February 2016

E E R F he wind

as t

THE PIANO MAN A Kansas City Jazzman, A Russian Violinist, and a PA Love Story For Better or for Worse Be My Valentine The Coyote Huntress

By Maggie Barnes FEBRUARY 2016 1

Mansfield University is the only university in the state of Pennsylvania that is recognized as a member of the Council of Public Liberal Arts Colleges (COPLAC). COPLAC is a distinct and diverse consortium of public colleges and universities from across the United States and Canada. COPLAC limits its membership to one institution per state.

At Mansfield our students have the opportunity to collaborate with students from 28 other COPLAC schools on undergraduate research and projects, as well as participate in student exchanges and shared study-abroad programs. As a student member of the Pennsylvania State System of Higher Education (The State System), students also have the opportunity to engage with the other 13 state universities in joint educational, social and athletic events.

Mansfield University offers the best the state has to provide, while also offering unmatched opportunities through our COPLAC affiliation.

Mansfield Made‌Mountie Strong!

Volume 11 Issue 2

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The Piano Man

For Better or for Worse

By Maggie Barnes A Kansas City jazzman, a Russian violinist, and a PA love story.

By Maggie Barnes

Aging gracefully? It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

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Besting the Slopes

By Cornelius O’Donnell

Nothing stirs up an appetite like a ski day, and we have the perfect antidote.

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6 The Call Girl

Back of the Mountain

By Don Knaus When Sheri Baity hunts, coyotes cower.

By Sarah Wagaman The promise.

20 Be Mine

By Melinda L. Wentzel On Valentine’s Day, was there anything better than being a third grader?

Cover by Tucker Worthington; cover photo by Heather Mee.This page (from top): By Heather Mee; by Don Knaus; and by Paul Cross. .

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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, Melinda L. Wentzel 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 Administrative Assistant Amy Packard 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, 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.

TO ADVERTISE: E-mail info@mountainhomemag.com, or call us at (570) 724-3838.

AWARDS: Mountain Home has won 66 international and statewide journalism awards from the International Regional Magazine Association and the Pennsylvania NewsMedia Association for excellence in writing, photography, and design.

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. SUBSCRIPTIONS: For a one-year subscription (12 issues), send $24.95, payable to Beagle Media LLC, 25 Main St., 2nd Floor, Wellsboro, PA 16901 or visit www.mountainhomemag.com.

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The jazzman: Bram Wijnands, on piano and celeste, at the Coolidge Theatre in Wellsboro’s Deane Center.

6

The Piano Man

A Kansas City Jazzman, A Russian Violinist, and a PA Love Story

By Maggie Barnes

H

ow do you get world-class musicians to come spend part of their summers in a tiny mountain town in northern Pennsylvania?

You ask.

And it helps if the person doing the asking is an acclaimed maestro with an international resume that includes conducting a Grammy-nominated recording. Stephen Gunzenhauser, the music director and conductor of the Lancaster Symphony Orchestra, formerly head of the Delaware Symphony, was the first music man who fell in love with a little Pennsylvania town and brought all the rest, a summer troupe of celebrated musicians from around the world.

See Piano Man on page 8

7

8

Heather Mee www.heathermee.com

In session: Bram Wijnands playing at the Tioga County Courthouse during the Endless Mountain Music Festival. He has performed with EMMF every year since 2010.

Piano Man continued from page 7

The Endless Mountain Music Festival (EMMF) has been called the gem of the region’s performance calendar. But its founding music director and conductor calls it “summer camp for musicians.” Gunzenhauser seeks out innovative artists with the spirit to take the music to Main Street.

Specifically, Main Street, Wellsboro.

“I tell them we are uncompromising in the quality we seek for the festival and that we are open to all kinds of music,” Gunzenhauser relates, making it sound deceptively simple to corral some of the world’s most accomplished musicians to come to a place they have never heard of.

Bram Wijnands must have wonderful memories of summer camp as a child, because a pianist, composer, and arranger of his caliber could go anywhere to play during the golden days of late July, and he chooses to come to Wellsboro.

Maestro Gunzenhauser’s recruitment plan can be compared to a cheerful Amway scheme. The musicians he recruits go back to their respective circles and rave about the experience to their colleagues. This word-of–mouth strategy results in new performers who, before they arrive, have already been exposed to the gospel on the mount that is EMMF. After that, the beauty of the Endless Mountains, the charm of the communities, and the welcome and the musical IQ of the audiences does the rest, bringing performers back year after year.

Bram heard about EMMF from a friend from Kansas City who was playing with the Festival, who then recommended him to Gunzenhauser.

That was 2010, and the native of Holland hasn’t missed a summer since.

Asked why he thinks Bram returns to the festival, Gunzenhauser gives a See Piano Man on page 10 9

Piano Man continued from page 9

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casual shrug and a plain-as-your-nose explanation.

“He fell in love with the place, same as many of us.”

Bram will be back this month in his role as the headliner for EMMF’s Winter Jazz Fest. And, during the main summer festival this year, which kicks off on July 23, Bram will be back with—for the first time—his Kansas City jazz/swing band.

Love plays more of a role in this story than one might think. Bram caught the eye of Alla Krolevich, a lovely Russian violinist from Miami who was summering at the festival. An admittedly difficult long-distance romance began and, two years later, they returned to Wellsboro to perform for EMMF and were married in the lobby of the Penn Wells Hotel the day after the festival concluded.

(Coincidentally, he considers the Penn Wells to be his favorite concert venue. Maybe not so coincidentally.) The pair now resides in Kansas City, where Bram is determined to arrange some violin music to allow his bride to explore her improv side. The festival has produced four such unions, proof that all things lovely grow in the clean mountain air.

A pianist since the age of four, Bram’s brain began a lifelong habit of “processing music” long before his youthful fingers could make the sound. His chosen genre was the jazz of the 1930s and ’40s. He loved the emotions it triggered in people and its rich history.

“Jazz came to Europe because of the war. When you think on it, it really was the music of the resistance during World War I,” he says. “The Germans had banned it, so it went underground.” The natural emotion of the music was fed by the cultural shock that always comes with war.

Instead of diminishing it, jazz flourished in the world.

The love of music fused with a work ethic instilled by his father and grandfather. “Do it well or don’t do it at all.” (He still returns to Holland once a year for an eightconcert tour and to see his parents.) As a young man, he was in an excellent neighborhood of the global village to study jazz. The Conservatory in The Hague, the seat of the Dutch Parliament, began a program on jazz in 1928. But there is nothing better for learning than to soak oneself in the place of a music’s origin.

Enrollment in the Hilversum Conservatory landed him with a teacher who clearly saw his talent. And it led to his first Kansas City connection, when a teacher at the school returned to the land of blues and barbeque and bragged about the young piano player to anyone with ears.

Bram came to America in 1992 and played with many of the swing and jazz greats. He wasted no time in carving out a reputation for himself in the clubs of Kansas City, New Orleans, and New York, including a memorable performance at Carnegie Hall. Kansas City is so enamored with this son of Holland that the Mayor proclaimed him

Steve Schwarz © Schwarzwww.heathermee.com ProFoto

Not in Kansas (City) anymore: Bram Wijnands packs up his celeste (below, left) and brings it with him on the road.

their “Ambassador of Swing,” a title that seems impossibly cool for someone who barely qualifies for his AARP card.

That is, until you hear him play.

His style has been described as “hard-driving and enthusiastic,” but Bram sees it more as “communicative” than anything else. “If I can make someone in the audience smile, that makes me happy.” It is nearly impossible to watch him play without grinning and discovering you have lost muscular control of your right foot.

You have probably heard “Just One Of Those Things” before. But, until you hear the Bram Wijnands arrangement, you don’t realize how much energy was encased in the song. It’s like Bram holds the key to freeing the words and music and, while performing it, he smiles at you like you’ve been let in on a secret

that only you and he share.

It is not only his piano-playing, but his singing style that make you feel time-traveled back to the heyday of jazz. Hearing Bram do his thing is reminiscent of a steamy, southern night when Fats Waller and Memphis Slim were providing the soundtrack for a vibrant, optimistic time on the American landscape.

Bram’s connection to the music, in turn, connects him to people who have that jazz beat in their souls.

Sometimes, it is a genuine surprise who relates to the tunes. His adopted hometown of Kansas City has a “sister city” in Florida. When Bram played there before dignitaries from around the world, the evening ended with the King of Ghana taking several CDs home. Can’t you just see Saturday night See Piano Man on page 12

11

Piano Man continued from page 11

in the palace, with the royal family swinging across the marble floors to “Lover Come Back”?

A devotee of the “stride method” of piano, Bram is nearly single-handedly keeping a music style alive. So called because the left hand must jump back and forth between the bass and the chord, stride is the ultimate homage to the jazz greats of the past. He was seven years old when he saw a movie of Fats Waller playing this way and tried to imitate it. His hands weren’t big enough yet. But his brain understood it, and it was only a matter of time and nature working their magic on the child prodigy.

But why this particular flavor of jazz? The music that captured his heart was popular decades before Bram was 12

even born. There are many forms of newer jazz that his contemporaries play, yet he is ever loyal to that Count Basie beat. Accused of hiding his own Dorian Gray-type painting that conceals his true age, Bram barks out a strong laugh.

“No, I don’t. But I do believe I am an old soul.”

“There is a connection with the audience, an emotional response that I really enjoy. Eighty percent of jazz is energy, and when the audience is moving with the music, it enhances my love of performing. No form of jazz conveys that like vintage jazz.”

It was perfectly logical that such a passion would need to develop its own outlet, and Bram did. He founded a seven-piece group that Maestro Gunzenhauser refuses to call a “band.

Not an orchestra, either. It has so many variations to it, so much talent, I’m not sure what word to use.” The Bram Wijnands Jazz Band is slated for a summer visit to the Endless Mountains, showcasing Bram’s compositions and arrangements that breathe new life into familiar tunes.

So, does playing such a dated style of music tend to produce older audiences? “I’ve been aging along with my audience, so the age difference doesn’t feel as severe now as when I was twenty, but yes, they do skew older.

Usually, though, there are some young people who understand it.”

In fact, Bram is taking time in February, during the Winter Jazz Fest, to visit a couple of area schools to talk jazz with the students.

Heather Mee www.heathermee.com

And now for something completely different: Bram Wijnands borrows a bass and jams with harmonica great Corky Siegel at the Corning Museum of Glass Auditorium in August. The two had never performed together until meeting at the Endless Mountain Music Festival last summer.

Hopefully, the students will ask about this “brain-finger” relationship that is so critical to Bram’s musical style, though their teachers may wince at his less than disciplined playing schedule. “I’m at the point now where I don’t practice at the piano very much anymore. What I spend my time doing is thinking out the music in my head.

Then it translates to my hands. The technique of doing it is less of an issue than thinking out the logistics in my brain.”

Asked if his brain has ever come up with something his fingers can’t do, the crack of laughter comes again. “Oh yes, hell yes, all the time. Then the work commences to figure out how to do it.”

Amidst a packed touring schedule, steady dates at the hot spots in Kansas City, “dabbling” in the bass and accordion, and recording, Bram makes time to teach. He is on the adjunct faculty of the University of MissouriKansas City. You had better believe his

students have to take a shot at “stride method,” if only to learn how difficult the style birthed by their ancestors is.

Bring the topic around to current jazz styles, and if anything “modern” appeals to him and the response is short but respectful. “No, not really.”

Bram compares newer styles to abstract artwork. “I may understand it, but I don’t get it, I don’t feel it like I do my music.”

The pianist has a complex relationship with jazz, but that is not to be confused with complicated.

“I’m not looking to create a whole new genre or style. I don’t like music that is so intellectually high-minded that the audience cannot relate to it.

I want people to smile, to laugh, to move. It is not a complicated form of communication, but it should reach people.”

That connection is one of the many reasons he makes room on his busy touring schedule for the Endless

Mountain Music Festival and its smaller cousin, the Endless Mountain Winter Jazz Fest, which takes place in this month. “When you play in most jazz clubs, there is a lot going on in the room. People are talking, laughing, moving around while you are playing.

In the kind of setting the festival offers, the audience is attentive and focused on the music. I can see faces, I can see feet tapping, and there is a great deal more feedback.”

Always a student of music himself, Bram also revels in the access the festival provides to world-class musicians with whom he might not otherwise cross paths.

A favorite pull to the area is the Penn Wells Hotel itself. “I just love that classic, old hotel. The entire town feels like my second home.” Bram credits the warmth of area residents for his return visits. “People are so friendly, so welcoming. It makes you want to come back.”

See Piano Man on page 14

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Piano Man continued from page 13

One of his great joys is the chance to have family nearby on his Wellsboro sojourns. Alla will be with the EMMF orchestra this year, and daughter Lucille has sung with him in the past (including at his wedding in August). She may stop by to sing with him, if her last-summerbefore-college allows.

The love affair between the musician and the town is one of deep mutual affection. Bram’s concerts are hugely popular, and his performances are not confined to pre-planned appearances on a stage. After one of his last showings at the Deane Center during the summer festival, music lovers exited the reception to find him playing accordion on the sidewalk. Impromptu music seems to erupt wherever Bram 14

goes. A scratch-n-dent corner upright in a bar room explodes with sound as he leads sing-alongs with contagious joy.

Any instrument with keys is in for the tuning of its life from the tools in his utility-like panel van.

Local author (and Mountain Home publisher) Michael Capuzzo once proposed an idea that only sounds ridiculous to those who haven’t been around Bram. “I told him that if we had a “Bram tax” for county residents, we could steal him from Kansas City for about a dollar a person. He could spend his days playing in homes, parks, stores—wherever the spirit moved him, and it would do wonders for everyone’s mood!” Michael says Bram loved the idea, and said he’d do it.

Matthew Jackson

Sing a song of love: Bram Wijnands met vilolinist Alla Krolevich at the Endless Mountain Music Festival several years ago. They married at the Penn Wells Hotel in Wellsboro in August, the day after the close of the 2015 EMMF season.

Consider this extraordinar y statement from the world-famous musician. “I’ve done Jazz at Lincoln Center. I’ve played Carnegie Hall. As a performance experience, I would put the Endless Mountain festival in the same category as those venues. It is so much more connected. You feel like the audience is on the same wavelength as the musicians. You don’t get that everywhere.”

Thanks be to the music gods that they get it here.

Maggie Barnes works in health care marketing and is a resident of Waverly, New York. She is a 2015 recipient of the Keystone Press Award for her columns in Mountain Home.

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Winter Jazz Fest Ice Sculptures Mt. Tom Challenge Deane Bean Magical Winter Event Great Snowball Hunt Winter Games & Activities Plus Many More Fun Events Throughout Downtown Wellsboro!

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For Better or for Worse

Aging Gracefully? It’s Not All It’s Cracked Up to Be

By Maggie Barnes

“H

earing aids? Me?” I took a deep breath and kept my voice calm, just like the intervention book advised.

“Yes, sweetheart, my love. I believe you are having just the tiniest trouble hearing.”

“What?”

We were starting to have more of these discussions, two decades into our marriage. I was suddenly squinting at small print, the first step on that 16

blurry path to getting optical assistance.

Bob was having some dental issues, including one recent busted tooth that resulted in his spot-on impression of Sylvester the cat. I had developed the most disturbing habit of…how shall I say this?…not exhibiting perfect bladder control when engaged in extreme activities like laughing hard. Or sneezing. Or…don’t give me that look!

After age fifty everything that was tight sags, things that were loose go stiff, and

everything else heads south like a duck in winter and doesn’t come back. You got an issue with it? Talk to God. It’s His design.

Anyway, Bob went, unhappily, but he went, and got a set of small aids that sat comfortably in his ears. They helped greatly, with one drawback. When he ate, Robert felt like he was trapped in a washing machine that had been fed broken glass. The chewing was loud.

One night at a restaurant, Bob

opted to remove his hearing aids during dinner with his Mom and me. As he reached around to tuck them into his jacket, which was hanging on the back of his chair, they bounced out of his hand and onto the floor. In one of those cosmic episodes of perfect bad timing, the largest waitress in the county walked over the tiny devices and crushed them into ten gazillion pieces.

Bob snapped his head up and looked at me in utter disbelief. The waitress strode on, unaware that she had just ground $5,000 of our limited funds into the floor. My husband, trying to keep the disaster from his mother, attempted to pick up the shattered segments of hearing aids, but it was like trying to sweep dust into your hand. It was hopeless.

It was a quiet dinner on multiple fronts. Bob was furious with the freak accident, Mom was unaware of the situation, and I, forgive me, was trying not to laugh. What are you going to do, right? I knew Bobby would find it funny, too.

Eventually. Hopefully, before he could track down the business card of that divorce attorney we met on vacation last year.

Stifling another giggle, and avoiding my husband’s tortured face, I was looking around the restaurant when a meatball leapt off my fork as if spring-loaded and bounded down my white blouse like a snowboarder.

The resulting tic-tac-toe pattern was brilliant red with a greasy sheen. My mother-in-law raised an eyebrow and asked if I was breaking in a new mouth. Robert looked like a man coming to the realization that he is trapped in a low-budget sitcom without a laugh track. The giggle began another determined hike up my throat. I got to the ladies room in time, but it was very close. I cleaned up my shirt as best I could, and we headed home.

See For Better on page 18

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For Better continued from page 17

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In the car with my enraged spouse, my stained blouse, and my clueless in-law, I was holding together pretty well.

Then it happened.

“You two are awfully quiet tonight. Is something wrong?” Mom chirped from the backseat.

“What?” said Bobby.

I chewed on the inside of my lip and rapturously studied the passenger side scenery, but I was fighting a losing battle not to bust into raucous laughter and/or pee my pants. Possibly both.

We got Mom home and headed to our street in silence.

It was all I could do to breathe. I felt like I had clamped every opening in my body shut, including my mouth. My vision was getting wavy.

The moment the door was open, I rocketed for the bathroom, but not without a drop or two of collateral damage.

When I emerged, I knew I must have been a sight.

My pants were off, and I was carrying my tomato-stained blouse.

My husband was standing in the middle of the kitchen, gazing sadly at the mashed hearing aids cupped in his hands.

I extended the blouse to him. “Can you see what water temperature I should wash this in?”

There was complete silence in the house, punctured only by the ticking of the kitchen clock, seemingly giving wings to our rapidly disappearing youth.

His face went pale, then flushed like an atomic sunrise.

“Good God, Maggie!” he roared. “I knew we were going to grow old together. But I didn’t realize it would be by Thursday of next week!”

With that he tossed the busted plastic in the trash, snatched the blouse, pretreated it and threw it in the wash, and stomped to the bedroom.

I followed him and leaned against the bedroom door and finally did what I had tried my damnedest not to do for two hours. I laughed. Out loud. Hard. Giggled, snorted, chortled, the whole thesaurus. I wiped my eyes and composed myself only to collapse against the door again and howl.

And my beloved husband, with whom I find the thought of eternity not nearly long enough, gave me one of the greatest gifts ever.

He laughed.

Then I ran for the bathroom.

Maggie Barnes works in health care marketing and is a resident of Waverly, New York. She is a 2015 recipient of the Keystone Press Award for her columns in Mountain Home.

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Courtesy of Sheri Baity

The end of the hunt: Sheri Baity at dawn, after a successful night’s hunt.

The Call Girl

When Sheri Baity Hunts, Coyotes Cower

By Don Knaus

S

heri Baity is a hunter, and she talks about her rural life as though it were a precious gift.

“The Baity farm has been here since 1848,” she beams, “but I was lucky enough to marry into it. My husband got me hunting and I just took to it.”

The saga of the farm is true. At one time the State Road ran by the farm.

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That was when the byway that would become Route 6 ran from Troy, past the Baity place, and down to Covington, where it cut the Williamson Road.

Since those days, the town of Mansfield picked up the Route 6 and Route 15 crossing. Today, the Baity Farm is very rural indeed. And Sheri Baity is an accomplished hunter.

The perky blonde with a lively laugh and keen sense of humor smiled when she talked about hunting. Her pale blue eyes twinkled at the telling of her tales. Truth be told, she was a bit of a local legend. And the homeboys bragged on Baity enough that, in time, she became nationally known.

Asked how it all started, she

WELCOME TO

WELLSBORO

smiled, “When I married my husband and came to the farm…well, everybody around here hunted. So I started in 1993. My husband bought me a .243 rifle, and I had the stock cut down to fit me. I added a scope and went with the men. I went the whole first year without getting anything but a couple of feathers and a miss. Then, in the next deer season, all the men decided to line up and push a drive to me—just me. Suddenly, I heard them all shoot. Then they all yelled at me, ‘Shoot! Shoot it!’ I was expecting a deer, but it was a coyote. I knew enough to lead it. Might have been luck, but one shot and it was down.

Everybody, even guys who were not in our gang, wanted pictures of me and my coyote. Then, I started taking care of the coyotes that were a problem on the farm. I started winning coyote contests.” And she kept on winning.

Then Sheri, who has presented hunting seminars for Bass Pro Shops, Cabela’s, Gander Mountain, private hunting clubs, and high school science classes, the gal who holds superstar status in the hunting community, confessed that she is extremely shy. “I said to myself, ‘Okay, I’ll write a book and hide.’ I wrote down my stories and coyote knowledge and tried to disappear.” She did write a book, Coyote Hunting Farm Style, and tried to disappear. But her fame kept calling—just as she keeps calling, and talking calls, and teaching calling.

Madd-Lehman Game Calls placed Sheri on their pro staff for seven or eight years. In that capacity, she traveled all over the country. She tried coyote calls from far and wide.

“I brought the calls home from out west, but they didn’t sound like the coyotes here,” she explained.” Our coyotes have a lower tone. I worked with a Pennsylvania manufacturer to get the calls I knew would work here. I tried different reeds and materials and settled on a wooden call with a reed. Then came crow calls.”

She didn’t like fishing in her pockets to change calls, so she hung three on a lanyard. She didn’t like the weight on the lanyard line cutting into her neck, so she designed a padded and floating call lanyard—in camouflage, of course.

Sheri began using crow calls in her coyote hunting—an unheard of tactic at the time. She explained that crows have (Guess what?) a bird’s-eye view of the country. She learned that coyotes used crows to discern what was going on in the wilds. They watch for them, follow the caws and calls.

Coyotes always know where the crows are and what they are eating. She talked about her love of crows so much that fellow hunters dubbed her “Crow Woman.”

“I don’t hunt crows,” she added, “but I use them to help me hunt coyotes.” She said that she always answered her phone with a smile and, “You’ve got the Crow’s Nest,” so Crow’s Nest was a fitting name for her line of calls.

She has her own Sheri Baity Predator Series calls See Call Girl on page 22

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Don Knaus

Calling all critters: the Sheri Baity Predator Series calls are sold nationwide.

Call Girl continued from page 21

available through her company. When talking about her calls, she grinned and said, “You could call me a call girl…even better; I was once a centerfold for a hunting magazine…Woman Hunter.” She giggled and added, “They paid me to keep my clothes on.” Then she laughed aloud, eyes a-twinkle.

She beamed when she told of her contacts with coyotes.

She noted that, “Just before dark, the clan’s Alpha male starts ‘roll call’ with a bark…just one. Then all the other males will respond in their pecking order, one by one, a bark at a time. That lets me know how many are out there and where they are.” Later, an adult will give that long, mournful howl, and all the juveniles will yip, yip, yip in response.

Her house is filled with mounts of trophy white tail deer, mule deer, gobbler turkeys, coyotes, and big brown trout. She points to the monster trout and says that her dad caught them, then points to his bamboo rod. He taught her how to fish for trout. Is she familiar with GNR Sporting Goods down the road? “Oh, yeah,” she responds, “I’m helping them with their events ….oh, and I won their big buck contest this past deer season.”

The lady does it all.

Some duck hunters in Louisiana started a line of custom duck calls. They got filthy rich selling their calls and now are featured on a popular TV show, Duck Dynasty.

Sheri smiles and says that there are no television producers asking her to star on her own show, Crow Dynasty. But hey, you never know.

Retired teacher, principal, coach, and life-long sportsman Don Knaus is an award-winning outdoor writer and author of Of Woods and Wild Things, a collection of short stories on hunting, fishing, and the outdoors.

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For updates visit www.facebook.com/FriendsofCCLD!

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In tribute to Nat King Cole: Peter Smith mans the keyboard in Williamsport

Too Marvelous for Words

The King Cole Trio, a Tribute to the Late, Great Nat King Cole, Plays Billtown

By Brendan O’Meara

T

ribute bands, and this is meant as a compliment (though on the surface it sounds like a major dis), are like chain restaurants: you know what you’re getting.

In the case of tribute bands for The Beatles, you know you’ll hear “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” For Led Zeppelin, you’ll no doubt hear “Stairway to Heaven.”

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So take it back decades before The Beatles, an era of big bands, and what you’ll find is a kind of minimalism before minimalism became the new black: The King Cole Trio.

Nat King Cole, with his glisteningly smooth features, slicked hair, and blousy suits with the thick-notched lapels, banged away at the piano while joined by two other men, one on guitar

(Oscar Moore), one on bass (Wesley Prince). And, yes, NKC sung, for a time, from the piano’s bench.

That experience, unique to its time, comes to life at the Community Arts Center in Williamsport on February 27 when the Too Marvelous for Words Trio takes the stage at 7:30 post meridian.

Tickets start at $15 for balcony, $25 for loge and orchestra, and $30 for front

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orchestra and sterling.

Peter Smith, a Los Angeles based musician, honors the King Cole Trio with his own Too Marvelous for Words Trio while he (on piano), John Storie (on guitar), and Alex Frank (on bass), play the classics as well as some unheard-of tracks. Smith also intermingles the narrative behind Cole and lets the audience soak in the influential and often overlooked life of Cole.

Smith told Examiner.com last year, “As famous as he is, most people who know who he is know him only in a certain way: maybe they’ve seen him on television, or think of him with Sinatra or Sammy Davis, Jr., with a big orchestra behind him. So many people don’t know that there’s no Oscar Peterson, George Shearing, or Ahmad Jamal without the Nat Cole Trio, that he was a major, major influence on jazz piano, and that he really invented the jazz trio, which was unheard of in the late ’30s. Nobody thought it would be remotely interesting.”

KMP Artists bring the show to the CAC where Smith’s trio will delight the crowd with story and music.

Jeff Goldblum, the actor known for roles in Jurassic Park, Independence Day, and The Grand Budapest Hotel, said after one of the shows, “Well, it was spectacular. Our great friend, the great, great John Storie…A wonderful show about the great Nat Cole and Alex Frank and Peter Smith. Fantastic. It just couldn’t be better. I was thrilled with it.”

Storie’s solos, as he climbs up and down the fret board, are so clean, so tight, it’s an amazing testament to his skill as he performs behind Frank’s grooves and Smith’s jazzy piano.

“We want people to picture [Cole] and that time,” Smith said on Examiner.com, “and get as full a sense as possible of not just his music but the incredible impact of his life on American music and history. As we say in the show, his Trio recordings put his face on the Mt. Rushmore of American music with Duke Ellington and the Gershwins. We get to the later stuff in the final narrative segment, but we basically focus on the most important period of his life musically, and his own compositions.”

Over the course of ninety minutes, with images of the Cole and the band, the effect is immersive, transporting.

It gets to toe-tapping and the kinesthetic sense of what Cole’s music was all about. Get up and move!

During one show, the crowed cheered, clapped, yelled, hooted, and hollered. Smith turned to the crowd, his eyes squinty-smiling from the involuntary contraction of his bilateral zygomaticus majors. “That’s fun,” he said. “It’s like riding a rollercoaster.”

For for more details on the show and to purchase tickets, visit www.caclive.com.

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FOOD

Besting the Slopes

Nothing Stirs up an Appetite Like a Ski Day, and We Have the Perfect Antidote

By Cornelius O’Donnell

R

emember the introduction to The Lone Ranger’s radio or TV program? You probably don’t, unless you are close to my age—or are a re-run fan. Anyway, the announcer, in his mellifluous voice, says “Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear.” For me that would be a return to those thrilling winter days of yesteryear. I recall the times I spent 26

on the ski slopes. A late bloomer (well, mid-thirties) when I started skiing thanks to the urging of two other couples and the evening teaching programs at Pinnacle Ski Area in Addison, New York. And I might add that our instructor, Ellen Martin, was patience personified.

I’ve been back to the Pinnacle (now a golf course/hiking area) and

find it hard to believe that it was a daunting challenge to our group. What made it a bit easier to take was the pre-lesson drink at the bar up there to give us what I always called “Dutch Courage.” In a way it was Dutch as it involved a gin from Holland, and dry vermouth and bitters. That treasured dry martini—just one—was designed to loosen me (us!) up. I never drank

alone. I remember the first lesson. I used borrowed skis and lace-up boots compliments of an old friend. It took the six of us at least two hours to get down the upper part of the hill and snowplow to the tow that brought us back to the hilltop and our cars.

I Have a Theory I have no way to prove this, but I think the person or persons who invented the slow cooker must have been skiers. I say this because after several hours on the slopes I really need a restorative hour or so at the dining table.

Has anything ever tasted better than the fare at the outdoor dining places at the snazzier of the ski areas? Even a mingy piece of meat on a commercial and lackluster roll that calls itself a burger was welcomed.

May I digress? Every year that same group of “beginners,” who were now pretty fair skiers, would save up and journey out to Colorado—specifically Aspen, and often with a stop at Vail on the way. We always went with the week that included St. Pat’s day. No icy trails out there, just wonderful powder, particularly in the early morn. So we were ready to break bread by the time the noon gong hit. It was the middle of the “streaking” craze and sho ’nuf as we munched our fries in the sun, a guy wearing only a ski mask and boots, with a significantly green-painted private part, clambered by our tables. Perhaps that’s a memory I ought to erase, but how? Let’s move on…

Comfort Food to the Fore When I got home after a full day of schussing, well, as my mother used to say, “Katie, bar the door!” I don’t really know what door she meant, but it was the refrigerator door in my house or rented condo. And to have hot soup, stew, or other homey comestible ready and waiting was something only someone like Lord Grantham could commandeer from a Mrs. Patmore (if you catch my Downton Abbey drift.) Ah, the heady thrill when the cover is lifted off the pot. I used to pull this off by putting a chilled stew made in advance in a large CorningWare pot into a very low oven and let it be. If the Crock-Pot was around (and it probably was), I didn’t know about it. Today, I read, a whopping 85 percent of American homes have a slow cooker!

Everyone into the Pool Just about all of the food magazines and/or TV cooking programs have now produced books on slow cookers. What started out as a small niche in the cookware business has blossomed into quite a category. I remember when one manufacturer added a CorningWare casserole as an insert See Besting the Slopes on page 28 27

Besting the Slopes continued from page 27

for a cooker. Made sense. I succumbed to the slow cooker’s lure a bit later in life when I found a unit with an insert in which you could brown meats and vegetables, etc. before inserting it into its heating womb, dialing the setting, and forgetting it until done and the holding time kicked in. It sits in my laundry cum pantry with an accusatory look as if to say, “Why aren’t you using me?” I do use it occasionally, although I no longer cook for crowds.

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I think, too, of all the ski areas that are within reach of us. A look around you is proof you’re not in Kansas anymore—we’ve got ski areas all over the place, and years ago I skied most all of them: Swain, Bristol Mountain, Greek Peak (ah, the thrill of the last run down the Elysian Field area—truly a skier’s paradise—as the name implies), Labrador (in Truxton), and the late lamented Denton Hill. I never made it to places a little farther afield such as Holiday Valley in Ellicottville, Windham in the Catskills, or Elk Mountain. But they are there.

A Winner—in Fact My go-to recipes for après ski in those days were Dutch (again) Pea Soup with Ham, featuring a ham bone when I could get it or ham hocks, or perhaps a Lentil Soup just like my grandmother’s with all sorts of cut-up wursts bobbing away plus loads of carrots and celery. You can get lots of recipes for these online.

Continuing the memory theme, I look back to the days when the Corning smooth-top range PR Dept. (me, back then) sponsored a recipe contest. The entry information was sent to everyone who had returned his or her warranty card. We wanted to find out what folks were cooking with the thermostatically controlled rangetop. I recall that we got lots of entries, and I persuaded no less than Jacques Pepin (we are the same age), and his mentor, Helen McCully, who was the food editor of House Beautiful, to pick the winners from the finalists I chose. (The fact that we advertised in that book didn’t hurt.)

The winner was a recipe for Lamb with Seven Vegetables and, by golly, I’ve made it about every year since then. It seemed perfect for nowadays and, rather than the range-top, why not use the slow cooker? This is an un-browned stew, so that makes it even more appropriate. Why not give this a try? You could substitute shoulder of pork for the lamb, but I grew up having lamb about every two weeks (mostly chops), so I am a real fan of that flavor.

See Besting the Slopes on page 30

28

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Besting the Slopes continued from page 28

Slow-Cooked Moroccan Lamb with Seven Vegetables You can vary the number and type of vegetable, but this selection is a winner, as are the Moroccan spices. The original recipe added peeled and cubed eggplant during the last stages of cooking. I replaced that with parsnips, a better choice for slow cooking. This serves about eight hungry skiers or armchair athletes.

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2 lbs. boneless lamb shoulder, fat removed 1 tsp. turmeric 1 tsp. grated fresh ginger root (or ½ tsp. ground) 1 tsp. ground cumin 2 large yellow onions, peeled and cut in half, then sliced 2 cloves garlic, finely minced 1 ½-2 cups chicken broth (to barely cover) 2 red peppers, seeded and cut in ½-inch cubes 4-6 medium carrots cut in ¼-inch slices, on the diagonal 2 medium parsnips, peeled and cut in ¼-inch slices, on the diagonal 2 medium yellow squash, unpeeled and cut in cubes ¼-lb. pound green beans, tailed and cut in 2-inch lengths 1 (14 oz.) can drained or (10 oz.) package frozen artichoke hearts, thawed (optional) Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste Chopped Italian parsley to garnish Arrange the meat in the cooker and toss with the spices. Add the onion, garlic, red pepper, carrots, and parsnips. Mix well and then add the broth to barely cover the contents. Cover and cook on low-heat setting for about 8 hours or on high setting for about 5-6 hours.

Skim excess fat from the stew, check the meat for doneness, and then quickly stir in the yellow squash, green beans, and optional artichoke hearts. Cover and cook an additional 20 minutes or until the squash and beans are crisp-tender. Taste and add salt and freshly ground pepper to taste. Sprinkle each serving with a little chopped Italian parsley. I like to serve this with plain couscous.

Why? Cause that’s so Moroccan.

Oh schuss, O’Donnell!

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

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Be Mine

On Valentine’s Day, Was There Anything Better Than Being a Third Grader?

By Melinda L. Wentzel

W

e’re on the cusp of Valentine’s Day, and I simply cannot wait. The world has been doused with a palette of pink and red hues since mid-January, and my appetite for chocolate and sweet nothings has officially been whetted. Ironically, however, I think I felt a greater sense of eagerness and excitement over the coming holiday as a third grader than I do now (no offense to the love of my life, who makes it his business to woo the socks off me every hour of every day).

But from my perspective then, February 14th somehow held more promise than all the holidays rolled into one. Even birthdays. There was something marvelously alluring, indeed almost magical, about the air of mystery surrounding the customary tradingof-valentines thing. Maybe it was the not-knowing aspect with which I was most enamored. I loved that wildwith-anticipation feeling as I thumbed through my cache of tiny envelopes and heart-shaped lollipops, cleverly skewered through cards I would soon ogle. And the thrill of having to wait and see who would deliver what sort of message to whom was beyond compare. (Even an eight-year-old has a vested interest in the politics of social networking and acknowledges fully the veneer—I mean the sacredness—of camaraderie). But it was the sheer open-endedness, the veil of anonymity, and the overwhelming pandemonium of the event that made 32

me drunk with joy. I get giddy just thinking about it even now.

And yet there was more. I was mesmerized by the passion with which classmates seemingly approached the making-of-the-valentine-collectiondevices (i.e. the crafty boxes and brown paper bags we poured ourselves into, plastering them ridiculously with construction paper hearts, glue galore, and pathetic-looking cupids). Maybe that explains why I’ve felt compelled to festoon every in-box I’ve had since then, hopeful they would somehow appear more inviting to those who had good news to deliver—during February or any other month.

But maybe, just maybe, I so greatly revered Valentine’s Day as a grade-schooler because of the grand and glorious party that customarily consumed much of the school-day afternoon—that coveted window of time after lunch and before dismissal when no one wanted to work anyway. It was something we all looked forward to with untold enthusiasm. Books and pencils were hurriedly jammed into desks while cutesy napkins and Styrofoam cups took their places. Foil-covered chocolates, Red Hots, and Sweetheart candies stamped with coy little messages were doled out by the fistful, as were stickers and gum, pencils and erasers. And, without fail, someone’s mom made each of us feel extra special by placing a big, heartshaped, slathered-oh-so-generously-

with-icing cookie before us. No one left empty-handed or found themselves wanting for anything—except for maybe a bigger bag to help us haul it all home.

In retrospect, that may be what struck me most about that magnificent day of yore—the dumping of the bounty in the middle of our kitchen.

With a deafening crash it cascaded to the floor and lapped at my ankles— serving as consummate validation that I was worthy of befriending. It was then the process of sorting began—the good stuff and the really good stuff was categorized and piled accordingly.

Everything was deemed valuable and deserved meticulous inspection—even the foolish tripe I’d never use or eat in the decade to follow. Like a pirate I pored over my loot, swimming in a sea of wares, reveling in my good fortune and newly forged friendships. I sang the praises of this or that custom-made card to all who would listen and felt all warm and fuzzy inside with each and every invitation to “Be mine!”—especially upon receiving a valentine from a secret admirer. That was, of course, beyond the point of bliss—in a cupcakes-with-pink-frosting sort of way.

Oh, to be a third grader once again….

First-time Mountain Home contributor Melinda L. Wentzel blogs locally as Planet Mom. Visit her there at www. melindawentzel.com and www.facebook. com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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33

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

The Promise

By Sarah Wagaman

T

he mountainside around Asaph’s Straight Run is filled with scenic views both large and small, and a scavenger hunt yields buried treasure for the curious. The transient winter may send the flora underground, but, shrouded in glass like a sleeping beauty, this one looks like it’s just awaiting the kiss of Spring.

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