So, forget the jingle bells this year. If you’ve been very good, you should hope for the clinking of Finger Lakes wine bottles in Santa’s sack. Happy Holidays!

Maggie Barnes is a recipient of both the IRMA and the Keystone Press Award for her columns in Mountain Home.

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And the Gift Tag Reads... ...Open Me Last

By Cornelius O’Donnell

O

ne or the other (or both) of the books I’m suggesting this month look like cookbooks when wrapped. Technically, they are culinary reference books: think dictionaries for cooks. Both have fascinating information for the folks on your list who just love to cook or bake. We all know one or two of those.

They frequently get cookbooks for gifts, so surprise them with one of these.

The reason I say that “open me last” should be on the gift tag is simple: once these books are opened and the recipients start flipping through the pages, you’re going to lose them. Perusing the contents, usually short paragraphs, is addictive. And, if the gift recipient is expected to produce a gala breakfast, the family might end up in the drive through line at Mickey D’s. Ergo: you’ve come to the perfect last-minute Christmas or Hanukah gift(s).

Yes, these two reference books are catnip to anyone interested in food. At least that’s what happens to me every time I open one to reference a food, a regional recipe, a classic restaurant, or trends in ingredients or techniques. I get my answer, and I can’t help it if my eye goes down to the next entry…and then the next…and so on. And I keep each handy for those times when I’m waiting for

42

a return phone call, or the cable guy, or dishwasher-repair person who has promised to materialize between one and five. Also—dare I mention in this column devoted to home cooking—the pizza delivery vehicle? (And when the pie arrives you will put a shower of that good Parmigiano-Reggiano that you hoard, along with the superior anchovies from Sicily preserved in good olive oil, as your final touch on the commercial pizza, won’t you?)

Hold On, I’ll Look It Up No question, there are lots of sources for recipes these days.

Just go to the Internet or the bookstore. But it’s more difficult to find an illustration of a pasta shape a recipe writer suggests. Or you wonder how to pronounce the name of an ingredient, or how many chopped green onions measure half a cup (for white-part only it’s five bulbs), and what are safe serving temperatures for various meats? These are some of the goodies you’ll find in The New Food Lover’s Companion written by Sharon Tyler Herbst and her husband Ron Herbst (Baron’s Press). Sadly, my dear friend Sharon died a few years ago, but her husband has carried on, revising and adding to the book’s contents. There are now 7,730 entries,

alphabetically arranged (from abalone to zwieback) and—from the introduction—“describing food, cooking techniques, herbs, spices, desserts, wines, and the ingredients for pleasurable dining.”

It is a treasure, and especially useful for an enthusiastic new-tocooking friend. (By the way, Ron has also written the excellent Wine Lover’s Companion.)

For example, the appendix in Food Lover’s is chock full of great info. I have many cookbooks from the U.K., so I find the metric equivalents and a dictionary of English vs. American terms jolly good. (Over there it’s butter muslin, here it’s cheesecloth; there you have cornflour, and here cornstarch. Fascinating.) There are charts in the book that illustrate each cut of meat, and a listing of which type of apple works best for baking, for pies, and the like. But wait, there’s more. Did you know that calamari is squid?

Hoisin sauce is reddish-brown, sweet, and spicy, and made with soybeans, garlic, chile peppers, and various spices. And I cherish the long illustrated list of pasta shapes and names. So useful.

The book was first published in 1987 with 3,000 entries, and then again, the entries expanded, in 1990, 1995. The current “new” edition (2013) is the fifth.

As for the pronunciation guide, for each entry I checked my favorite, and, for me, that was an Italian appetizer known as bruschetta. For years it has bugged me when anyone says “broo-SHEH-ta” instead of the correct “broo-SKEH-ta.” I know this because at one time none other than Elizabeth David, an Englishwoman and masterful writer of Mediterranean recipes, corrected me. One does not forget that. She then said dismissively: “It’s merely garlic bread, the toast rubbed with a peeled garlic clove and—maybe—a cut tomato.” Well, guess what? The book says both are correct. If only Ms. David were still around.

The five-page pasta glossary is such fun. Who knew (except an Italian) that linguine (lihn-GWEE-neh) means “little tongues.”

And if you ask for “little mustaches” in Rome you’ll get mostaccioli (moh-stah-CHYOH-lee).

You will need a large handbag or a capacious briefcase to schlepp this bulky book to your next restaurant meal. Go ahead, confound the wait staff.

Now, on to our next book, The Lexicon of Real American Food, from Jane and Michael Stern, the duo who brought you the Roadfood books, and published in 2011 by Lyons Press.

Food That’s Part of Everyday Life As you might guess, the Lexicon is quite different from the Herbst book, but in a funny way. The entries are listed alphabetically and range from “American Chop Suey” to “Wonder Bread” to “Ya-Ka-Mein.” The latter—also called Old Sober “for its power to cure a bout of drunkenness”—is an African-American dish made, surprisingly perhaps, with noodles. The phrase “who else would tell you these things?” is one that would nicely describe the book’s contents. I could, and have, wallowed in it for hours.

Again, this is a fascinating collection and though it isn’t truly a cookbook per se, it contains quite a few recipes. The book is also filled with profiles of cooking personalities. Julia Child and James Beard get (and deserve) two pages each; others the Sterns have encountered on their gastro-travels get one. I love these stories, especially the one about Frank Pepe who came to New Haven, Connecticut, in 1925 from Italy, and, by accident, took over a See Gift Tag on page 44 43

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bakery that made bread and pasta. He started making crispcrusted “tomato pies.” On the crust he put tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, and grated cheese. Anchovies were the only other option. They were an immediate hit, and the lore is that this is where pizza in America started. Ask any Yale grad and it will be confirmed.

250 Miles for a Hot Dog I was immediately drawn to the book because of a personal memory. Back in the ’50s my Dad would get an urge to have a Nathan’s Famous hot dog (or three or four). This meant a drive from Albany, down the (not yet completed) beautiful Taconic Parkway, over the Whitestone Bridge into Long Island, and down to Coney Island. He’d double park by the stand, thrust money into my hand and, as the eldest of four, off I’d go to the counter at Nathan’s Famous to get the dogs—so good back then—and the orange drinks. As I recall, it took several trips. After this, Dad drove up Surf Avenue and usually snagged a parking space under the boardwalk. We’d file out of the car (Mom didn’t participate in this gastronomic treasure hunt) and totter up the ramp to see the sea and the many food booths lining the boardwalk. On the way up we heard the robust cry from one eatery just off the boardwalk: “Appiza! Appiza!”—but it was pronounced differently to reflect its Neapolitan origin. Think “uh-Beetz.” The “p” was replaced by a “b” and the final “a” was gone. When I read that in one of the Stern’s columns, seventy years dropped away.

Boy, that tomato pie was great. (Maybe the salt air helped?)

I had one of those “I-Bitz,” as I called it, while the younger contingent went around the corner and in a few minutes returned with towering pink cotton candy wands.

The Taconic in those days was a winding road and those curves on the return trip were daunting for some. The less said the better.

Area Appearances On their travels, Jane and Michael visited our region.

Following their comments, let me sketch a food-tour for you.

Let’s sample first the pitza (not a spelling error) that’s found in the Hazelton, Pennsylvania, area. It’s got a soft crust spread to the edge with cheese and topped with a sweet sauce. It’s “moist and soft” when served fresh, but a “set aside” makes it better.

Make a detour south to Philadelphia and have a cheese steak at the birthplace of that now-widely-copied creation. Learn the right way to order it: “wit” or “witout” onion.

Next go north and stop in Binghamton for a spiedie, a variant of “meat-on-a-stick” and first made circa 1937 by an Italian immigrant. The book gives a recipe for this using lamb.

If you’re truly hungry then perhaps a side trip to Rochester for their famous “garbage plate.” Head west for Buffalo wings, “invented” in 1964. To make your own, cut the wings in half creating drumettes, pan-fry them, and serve them in a buttery hot sauce along with blue cheese dressing and celery sticks. For dessert, stay in Buffalo for sponge candy.

And, closer to Elmira, the authors cite the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher as condemning white bread as “soulless” with this observation: “What has been the staff of life for countless

44

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ages has become a weak crutch.”

Cornell Chicken “In 1946,” sayeth the Sterns, “Robert Blake, a University of Pennsylvania prof, [hurrah, I’m a class of ’63 grad] created something unusual to serve at a dinner for the state’s governor."

Later he moved to Cornell and the recipe (pictured above) was used at the State Fair. We’re told it’s been a hit for over five decades.

1 large egg

1 c. vegetable oil

2 c. cider vinegar

2 Tbsp. salt

1 Tbsp. poultry seasoning

1 tsp. pepper

1 chicken, disjointed Beat the egg well in a medium-sized bowl. Whisk in all remaining ingredients, except chicken. Set aside a cup of the sauce to use for basting the chicken as it cooks.

Rinse and pat dry the chicken parts. Make this totally local and place locally procured chicken in a shallow dish such as a CorningWare roaster or a Pyrex 9x3 pan. Coat the chicken with remaining sauce. Cover the dish (with foil if necessary), refrigerate for 24 hours.

Grill the chicken over a medium fire, basting frequently until an instant-read thermometer reads 170-180 degrees inserted in the meat, not touching the bone.

Conversation Starters Galore There are loads of conversation starters throughout the book.

For instance: Did you know that Thousand Island is the only dressing named for a region of the United States? And Twinkies are named after a shoe? The Twinkie-Toe brand, as a matter of fact. Whoopee Pie consists of two dark chocolate cakelike disks with a marshmallow fluff filling. The story goes that, when first served, the eater shouted “whoopee.”

Maybe you’re shouting that now when you realize you’ve come to the end of my story of two terrific books that make great gifts.

And I wish you the happiest of holidays.

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

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Mother Earth

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By Gayle Morrow

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o you’re out and about, enjoying an early winter trek. Your familiar paths look different with the leaves down and the ground all brown or snowy white. You see interesting trails through the woods you hadn’t noticed during the summer, cool rock formations that had been hidden by greenery, and little twists and turns in the creek that had not been so obvious when the streamside ferns and flowers were lush. And then—holy cow, what’s that? That great big honkin’ hornets’ nest right there, right where you’d been walking under it all summer.

When did that show up?

That distinctive conical paper nest is home to the baldfaced or white-faced hornet, which is really not a true hornet but a kind of yellow jacket. Dolichovespula maculata workers make the nest, which can house 400-700 of the little buggers, by chewing up naturally occurring fibers and mixing that glop with their saliva. Eewww. This activity takes place in early summer, following the work of a single, impregnated female who survives the winter and raises the first batch of workers by herself. You’ve got to respect her for that, even if the thought of it all scares the bee-jesus out of you.

For the past few summers I’d been noticing these hornets around the barn, although they didn’t have a nest there (believe me, I looked). They’d show up about mid-July, never really bothering me or the horses but just buzzing by as I was putting out hay or filling up the water barrels. I’d take a moment each day to fish out the unfortunates who had stopped for a swim in those barrels and found themselves in a watery jam.

“This has got to be good karma,” I’d say grimly, with my heart in my throat (I’m really, really afraid of bees) as I’d put a twig or a leaf into the water for then to climb on and then fling them none-to-gently to the ground, “You and your friends need to go play somewhere else.”

We had four large nests in our neighborhood this summer—one on the electric meter, of all places, that I’m pretty sure was built in a night. The omnivorous bald-faced are noted for their aggressive defense of their nests. Unlike honeybees, they can sting repeatedly and—here’s a neat trick—they can squirt venom from their stingers into the eyes of their adversaries.

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message that she was arriving in Mansfield by bus in a couple of days, and would they meet her in Mansfield and keep her for a few days? That was evidently her usual modus operandi. And of course, fresh sheets were put on the spare-room bed and she moved in. She announced she was retiring the next year and would like to move into the house, taking my late grandfather up on his 1930s promise. Would Mom and Dad arrange for it?

She would spend some weekends in Nelson planning and wasn't there a carpenter who could take the job on? So Mom was “clerk of the works” for the next year, making decisions and working with the carpenter, who was a retired master and friend who was a standby with the farm carpentry. George Learn was back to work full time, and Lill moved in.

However, tragedy struck again. Dad, forty-nine and happily mid-career in his thirteenth year as county commissioner, was stricken with a heart attack. He was hospitalized a month— then died. My memories of that period are of two levels—I was twelve. One was of total bleakness. He was so much fun. The other was the overwhelming kindness of our wonderful town.

I know Mother and the boys shared that feeling, and I think it was a lifesaver for Lill as well.

Lill was bereft with the rest of us. Mom was left with a farm, a full time job teaching in Elkland High School, three virtual teenagers—Tony was eleven—and all sorts of community involvement. She was named county commissioner to fill out Dad's term and then elected to two more terms after that. She loved carrying on his work, and her time in Wellsboro was a godsend to Aunt Lill as well. Never having driven, she rode the twenty miles to “the Boro” with Mom once a week or so for shopping or hair appointments or general interest. Thank heaven, we could get the Dodgers on the radio! She was a FAN. Then Cupid struck. Not once, but twice. Friends lined Mother up with state veterinarian Dr. Ross Wiley and they made a match. Then a childhood friend of Lill's returned to town from Detroit, loved seeing her again, and, entranced with Nelson once more, married Lill. She was 67, had never been married, and Harry Preston (not related to the other two Prestons in town) was thoroughly delightful. I wish it was a “happily ever after,” but Harry died within the year. Poor Lill. I think we all expected her to fold, but she squared up her shoulders, took driving lessons and enjoyed her new car and independence. Of course she was distraught. Bob still was the great love of her life, and hers and Harry's happiness had been so brief, but as she always had, she moved on. Lill always referred to the Corps of Engineers plans, first announced in 1948, to build the dam that flooded the lake and washed away our town, as the “damn dam,” but both she and Dad were gone before the major upheaval took place.

Lill's niece Margaret and her husband Morrie Lee came to Nelson at Lill's death to help with the settlement of Lill's estate.

Though appreciating the house, they lived in the Hudson Valley and had a lovely life, Penny was living in California and Robert Losey Lee was in Ohio, both with families, and the house would be a millstone for them. I was single and working in Mansfield; they knew the story about Grandpa's buying the house for Lill; so they gave it to me!

The old Losey House belonged in the New Nelson up in the Cowanesque Valley, where the town was resettled. So when

Bonnie Kyofski, one of the region’s leading folklore scholars and storytellers, is an emeritus education professor at Mansfield University.

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the Corps of Engineers condemned it, I moved it into the new town, restored it, and when my tax accountant asked me to marry him, I did, and we moved into it and were very happy there for ten years.

The restoration of the Beecher/ Lugg house was a bigger proposition, but we moved into it with Mother in 1990 and did a restoration there, too.

That house was moved up the hillside south of town on the edge of the old farm. At the foot of the hill, in the edge of the lake are the trees, barren now but still erect, that fronted the lovely old Losey House, now evolved and moved, but still part of Nelson. One of those trees is a favorite roost for a pair of bald eagles. I recall the 1776 contest for the national bird and wonder, “Is he there for Jesse, who helped inspire his choice back there in Philadelphia? Or for Jim, who fought to keep the Union together and helped build my beloved old town? Then I think of that memorial that was built in Dombas, Norway, in the 1980s to Bob Losey and five British citizens who died on another infamous day in April, 1940. That one states that its purpose is to give tribute to the friendship from other nations whose citizens gave their lives to help.

To American Friendship...three men I never knew, but for whom I've felt freedom blooming where they walked.

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

The Breath of Winter

By Bernadette Chiaramonte-Brown

M

arsh Creek Road is always a cool place to view exciting sunrises and sunsets any time of the year.

This morning was no exception. The sun coming up over the hill and the newly frosted trees made a magical wonderland. The cows were not fazed by the frosty cold and actually enhanced the scene with their steamy breath.

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