Irish soda bread became popular during the potato famine in Ireland and traveled to America with Irish immigrants.
Graphic Design
Maureen Taylor
Susan Mednick susanmed2@optonline.net
The Journalists
Alison Porter • Jane Primerano
Bob Romano • D. Scott Humphries
Jessica Storch • Eric Francis
Associate Editor
B’Ann Bowman
Advertising Team
Amy Bridge amy@milfordjournal.com
Kimberly Hess kimberlyhess212@gmail.com
Editorial Readers
Robert Bowman Amy Smith
David Dangler dangler908@yahoo.com
The Poet
Norma Ketzis Bernstock
Mission
The tri-state upper Delaware River highlands and valleys are a place of rare beauty…
Seeing the region and living in it almost aren’t enough. Such beauty should be captured on canvas or film so that one can truly appreciate it, glimpse it in the quiet of an art gallery or museum, or between the pages of a poetry book or literary sketch.
The Journal Group’s mission is to capture these momentary snapshots of beauty graphically and through the written word. We celebrate our area and the uniqueness of the people who live and work in the tri-state region. From Pike to Wayne and Monroe to Lackawanna Counties in Pennsylvania, upriver to Sullivan County and on to Orange County in New York, and to the headwaters of the Wallkill River and
along Warren and Sussex Counties’ rolling hills in New Jersey, with quaint, historic towns and hamlets at the center, the Journal Group opens its doors to our communities, businesses and organizations, to serve as a communicative journal of all that we have to offer for those who live here and for those who love to visit us, too.
Publication Information
The Journal Group publishes The Journal ten times a year and distributes it in eight counties in PA, NJ and NY. We assume no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts. Contents may not be reproduced in any form without prior written permission. We reserve the right to refuse to print advertisements that we deem inappropriate. All rights reserved.
I live in a remote part of the county, and I don’t have a mailbox at the end of my long, curvy, forested driveway.
I pick up my mail in a local general store where the tiny post office has brass embossed glass windows that have been filling with mail for many many years now.
That’s not to say that home mail delivery does not exist here (we’ve paid homage to that in our Life article this issue and also with Norma’s poem). I could certainly dig a hole 24-inches wide, pour concrete, and insert a wooden pole with a mailbox atop. I would then fill out an application for postal delivery and join the rest of the 21st century, but I think not.
There must be some kind of pioneer spirit that’s hidden deep down inside me, and for a girl who was raised in suburbia and lived in a few different cities for a while, that means it’s hidden way down there.
I moved to “the country” about 25 years ago, and after I got over the initial shock of the dearth of streetlights, adjusted to the beautiful sounds of silence, and learned to deal with septic tank levels and maintain my well-water pump, I’ve been in awe of the country way of life. Of course, I am thankful for all of the more modern conveniences that are available, and I know that I’m not the type that could go completely “off grid.” Just think about it, before there were septic tanks, there were outhouses. Oh my, I never would have survived that!
Living in the country has definitely been all it’s cracked up to be—enjoying clean air and water, living in peace and quiet, having wildlife walk right past my door, and meeting friendly, caring people with a mutual sense of respect for the hardships of dealing with mother nature. I sincerely hope none of that ever goes out of style.
Amy
In Praise of Letter Carriers (and Bungee Cords)
Bungee cords abound, wrapped around mailboxes knocked loose by plows heaving mounds of snow against their posts. Yellow and red stripe the black boxes— a surprise of color in this white tableau.
On some roads the boxes cozy up against each other like loving companions or lay down as if in defeat.
And the letter carriers who deliver cards and packages, like winter angels guiding their compact trucks through nature’s deluge, miraculously locating each hidden or lopsided receptacle.
-Norma Ketzis Bernstock
Around the Towns
Late Winter
February 26th
Wednesday 7–10 p.m.
People Doing Things. Sparta Ambulance Building, Sparta, NJ. Presentation by Jim Koepnick, Digital Journalist specializing in aviation, sports, and documentary photography. Info: www.spartacameraclub.org.
February 28th
Friday 7–9 p.m.
Psychic & Healing Fair. Institute for Spiritual Development, Sparta, NJ. Psychic readings and healings. Held last Friday of every month. Members/$30, non-members/$35. Info: isdSparta.org.
Historic Women of Milford. Forest Hall, Milford, PA. Lunch & Learn Series. Featuring Matt Osterberg. Hot lunch provided. $12–$22. Hosted by Grey Towers Heritage Association. Info: 570.296.9630, greytowers.org.
March 2nd
Sunday 3 p.m.
St. Patrick’s Day Parade and Barney Blast. Front Street, Port Jervis, NY. Bagpipers, parade floats, trophies & more! Hosted by Port Jervis Tourism Board. Info: 973.534.4177, tourism@portjervisny.gov, Facebook: St. Patrick’s Day Parade and Barney Blast.
3 p.m.
The Carnival of the Animals and Peter and the Wolf. Delaware Valley High School, Milford, PA. Free family concert. Sponsored by Kindred Spirits Arts Programs with the Delaware Valley School District. Info: 570.390.8699, www.kindredspiritsarts.org.
Stage Fighting Workshop. Farm Arts Collective Agri-Cultural Center, Damascus, PA. Learn how to perform convincing and safe fight scenes on stage. Info: www.farmart collective.org
March 8th
Saturday 9 a.m.
Snowball’s Chance Mountain Bike Poker Ride, Hike & Walk. Port Jervis, NY. FUNraiser for the WaterShed Trails of Port Jervis. Info: Facebook: Snowball’s Chance.
2–4 p.m.
“The Guest” with Clown Daddy. Krause Recital Hall, Narrowsburg, NY. Singing, dancing & puppet friends. Enjoyable for all ages. Free. Info: 845.252.7576, delawarevalley artsalliance.org.
March 15th
Saturday 10 a.m.–noon
Animal Tracking & Stalking. PEEC, Dingmans Ferry, PA. $5. Learn how to identify animals via their footprints and how animals adapt to and hunt their prey. Call to register. Info: 570.828.2319, www.peec.org.
March 16th
Sunday 2 p.m.
St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Milford, PA. Starts at Ann Street Memorial Park. Hosted by the Pike County Chamber of Commerce. Info: 201.396.0786, www.stpatsparademilfordpa. com
March 19th
Wednesday 5:30–6:30 p.m.
Conservation Conversations Webinar. Via Zoom. Learn about the Delaware Highlands Conservancy and how it can help you protect your land. Free, but prior registration is required. Info: 570.226.3164, Delaware Highlands.org
March 22nd
Saturday 11:30 a.m.–2:00 p.m.
American Music History. Forest Hall, Milford, PA. Lunch & Learn Series. Featuring Doug Smith and the Dixieland Band. Hot lunch
Nunsense. People’s Security Bank Theater, Lackawanna College, Scranton, PA. Off-Broadway hit. Proceeds support higher education in NEPA. Info: ourcabaret.com.
March 27th
Thursday 9–11 a.m.
Impacting the Community: Women in Business Breakfast. Lackawanna College Lake Region Center, Hawley, PA. Panel discussions, networking, door prizes. Free. Info: 570.296.8700, pikechamber.com.
5:30 p.m.
Celebration of Charity and Caritas Awards Dinner. Epicenter at Resorts World Catskills, Monticello, NY. Includes silent auction. $180. Benefits local catholic charities programs. Hosted by Catholic Charities of Orange, Sullivan, and Ulster. Info/tickets: 845.294.5124, www.cccsos.org.
March 29th
Saturday 5–10 p.m.
Chamber’s Choice Gala. City Winery, Montgomery, NY. Dinner, dancing & more. $300. To honor the Champion of the Chamber. Hosted by the Orange County Chamber of Commerce. Info/tickets: 845.294.1700, www.orangeny.com.
8:00–10:30 p.m.
Rhythm of the Dance. Sugar Loaf Performing Arts Center, Chester, NY. Live Irish step dance show. $35–$55. Info: 845.469.7000 x3, sugarloafpacny.com.
March 30th
Sunday 9 & 11 a.m.
Breakfast with the Bunnies. Stillwater Community Center, Newton, NJ. $15/adults, $10/child 2–10. Proceeds go to Sussex County 4-H Rabbit Leaders Association. Tickets: 973.459.8679, sc4hrabbitclubs@yahoo.com.
April 1st
Tuesday 10 a.m.–2 p.m.
WORKING PIKE Job Fair. Best Western Inn at Hunts Landing, Matamoras, PA. Hosted by the Pike County Workforce Development Agency. Info: 570.296.2909.
SCARC Foundation Honors Celebration. Perona Farms, Andover, NJ. Reception, live music, dinner, auction & raffles. $175. Supports services for individuals with developmental disabilities. Info: 973.383.7442, www.scarc foundation.org.
April 6th
Sunday 4–5 p.m. (take out)
Sunday 5–7 p.m. (eat in)
Fish & Chips Fundraiser. Shepherd of the Hills Lutheran Church, Sparta, NJ. $22–$25. Proceeds go to the outreach ministry of the church. Info: 973.729.7010, sothnj.org.
April 12th
Saturday 1–3 p.m.
Pond Paddle. PEEC, Dingmans Ferry, PA. $5. Paddle around the ponds. Beginners are welcome. Call to reserve a boat. Info: 570.828.2319, www.peec.org
April 13th
Sunday 2–4 p.m.
Sparta Easter Egg Hunt. Shepherd of the Hills Lutheran Church, Sparta, NJ. Kids from walking to 10 years old and their families. Bring a camera, basket, and non-perishable food donation or donation for disaster relief. Info: 973.729.7010, sothnj.org
April 17th
Thursday 5:30 p.m.
Sussex County Bird Club Dinner: NJ Bald Eagle Project. Lafayette House, Lafayette, NJ. Guest speaker: Larissa Smith. $50. Cash bar. Info: 201.400.3993, sussexcountybirdclub.org.
April 18th
Friday 4 p.m.
Here Come the Danes. Cooperage Project, Honesdale, PA. New & old American and Danish music by Rudersdal Chamber Players. $25. Presented by the Weekend of Chamber Music. Info: 917.664.5185, wcmconcerts.org
April 26th
Saturday
Mini Dulcimer Festival: A Day with Aubrey Atwater & Elwood Donnelly. Presbyterian Church of the Mountain, Delaware Water Gap, PA. Workshops, music jam, and afternoon concert. Hosted by Pocono Dulcimer Club. Info: www.poconodulcimer.club.
4 p.m.
Tricky Tray. Merriam Avenue School, Newton, NJ. Dual foundation fundraiser (Gunnar J. Bigley Foundation and Lexi Faye Heart of Gold Foundation). Calling begins at 6 p.m. Info: gandltrickytray@gmail.com.
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Creating a Chocolate Laboratory
The Art of Bean to Bar
The wall between the newsroom and production room at the former Star-Gazette on East Moore Street in Hackettstown, NJ, has been retrofitted with a huge glass window so you can watch the cacao beans being crushed between two granite wheels. The tempering process follows, and then you see the chocolate being poured into molds and wrapped up for sale. A far cry from the notorious secretiveness of the Mars family up on High Street.
Steve Mazure said he remembers the newsroom’s sign hanging over what is now his front door. The weekly paper occupied this circa 1910 building for many years. Chocolate machines have replaced the typesetting units and paste-up boards in the old production department.
Chocolate has a history. Making chocolate can be a science, as well as an art form. It seems to have always been so.
Chocolate traces have been found by South American archeological expeditions in Olmec pottery. The Olmecs apparently passed it along to the Mayans, although the Az-
tecs thought it came from the gods. An enterprising conquistador took it to Spain, and eventually it made its way to the Netherlands. There a Dutch chemist created a process to expedite mixing chocolate with water, and Coenraad van Houten invented a cocoa press to separate cocoa butter from the beans. The Swiss created milk chocolate, and Henri Nestlè and Daniel Peter took it from there.
Steve Mazure lived in Hackettstown as a boy, with the aroma of M&M Mars, now Mars Wrigley, floating over the valley, but it wasn’t until he had spent years in commercial real estate in North Carolina and grown tired of it, that he began to think about making chocolate himself—on an artisanal, non-industrial scale, of course. He was determined to move back to NJ and make chocolate, even before he knew how to do that. But learn he did.
Years as a home chef had prepared him for the eventual creation of Mazur’s Chocolate Laboratory and Café.
Starting at the Red Barn Kitchen Incubator in Long Valley, NJ, provided Mazure with a part-time space to learn and experiment with chocolate creations. It is a meticulous
process that requires patience and creativity. He connected with other chocolate makers and slowly learned the process. As with all art forms, creating masterworks requires talent and hard work, but also the proper equipment.
One of his advantages, Mazure feels, is that he has an active mind and difficulty sitting still, since there was a lot to learn: what machinery was needed, the fine points of grinding and tempering the product, and the profiles of the beans. The art of chocolate is not simple.
Mazure got creative. Using a bit of Rube Goldberg ingenuity, he created his winnower, a machine that separates the chocolate bean from the hull. He crafted a carved wooden maze, attached a Plexiglas backing, and attached that to a Shop-Vac to provide power.
He started by ordering samples of various beans that shipped in small bags to avoid the large quantity minimums that wholesale importers required. Just as sculptors seek the best Italian marble and painters crush their own pigments, chocolate artisans must obtain the best ingredients.
“A lot depends on taste. Does the taste fit our palette? Is this what I’d like to offer? It all comes down to the genetics of the cacao bean,” Mazure explained. “We go after the Heirloom Cacao, which is a type of bean. The
flavors vary because of many factors: cross pollination, soil, wind, pollen.”
“When I started, I wanted to make sure the beans were organic and fair trade, fully vetted. I wanted transparency,” he said.
Some beans come from Belize. These are considered tropical with suggestions of banana. Mazure describes his beans with the passion of a sommelier discussing his grapes. Others come from Ecuador, which are earthy with hints of rum and tobacco, and from the Dominican Republic, which have undertones of raisins. Beans are also sourced from Haiti, Guatemala, Peru, Ghana, Madagascar, and Thailand.
Beans are roasted to different temperatures depending on the desired acidity. “We do our roasting by taste, moisture level, and acidity. It’s a feel, not a science to me. After many years, I’m still learning. After roasting, we are left with nibs, which are pieces of pure cacao seed. That’s what we start the grinding process with.
“A melanger pulverizes and liquifies the cacao for 24 hours. At this point, we add a percentage of sugar. So, when you see 72 percent or 95 percent on a chocolate bar, for example, that is referring to the percentage of bean vs sugar. The chocolate is then ground for another 24 hours
Continued on page 16
Right page: Steve Mazure (left) with Swavek Hekiert. Photos on pages 14–15 by That Werks Photography and Cinematography
at which point we release the pressure on the stone wheels and let it aerate for another 24 hours or longer until it’s ready. We then pour it into large blocks. The whole process takes from 72 to 96 hours.” If he is creating a milk chocolate product, he would add milk powder during the mélange process. This adds creaminess and a lower cacao percentage.
Mazure lets the chocolate rest from a few weeks to several months. The flavor mellows as it sits.
The finished chocolate bars display the bean’s origins and percentage of dark chocolate. These include dark, milk, and white chocolate, and some have add-ins such as coffee, chili, and cardamom. Mazure explains that the balance of bean, cocoa butter, and sugar makes all the difference.
Once he outgrew the Red Barn’s space and time constraints, Mazure purchased the building on East Moore with the help of financial partner, Swavek Hekiert, who is from the Mazur area of Poland (between that and Mazure’s last name, the company name was obvious). This became Mazur’s Café and Chocolate Lab, where they still do everything by hand on a small-scale basis.
The conversion from newspaper offices to food processing wasn’t easy, but Mazure met architect Ben Walmer, who is also a chef. “And a foodie and a networker,” Mazure added. Walmer not only designed the new interior, he put Mazure in contact with Ryan Lacz of Four Fields Farm in Great Meadows who built the counters and tables, partly from the rafters of an old barn on his property.
It’s been over seven years now that Mazure has been refining the art of chocolate. He has invested in new equipment, including a grinder and tempering machines from Italy. This will allow increased production, eventually up to several thousand bars a week, and he can keep up with the demand in the wholesale market to supply gourmet stores, as well as local farmers markets.
Although he’s not disseminating news, as the old newspaper that was once housed in his building had done, Mazure is as dedicated to his craftmanship and to spreading his knowledge throughout the community as those reporters who had worked the beat. He believes the thrill of learning something new is contagious and enjoys giving hands-on tours of the chocolate lab and arranging private question-and-answer sessions for groups of 10 to 25.
Just like all artisans, whose origins and methods are unique, Steve Mazure engages his passions as a chocolatier from sourcing the cacao bean to creating a refined product, always keeping in mind the unique story he has to tell.
By Alison Porter
Saint Patrick’s Day Delights
The large cast iron Dutch oven only came out for special occasions. Saint Patrick’s Day was one of them. In March, Mom would heave it up onto the stove to make a special dinner. Although our family hailed mostly from Ireland, to the best of my memory, we ate corned beef and cabbage once a year, on Saint Patrick’s Day. I looked forward to it all winter long.
My grandmother was a fiercely proud New Yorker of Irish descent. Born just before the turn of the century in Manhattan, she revered Saint Patrick and worked to instill that same love in us. “He was Irish,” she would remind us. “He drove the snakes out of Ireland! He had a big church named after him on Fifth Avenue!” If there was a new baby born into our extended family, Patrick was a popular middle name. If someone happened to be born in midMarch, likely they were named Patrick or Patricia. And why not? It brought good luck!
We were young and hazy on all the details of Saint Patrick’s life, but we loved him too. Apparently, he had spent
all his time fighting heathens and bringing Christianity to Ireland. We thought, maybe, after he was done with that, he might have come here and built a cathedral? We kids were not too sure.
When we grew older we found out that Saint Patrick was in fact born in Britain in the fifth century, so he wasn’t Irish and he couldn’t have come across the ocean to build a church in New York. And, despite the legend, Saint Patrick did not rid Ireland of snakes because there were no snakes on the island to begin with. “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story” was Grandma’s unofficial motto, so we all let those pesky facts roll off our backs, like raindrops on parade day.
Every year on March 17th, it seemed that the entire city of New York loved Saint Patrick just as much as we did. There was a huge parade, hosted by Captain Jack McCarthy on WPIX, featuring marchers, pipers, and dancers all waving banners and flags. Everyone seemed to be wearing green, white, and orange plus a bulky Irish sweater
because the weather was usually cold, windy, and rainy. “Just like Ireland!” Grandma would say as she buttered another piece of Irish soda bread.
I loved when my mother made soda bread. It was so delicious, light, and fluffy, with the perfect amount of raisins and caraway seeds. With a nice cup of tea, it seemed the ideal way to stave off starvation until dinner time. Over the years, I have tested many recipes, but none came close to my mom’s. I had hopes for a version that included measurements like a bit of butter “the size of an egg” and directions to knead the dough for one verse of “Mother Machree.” Each and every time I have returned to my mother’s recipe. She is the OG of Irish Soda Bread.
With no experience or talent for Irish step dancing, we kids did our best to entertain Mom while she was preparing dinner. We clomped and thumped around the kitchen, showing off our interpretation of an Irish Jig. It was a minor miracle that she could concentrate with all the racket we were making, but she was a talented cook. It was always delicious.
It must be noted that in the 1970s, Irish cookery suffered from a (well-deserved) reputation for overcooked and under seasoned food. Many recipes for corned beef and cabbage defaulted to this stereotype. The general idea was to toss a bunch of vegetables into a pot of water with some salty meat and simmer it until it fell apart.
That was not my mother’s habit. She always found a way
to improve upon a basic dish and make it extraordinary. For our Saint Patrick’s Day celebration, the corned beef was jazzed up with the addition of mustard seed, whole peppercorns, some allspice, and a few cloves to the cooking pot. The beef simmered over a low flame for hours, filling the kitchen with tantalizing aromatic smells.
Vegetables were never cooked in the same pot as the corned beef. Rather, Mom prepared each individually to emphasize a different flavor or texture. The tiny red-skinned new potatoes were gently boiled until fork tender, and cut in half to better absorb butter, plus fresh chopped parsley and salt. The young carrots were sliced on the diagonal and sort of poached in butter and water until softened, and seasoned with fresh dill, more butter and salt. The cabbage was cut into eight wedges, careful to keep the root intact and steamed until tender over the corned beef water while the meat rested.
When everything was ready, Mom arranged our dinner like a piece of art. The plates were a vibrant composition in the colors of the Irish flag, as beautiful as it was delicious. Dinner was followed by a traditional trifle for dessert. If we were lucky, there were corned beef sandwiches for lunch the next day.
I have carried on these Saint Patrick’s Day traditions with my daughters. While they were growing up, we had a CD of Irish songs playing on repeat in the kitchen for days in March. We learned all the words to these favorites, such as “The Wild Rover,” banging our hands on the
table three times after the lyrics “No, Nae, Never.” The girls danced around enthusiastically and with a rhythm and grace not seen in my childhood. They hopped about the kitchen like little fairies, even attempting some River Dance moves. I also taught them to sing “MacNamara’s Band” and “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” songs that my grandmother had learned in her childhood and taught us.
Eventually as the girls grew, I noticed that there was always plenty of corned beef for leftover sandwiches. And that if I didn’t eat or give away pieces of Irish soda bread, it sat on the counter until it grew stale. And I discovered a sad truth. No one but me liked corned beef. And no one but me could abide raisins or caraway seeds. And, for that matter, no one liked trifle either. While we all reveled in the festive atmosphere of song and dance on Saint Patrick’s Day, I was the only one who actively loved the meal itself.
For a little while, I felt like I had been kicked in the shins by a leprechaun. But then inspiration struck. Like the Irish immigrants who had arrived a century ago to find an “Irish” meal that had never existed back home, I came up with a new “Irish” dessert: Chocolate Espresso Whiskey Cake. I felt sure that no Irish lassie had ever whipped this up, but equally sure they would enjoy it. By combining favorite ingredients plus a few spices for added complexity and depth, I hoped to delight my girls as well. The chocolate cake was an instant hit! Since that first year, we have enjoyed this cake not only for Saint Patrick’s Day but anytime we are in the mood to celebrate.
Chocolate Espresso Whiskey Cake has captured the spirit, or spirits, of the Irish love of all things chocolate with a respectful nod to the national institution of whiskey. This cake has made a new reason for my family to enjoy our annual celebration. Saint Patrick’s Day will continue to be a joyous day of time-honored traditions, newly-minted traditions while singing and dancing in the kitchen. As my grandmother would say, “Everyone is Irish on Saint Patrick’s Day.” Slainte!
Lilyann’s Irish Soda Bread
4 cups all-purpose flour
½ cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 tablespoons caraway seeds
¼ cup cold butter
2 cups dark raisins
1 ⅓ cup buttermilk
1 egg unbeaten
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 egg yolk or a little cream
• Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Grease a two quart casserole or cast iron pan. Into a large mixing bowl, sift together the flour, sugar, salt and baking powder. Stir in the caraway seeds.
• With a pastry blender or two knives scissors fashion, cut the butter into the sifted ingredients until the mixture resembles coarse cornmeal; stir in the raisins. In a separate bowl, combine the milk, egg, and baking soda. Stir into the flour mixture until just moistened.
• Turn the dough onto a slightly floured surface. Knead lightly until smooth. Shape into a ball and place into the casserole. With a sharp knife make a cross ¼-inch deep into the center. Brush with the egg yolk beaten with a fork.
• Bake for one hour and ten minutes or until done. Cool in the pan for 10 minutes; remove and cool before slicing.
Chocolate Espresso Whiskey Cake
¾ cup unsalted butter (12 tablespoons) cut into 1 inch pieces, extra for the bottom of the pan
¾ cup cocoa powder plus 2 tablespoons for the pan
1 ¼ cup espresso or strong brewed coffee
¾ cup Irish whiskey
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup dark brown sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 ½ teaspoons baking soda
¾ teaspoon fine sea salt
¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg
⅛ teaspoon ground cloves
Pinch of ground black pepper
3 large eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
½ cup espresso or chocolate chips
½ cup mini chocolate chips
Confectioner’s sugar for dusting the top of the cake Whiskey whipped cream, optional
• Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Butter a 10-inch springform pan. Dust with reserved 2 tablespoons of cocoa powder.
• In a medium saucepan, combine the butter, cocoa powder, espresso, and whiskey over low heat stirring occasionally until the butter is melted. Whisk in the sugars until dissolved and remove from heat to cool.
• In a large bowl, whisk the flour, baking soda, salt, nutmeg, clove, and pepper together. In a separate smaller bowl, whisk the eggs and vanilla together, and gently whisk the egg mixture into the cooled chocolate mixture. After it is incorporated, add this to the dry ingredients and whisk until just combined, and fold in the chocolate chips.
• Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake until the surface springs back slightly when touched and a tester inserted in the center comes out clean, approximately one hour. Let cool on a wire rack before loosening and removing the sides of the pan.
• If desired, dust with powdered sugar. Whipped cream laced with a tablespoon of whiskey sweetened with a little confectioner’s sugar also makes a nice accompaniment.
Bill Bathgate in his Newton High School sweater. Photos courtesy of Jessica Storch
Bill in his Newton High School sweater 1929
By Jessica Storch
Keeper of the Foxes
Bill in his Newton High School sweater. – 1929
The story I have to tell is not my own. It goes back in time for generations and over many decades. It is a tale woven together from photographs, poetry, a family bible, and memories. The story I have to tell is about the makeup of a man’s character, his ingenuity, and his resourcefulness in providing for his family throughout some of history’s most challenging eras.
In the early 1900s, Branchville, NJ, had more acreage dedicated to open fields and dense woodland than to family homes and businesses. Those who lived in the 1½-square-mile town viewed both types of land as valuable resources, using the fields for cow pasture and the forested areas for chopping firewood. Owning small farms and relying on wood-burning stoves for warmth were common facts of life.
It was in 1911 that William Andrew Bathgate (Bill) was born in Branchville to William Bathgate and his wife Katherine. The family lived at the end of Second Street in a two-story, cedar-shake home, surrounded by open fields and with an outhouse in the back.
William Bathgate Sr. had immigrated to the United States by ship from Scotland at five years old. He was a rug weaver by trade and owned a loom at his small shop in town. For forty years, he used his resourcefulness and talent to turn rags into rugs to support his family. Katherine had grown up in the farmhouse where she was born at the end of West Shore Lake Owassa.
The wrestling medal and pocket watch from the championships. A wrestling medal and pocket watch from the championships.
As their children grew into adults and had their own families, Katherine was known for hosting family birthday parties in her front parlor with homemade cake and singing around the piano. She would often tell her grandchildren stories of days gone by, including the one about a Native American woman who arrived at her childhood home every November. Without saying a word, the visitor would do household chores and care for the livestock in return for a spot to sleep by the fireplace throughout the bitter winter months. Before March arrived, she would leave, having survived another harsh season in Katherine’s home.
Bill was William and Katherine’s youngest son, and he had a childhood filled with outdoor adventure. His passion for exploring the woods, with its creeks and caves, filled his free time day and night. A favorite activity of Bill’s was to grab a buddy, a pair of binoculars, and a kerosene lantern and camp out in the acres of forest surrounding Fox Hill Road. The narrow dirt road intersected with Second Street and was only occupied by one small farm along its rise.
Even as a teenager, Bill recognized that innumerable resources existed within these woods. The abundant wildlife could be hunted and trapped, and he knew that the sale of pelts and meat could help his family if only he had the knowledge and skills to do so. Young Bill had already been subscribing to a fur, fish, and game magazine. He enjoyed reading the trapping and hunting stories as much as studying the advertisements for trade supplies. It was one of these ads that grabbed his attention, setting him on a course for adventure and self-reliance that served him well for the rest of his life.
Bill answered an advertisement to spend a week in Shushan, New York, with an outdoorsman who referred to himself as the Mountain Man. He was well-versed in hunting and trapping and offered to teach his skills to anyone willing to pay a fee. In Shushan, clever Bill proved to be a capable student and quickly learned the techniques he put into practice upon returning home.
Now proficient in fox trapping, Bill knew how to mask his scent with cedar limbs or by walking through cow dung. He also knew the best places to set traps and how to hide them in holes deep in the dirt. He coveted the pelts of foxes for the handsome sum they garnered from fur dealers and for the proof they provided that he had outwitted this cunning animal.
Word spread of Bill’s talent for trapping, and his reputation for being able to outsmart the fox grew. Soon, his nickname, “keeper of the foxes,” took hold among locals and fellow trappers. Years later, especially throughout the Great Depression, Bill would rely on the hunting and trapping skills he learned from the Mountain Man to provide meals for his own family.
While a high school student during the late 1920s, Bill picked up some work as a manual laborer on the property of a local poet named William L. Bass. At that same time, a girl named Irene Reynolds began to spend weekends and summers at her grandparents’ small farm on Fox Hill Road. It was inevitable that Bill and Irene would meet as they were often in proximity.
Irene caught Bill’s eye, and he suddenly had reason to put down the rifle and pick up the pen. Never one to miss an opportunity, Bill asked his poet employer for some basic lessons in poetry. These lessons would serve him well as he went on to pen many love sonnets to his Irene. The path of their love was not easy, nor was it straightforward, but the two would marry in 1931 and begin their own family.
Above: May 3, 1931
Above: Bill and Irene – June 1929 Below: May 3, 1931
In 1937, the young couple had their first and only son, William Reynolds Bathgate. Today, William’s many recollections of his father reveal a man of great spirit who was also an excellent provider. He can still clearly recall the image of Bill ice skating across the old mill pond, easily jumping over five-lined-up barrels and then skating backward to a stop.
William also enjoys looking through the 1929 Newton High School Aurora yearbook that shows a scrappy 112-pound Bill wrestling his way to win the metropolitan championships with the New York Athletic Club. And then there is one of his favorite memories of his father, the story William calls “Meat on the Sly.”
During 1943–1944, our country was in the midst of World War II. Every man, woman, and child was issued a ration card from the government to obtain their small allotment of food, which was so very scarce. Meat was a particularly rare treat, and many turned to hunting the local forests. Once these woods were depleted of game, it put an end to hopes of supplementing one’s meat supply there.
Bill, now a father of two, had always found ways to provide for his family, even during the most challenging of times. He was determined that it would not be any different now. Bill knew the woods were abundant with deer just across the state border in Dingmans Ferry, PA.
“Dad always had a peek-a-boo-catch-me-if-you-can attitude toward game wardens.” This was his son’s explanation of Bill’s perspective when it came to his hunting and trapping lifestyle. He recalls a fall evening at home as a young boy doing homework when Bill ran out of the
Top: Bill and Irene in June 1929. Bottom: Bill in May 1931.
One of the family’s War Ration Books house and into the dark with a large cooking pot in hand. Years later, the story of what had happened would unfold as yet another family tale, providing more evidence of Bill’s spirit and resourcefulness.
Bill and his hunting buddies had devised a plan to circumvent the fact that they did not possess, nor could they obtain, Pennsylvania hunting licenses. They had, however, been granted permission through a friend to hunt on an older couple’s dairy farm just south of Dingmans Ferry. About once or twice a month during lean times, the group would sneak their guns and ammunition across the Dingmans Bridge to hunt, knowing full well there was a strong chance of being stopped by law enforcement. On the other side, they could hunt deer on the outskirts of the farm and then butcher it inside the farmer’s barn to bring home for their families.
The scheme was a success for a time until nearby residents alerted Pennsylvania State Troopers that entrails and deer heads were being found on their properties adjoining the farm. Now, the cunning cohorts had a new obstacle to overcome on their way back into New Jersey. The crew would have to get past troopers patrolling the roads and Dingman’s Bridge for illegal hunters with large amounts of venison.
Ingenuity came in handy once again as Bill and his crew devised a course of action. Conveniently, the dairy farmer drove his truck into Branchville daily to deliver filled milk cans to the town creamery. The butchered venison
would be stuffed into marked milk cans and hauled to the creamery on the dairy farm truck. There, the cans were set aside and kept cold until the dark of night. Then the sly bunch would leave their homes to obtain generous portions of the meat for their families.
That night back in 1944, Bill’s 7-year-old son saw him return home with a pot full of the milk-can venison. Bill emptied it onto the kitchen table where he and Irene proceeded to wrap and freeze each cut. A clever ability to take care of his family prevailed once again.
And so, from early on and throughout his life, Bill was the keeper of many things. He possessed knowledge of nature and the outdoors that established him as an excellent provider in the hearts of his family. He had an ability as a poet that helped him earn the love of his Irene. Bill held a unique and powerful spirit and taste for adventure that marked him as the subject of cherished memories and many tales. His clever way of thinking proved to mark him as consistently resourceful, even in the face of tremendous obstacles.
The story that I’ve told is not my own, but it is a part of me. It belongs to my grandfather, a man of unmatched character, grit, and unwavering love and dedication to his family. A man who seemed to accomplish the impossible time and again throughout his life by cleverly using the opportunities he encountered and some that he created. Bill Bathgate led a life that proved him to be, in all ways, the keeper of the foxes.
One of the family’s War Ration Books.
Scott Humphries dressed for the weather. Photos here and on page 29 by Ricky Boscarino
Mapping an Active Retirement Unlimited Mileage
Thephone rings about 9 a.m. It’s my next-door neighbor and best friend, Ricky.
“You’re not going out jogging in this, are you? The wind is rattling my windows so hard that it’s coming through into the house and rattling my teeth as well.”
“But of course!” I reply. “I run every day that I’m not working.”
“You’re semi-retired,” he reminds me. “Why go out at all in this unless you’re working?”
“It’s all about having the right hat,” I tell him, “and dressing properly for the cold.”
According to the Weather app, the outside temp in the very northwest corner of New Jersey is 23 degrees F, but with the wind chill, it feels like five. I look for the daily high (26 degrees at 2 p.m.) in order to plan how to dress for my daily run. If it were Saturday, when I deliver mail for the United States Postal Service, I’d be looking at the app earlier, much earlier, in order to know how to layer for the day.
Today, I’ll need my lightweight Gore-Tex, two-piece running suit from 66º NORTH, a company “founded in 1926 by Hans Kristjánsson with the purpose of making protective clothing for Icelandic fishermen and workers braving the North Atlantic.” Expensive, but a worthy investment for winter running. Also, my dry-fit long underwear and long-sleeve tee shirt, my padded running socks and my Gore-Tex shoes, heavy-duty gloves, neck gaiter with mask, ski-mask, and, of course, the proper hat.
While a ball cap works in warmer weather, and knit caps of various shapes and sizes work in varying autumn and spring temps, today I’ll need the hat I call the “arctic trapper special” furry flaps down and firmly snapped beneath my chin. Ricky’s correct, I hear the wind howling around the sides of my house.
Although I don’t wear the “Iceland Suit” for work, the rest of the layering isn’t much different from what I’d wear heading off for a winter’s day at the Post Office in the dark, sometimes having to dig my car out of a mountain of snow and drive on roads that haven’t yet been plowed since the snow is still falling.
There is no such thing as a snow day at the Post Office, which is part of the fun and challenge of the job: getting
out there no matter what. The mail must go through, and everyone I know who works for the USPS, including myself, takes that very seriously.
More than a job, working for the Post Office is, for me, a lifestyle, part of being something bigger than yourself, serving the community and having a blast while doing so—sometimes so overwhelmed with packages during Christmas season that the back of the truck is like a giant cardboard Jenga game (a game I was never good at, by the way) and often looking for white mailboxes in the snow that you know are there but suddenly, in winter, seem to have mysteriously vanished. In reality, though, working in retirement part time for the Post Office, while a choice, is still a job I’ve made a commitment to, so I must get up and go in when I’m scheduled to work, no matter what.
But Ricky’s right about running: why go out in bad weather if you don’t have to? Sometimes I’m out running in the rain or snow, and my postal colleagues drive past while delivering and wave. I’d like to think they’re impressed the next time I see them at work, when they say, “I can’t believe you go out in THAT on your day off,” but really, they probably think I’m nuts. Which I am, but I prefer to believe I’m nuts in a good, goal-oriented way.
I’m just as committed to my running, an activity I’ve been doing since my teens, as I am to my chosen retirement job. I could easily sit inside on my five or six days off each week and quilt, embroider, needlepoint, or weave—other activities I’ve been doing all my life and finally have time for—but I want an active retirement in every sense of the word. For me, that translates into working for the Post Office and getting a daily run in before anything else.
I’ve never been fully happy in my life unless I’m pushing myself. As I was training at the Post Office and didn’t know the layout of the route I would regularly work on, I would get so overwhelmed with all the mail, magazines, and packages piling up in front of me that I would cry. In front of everyone. One of my colleagues used to quote a line from the film, A League of Their Own, changing the reference from baseball to our job: “Scott, there’s no crying in postal work.” Others would whisper “breathe” or remind me to stay out of my head.
Some days, I did not think I’d last another hour, but I kept going. After the first year, less overwhelmed, I started having fun with the job and got pretty good at it (although my postmaster might raise an eyebrow at that assessment. Let’s just say I’m decent enough at it, at this point).
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The challenge in running was at first to increase my distance. I usually ran a mile or two every few days. Running daily, no matter what limiting conversation in my head was trying to talk me out of it (especially since I’m not obligated to run), increased my mileage and the ease with which I ran. This inspired me to raise the bar. Wanting to keep the training going, I decided to run all winter this year, rather than just sporadically, which in the past had ended up dwindling down to once a week or every two weeks.
A limiting conversation that I have with myself, often echoed by society or at least by friends, is what I am physically capable of “at my age.” I guess there’s a little of the teenage rebel left in me, because when someone says, you shouldn’t, then I immediately become positively stubborn (meaning stubborn in a positive way) and decide not only that I should, but will. I started researching information on how to run successfully not just in all kinds of weather, but how to run without injury or illness into advanced age.
I do realize that working for the Post Office isn’t for everyone. Nor is running as a hobby, sport, or even exercise. Many who feel the need or desire to exercise would not pick running as their first-choice activity. For some, running would not be a choice at all. Some of my own friends think of jogging as boring … or dangerous, hard on the knees, joints, and frame (which, according to my research, I guarantee it is not). Many of us who may have taken up running in the beginning in order to “stay in shape,” soon come to realize that running is not really exercise, per se, but something holier, something that has a more psychological or philosophical component that we simply cannot explain.
To paraphrase Dr. George Sheehan, cardiologist and running guru from the 1970s, exercise is something runners
tolerate in order to increase distance, speed, and the positive mental effect—that feeling of floating along both on the trail and through life—that we can’t get enough of.
I think there are other ways to find the runner’s “high,” other activities or jobs that allow one to transcend a life of complaint or limited thinking that leads to a sense of dissatisfaction or joylessness, even hopelessness, regarding life. If you’re retiring now or soon, ask yourself what activities make you spring out of bed laughing each morning, eager to get going (even if it’s only the thought of the first sip of coffee that has you hop up and run for the kitchen. Well, that’s a start!). Whatever brings you a sense of purpose may be the first step in getting beyond the limited thinking of “I can’t.”
Ultimately, it’s not about the job, or about any activity. It’s about having a life you enjoy, no matter what.
I’m determined to continue both of my activities and determined to continue to challenge myself … and, especially, to challenge my limited thinking. What do I get out of it besides the satisfaction of meeting my goal? I get to drive the little white mail truck up and down our hilly roads, pass our mountain ravines with the gorgeous creeks and rock formations, see the deer and other wildlife, the insects (often inside mailboxes or my running shoes). I get to be out driving or running in the most beautiful and quiet freshly fallen snow, outside, fully alive, full of appreciation, ultimately amazed that I’m doing things that only a few years ago I thought were physically impossible for my age. I’m having fun. No matter what.
Oh, but the wind! Still howling and we’re hitting the high temp for today, so it’s time to get out there and get the daily run in. As long as I have the right hat, all will be well.
by Robert J. Romano, Jr.RETURN TO
RANGELEY
Join Nathaniel Palmer, George Anne Brady, and company as they seek meaning in an increasingly troubling world among the vast lakes, unrestrained rivers, and those little rills found only by following a logging road through the heart of western Maine.
Praise for Bob’s previous novels:
Praise for Bob’s previous novels:
“A fine tribute to one of the last wilderness resourceful, kind-hearted, and ever so – Howard Frank Mosher, author of eight
“A ne tribute to one of the last wilderness enclaves of New England and to the tough, resourceful, kindhearted, and ever so independentminded people who eke out a living there.” – Howard Frank Mosher, author of eight novels including Waiting For Teddy Williams
“Bob Romano brings us nature as nurturer, restorative powers of fishing, and a sense numerous books including The Snow Fly
“Bob Romano brings us nature as nurturer, the chemistry and characters of the small town, the restorative powers of shing, and a sense of place that rings true.” – Joseph Heywood, author of numerous books including The Snow Fly and his Woods Cop series of novels.
“Bob Romano knows y shing, and he knows the human heart and he writes about them in clear, evocative prose. Romano combines these ingredients beautifully…which I enjoyed immensely.” – William G. Tapply, author of the Brady Coyne and the Stoney Calhoun novels.
“Bob Romano knows fly fishing, and he clear, evocative prose. Romano combines immensely.” – William G. Tapply, author Available through https://shop.midcurrent.com https://www.amazon.com
For an autographed copy email
AVAILABLE THROUGH: https://shop.midcurrent.com and https://www.amazon.com
For an autographed copy email Bob at magalloway@mac.com
by Patricia Romano
Photos
Zen and the Art of Wood Splitting
Early March and the streams remain shrouded in ice. The trout are there, but they are lethargic and in a state of semi-hibernation. From the middle of November, I spend my weekends cutting, splitting, and stacking logs for the woodstove; that is, when I’m not plowing snow off the long dirt drive that snakes off the macadam like a woodland stream, winding through hardwoods, coming to rest beside our home.
I could pay Don from the Auto Shop to do the plowing and we can heat our home with oil, but the effort to clear the drive and keep the stove full is an excuse to spend time outdoors, which keeps me active and sane throughout the winter months and provides the illusion of self-sufficiency.
By the third week of February, the banks of snow have melted along the dirt drive and on either side of the walk leading into our house. Some hardpack remains under the
dogwood tree or in the lee of the outbuildings scattered around the twelve acres surrounding our home.
My jeans bear oil stains that Trish has been unable to remove. The strings from the frayed bottoms trail behind the rubber heels of my felt-packed Sorels like a dry fly reeled against the stream’s current. The fingers of my inexpensive work gloves are worn through in a few places, and I have wrapped them with duct tape to keep the lining from falling out.
This morning, I’m wearing a heavy shirt with a stiff canvas exterior over a long-sleeve tee shirt. The words “Oquossoc Marine” are stitched in black across the front of my cap, the letters rising upward through a grease stain like boulders in a lake around which smallmouth bass might school.
I walk the short distance across the yard to a small shed,
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the lawn crunching under my boots. The morning frost glistens like tiny diamonds sprinkled among the blades of matted grass as the sun edges over a line of spruce to reveal a flawless blue sky.
Lifting the latch, I open the door. The smell of grease and oil hangs in the cold stillness. I reach past the chainsaw and grab the maul from the corner of the shed, walking back outside, passing the lean-to that contains the remains of two cords of stove wood. By this time of year, much of the wood split the previous year has been used to heat our home. The pieces that remain are stacked against the back wall, some littering the floor, a few wedged into the corners.
Throughout November and December, the sound of my chainsaw fills the air as I down trees, hauling them from the woodlot across the earthen dam of our little pond and cutting them into stove-sized pieces. Beginning in January, I spend my time splitting the twelve-inch logs, allowing them to season in the open air throughout spring and summer until the following fall when I stack them, row upon row, under the eaves of the empty lean-to.
When I was younger, I split wood from morning until three or four in the afternoon, breaking only for lunch, a mountain of stove wood rising quickly, leaving the remainder of the winter for feeding birds, exploring the woods, tying flies. These days, I wear a back brace and work for no more than three hours a day, taking an entire winter of weekends to raise my mountain of split wood.
I can rent a gas-powered log-splitter and form the pile of logs in days instead of months, but where is the honor in that? No, I prefer this six-pound maul, the one I now cradle in my hands; the same maul I have used to create forty winters’ worth of firewood. Once, I replaced the shaft when an errant blow splintered it against the side of a stump, only later learning a trick used by hockey players to protect their sticks—duct tape wrapped around the base of the blade.
On this morning, I stop at the three chopping blocks frozen to the ground in front of the rising summit of wood. Chinks and grooves cut into the edges of each stump wherever the maul’s sharp blade has powered through a log. The bark has fallen away, lying in shreds, mixed into sawdust with pieces of kindling, wood chips, shavings and twigs, creating a ligneous gazpacho.
On either side lies a pile of logs, mostly sugar maple, white oak, shagbark hickory and ash; the type of hardwood that splits easily and burns slowly, providing an efficient source of heat for the woodstove. There is a smaller amount of soft wood that is stringy, more difficult to split and faster burning like poplar and tulip.
I like the smell of the resin, the feeling of the sawdust,
spongy under my boots, the maul, familiar in my hands, but it is the sight of the growing mountain that I most enjoy, with its base of split log, ridges of sticks, and crags of twisted branch.
Feet spread apart, I grasp the maul, my left hand around the bottom of the shaft, my right around its base. I take pleasure in the power that spreads from my legs up through my shoulders and down through my arms, the motion of the heavy blade as it swings through the air, the crack of the log as it splits in two. After twenty minutes, I unbutton the canvas shirt, remove the baseball cap, and run a hand through my thinning hair.
A few feet from the woodpile a chickadee flits among the branches of an ironwood tree. Landing on the metal rung of the tube feeder, the little bird cocks its head sideways, its black eye looking like a tiny plastic bead. As the bird flies off with a seed, a titmouse appears with its gray breast feathers puffed outward, a little dun-colored pompadour shooting up as it chirps a complaint.
I swing the maul down, the blade striking off center. A quarter of the log splits away while the remaining piece falls over on its side. As the titmouse plucks a seed from the feeder, two goldfinches and a nuthatch impatiently chatter from the branches of a nearby sugar maple.
Clouds have moved in from the west, and without the sun there is a chill in the air. Even so, I’m sweating. I hang the outer shirt from a nail hammered into the side of the woodshed and roll up the long sleeves of my tee shirt.
The next swing of the maul fails to split the log. Aiming for a fracture, I try again, causing a chunk of wood to fly end over end across the frozen ground.
I develop a rhythm—bend, pick up a log, split. Bend, pick up a log, split. There is ample time for reflection. Today, I fancy myself an aging samurai, past my prime, without a lord to follow or battle to fight, but still able to wield a weapon with grace and skill. After a while, I stoop down, tossing the scattered billets toward the top of the pile, the mountain growing high under the ashen clouds.
When snow begins to fall, I remove the canvas shirt from the nail and slip it back on. The flakes are light, dry. They settle on my shoulders, the chopping blocks, the woodpile, covering the branches of the ironwood tree, sticking to the ground.
The birds are now darting back and forth grabbing seeds without hesitation. In the stillness of the afternoon, I hear the flutter of their wings.
Aries (March 20-April 19) – Perhaps the most significant blind spot of our times is the delusion that the Sun rises and sets over each of us as an individual. It’s a product of one’s total upbringing, whether your existence was exalted by your parents, or you were made to feel like you don’t exist. The family influence angle is crucial right now, as Venus in your sign scrapes against the ancestral baggage concentrated in Capricorn. If you’re triggered, be honest with yourself.
Taurus (April 19-May 20) – Most of the baggage you’re dragging around belongs to other people. It’s not yours. Yet there is some that really does belong to you, and whose creation is your doing. In order to find out which is which, you have to do some sorting out and giving back to others (symbolically or in reality) what belongs to them and not to you. Take what is yours; put it to good use. Get rid of the rest and claim your life.
Gemini (May 20-June 21) – At its best, action is based on what you want, or what you define to be necessary. You cannot make an egg hatch, and we all know about the mythological goose that lays the golden eggs. If you cut her open, you will only kill her. So despite any temptation to make a big move, I suggest you sit with your feelings until you determine what you want, and what is right for you. There is a truth to both of those qualifications.
Cancer (June 21-July 22) – Focus your energy, refine your plans and get ready to take action — in what is certain to be a much wider field of possibilities than you’ve felt like you’ve been exploring any time lately. So limber up and get yourself a much larger map, and a better compass. You are being groomed by the cosmos for new responsibilities and a more significant role in society. While some of this will manifest without you needing to do much, Saturn and Neptune say that your vision is what must give direction to your life.
Leo (July 22-Aug. 23) – The quality of your exchanges with others is the central theme of your life. You need sensitive, emotionally grounded relationship experiences, with people who share your idealism and orientation on service. You are entering territory different from where you’ve been living for more than a decade. The tide is turning; if you’ve been at low ebb for a while, the waters will rise, and if you’ve been feeling flooded, the waters will recede. It’s time to acknowledge this sea-change.
Virgo (Aug. 23-Sep. 22) – If some of your friendships are stressed out, this may be a matter of what you’re not saying. You know that you need to take the lead in social situations, though sometimes you resent being the Den Mother who must organize various activities. It could be worse. Be grateful you have people in your life that need your encouragement or who might care about what you want. Your home would be the perfect setting for potlucks, dinner parties or salons.
Libra (Sep. 22-Oct. 23) – If you’re interested in someone, find out what they think is right for them. The guiding principle that will not fail you is knowing something about their values and what drives their preferences. Said simply, find out what they want and if you can, a little about why they want it. If you know these things, you will be better able to make decisions about their role in your life and your role in theirs. This will require listening carefully, in a diversity of situations.
Scorpio (Oct. 23-Nov. 22) – Enough books have been written about “spirituality” since 1970 to fill a university library and most of them dodge the main point. And that is your relationship to death and how that informs your life. Death makes some people greedy and others generous; it reminds some to be more loving and inspires others to be aggressive and mean. When we say “spiritual,” death is the key element — as all the world religions know. However, your relationship to your existence is between you and your inner teacher.
Sagittarius (Nov. 22-Dec. 22) – One challenge you may be facing is dealing with whether you’ve been fair to someone in an intimate relationship. Have you held any part of yourself back? Have you been forthright about the details of your life? Have you brought empathy and caring to close intimate situations? Or have things been a little prickly? If you suspect that’s true, it will help if you make amends sooner rather than later — and commit yourself to the truth of how you feel and nothing else.
Capricorn (Dec. 22-Jan. 20) – Your project at this time of your life is to make friends with your inner authority. There are different ways to describe this; in A Course in Miracles, it’s the “still, small voice within” who speaks as loudly as your willingness to hear. You will find yourself faster when you let go of orthodoxy. You are an original being; you came into life with your original game plan. Desire is a more trustworthy guide than guilt — though be aware that the two compete.
Aquarius (Jan. 20-Feb. 19) – You can relax about one particular matter where you were certain the consequences would be much worse than they were. Your challenge here is that you have the most unusual sign describing matters of self-esteem, and for many that can describe a deficit. At its best, you have a rare value system, which is about service and not profits. If it’s not about service, then you might enter a delusional state where you experience yourself as greater than, or lesser than.
Pisces (Feb. 19-March 20) – You might want to devise a means of commemorating what you have learned and making sure you take those experiences and lessons to heart. The opportunities for maturing remain abundant, though bear in mind that this is the last thing most people want. For the past few years you have been subjected to metamorphic pressure to grow up and take responsibility for your existence. To the extent you have, you’re in possession of something precious.
