New York Times, Washington Post, and all other leading newspapers all over the country struggling to survive the Internet boom, move over and hear my ode to The Recorder, serving the people of Greenfield, Massachusetts and the North Quabbin region. Here in Greenfield, Massachusetts, we read the paper version of our beloved newspaper, and, while I have a disturbed relationship with the native Greenfielder, I am far from being sarcastic. My wife and I love the Recorder (as well as our local radio station, WHAI; if only Jay Fedanza wasn’t a Yankees fan).

We moved to Greenfield about eight years ago, totally unprepared for the cultural clash, but who could imagine that you can live in an American equivalent of Leonard Wibberly’s Duchy of Grand Fenwick, or even that a Chevy Chase movie like Funny Farm was not based on mere fantasy, but careful observation.

To put it in a nut-shell, the town of Greenfield (population 17,000+) is mentally, and in many cases visibly, stuck in the 1950s. The native Greenfielder (i.e. born and raised in Greenfield) is emphatically opposed to any changes that would interfere with his established lifestyle, even if it means hanging on to sub-standards, for instance, in medical care and fighting modern intrusions such as a big-box store (Oh Devil, Thy Name Is Walmart!). I frequently make it a point that The Greenfielder is a Soviet-Communist-Amish people – See my post A Species Of Its Own: The Greenfielder.

The Recorder has accumulated a large and stable list of followers, and I don’t expect that this will change in the near future. Their reporting is good, and keeps us up-to-date about what’s happening locally; National and international news are usually by Associated Press. Commentaries written by Chris Collins are a feast to read; those by Ben Clarke usually make me (and my wife) broil, and I can’t wait to get my hands on that keyboard for a flaming response to his offending humor – See my post Speechwriter Ben Clarke And His Offensive Humor.

And this may be the main reason for The Recorder’s success. The Recorder provides all of us an additional means of communication, especially when we thoroughly disagree on local issues, and a face-to-face confrontation is not advisable due to possible emotional outbursts. The letters to the editor are one of the most-read parts of The Recorder, and whether we agree with a reader’s contribution or not, we are exchanging ideas and keep the discussion alive.

And yes, The Recorder does have a website (http://www.recorder.com/), one of those amateurish throw-togethers that make you cringe and run for some TUMS. I always compare it to painting a car, because, believe it or not, everybody can paint a car. You take some oil paint and a big brush… You get the picture; it will not come out as a professional job, and The Recorder‘s website is a fine example.

But, in fact, it doesn’t matter. All those big newspapers around the country depend on top-notch websites these days in order to survive by creating additional income. It even goes so far that a highly regarded newspaper such as the Washington Post needs to sell advertisement space to known scammers, who are currently being investigated by the FBI and the Federal Trade Commission.

The online version of The Recorder is also designed to include ad space, but it is usually about playing golf in the Pioneer Valley, the hidden hills of Western Massachusetts, local TV listings, and the such. In the same spirit they can afford to post on their website:

Why can’t I read the entire newspaper online?

What you’ll find on recorder.com, and what you won’t

You can read the full story in The Recorder…but not ALL the stories.

You can find a lot of very useful information on Recorder.com, such as Classified ads, local Business Directories, links to other useful sites, weather information, local Arts & Entertainment schedules, obituaries, school lunches, the entire text of selected significant stories up to a week old, and many other great features. Many of these items can’t be found in the print version of our paper.

But you won’t find everything on our web site. You won’t find our police and court logs, or the entire local news report or sports. Why? Well, it’s just not good business to give away EVERYTHING we have to offer. Our subscribers mean a lot to us, and they value the service we perform by giving them the news and features they want.

To get the most the Recorder has to offer, our readers can access our web site AND check out our print version over their morning cup of coffee. Between the two, our readers can find out all the best information locally as well as nationally and worldwide.

Source: http://www.recorder.com/Online_Edition.cfm

Greenfield, Massachusetts may be mentally stuck in the 1950′s but their world is still in order when it comes to their local newspaper. Maybe there is a lesson to be learned; I just don’t know what it is.

Advertisement

The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

The New England Quilting Museum’s groundbreaking exhibition on women’s material history, Women’s Writes: Signature Quilts and Their Stories tells the little-known story of women in the 19th and early 20th centuries taking social action by by combining needle and thread with the power of the pen. The curators for the exhibit, NEQM Acting Curator Laura Lane and quilt historian Lorie Chase, have assembled an extensive group of signature quilts, drawn from both the museum’s own permanent collection and borrowed from private collections, showcasing the wide stylistic and political range of signature quilts.

At a time when women did not have the vote, property rights, or occupational opportunities, and were just beginning to have beyond-basic literacy skills, creating signature quilts was a chance at self-expression and self-sufficiency. Frequently made as charity fund-raisers, signature quilts gave women a measure of both political and economic independence, enabling them to fund their favorite social causes entirely on their own. Groups of women raised money for temperance, abolition, church renovations, the Red Cross, and women’s social clubs by raffling off signature quilts. Many women’s groups also signed the quilts they made for troops during the Civil War, often adding patriotic verses to their signatures.

While making signature quilts for political or social causes was a major means of women’s self-expression, many more personal signature quilts were made. These quilts, too, provided a means for women to assert a more active role within their families and communities. The giving of a signature quilt placed women front and center at major family or local events, such as marriages, births, the departure of an important town resident, or the commemoration of a civic event. The more personal quilts provided an even greater chance at expression, and many signers added favorite poems or Bible verses, as well as personal messages to recipients, making signature quilts a unique window into everyday American women’s values. With family quilts making up a large proportion of these works, they are also of significant interest to genealogists.

So important were signature quilts in 19th century American society that by the middle of the century, industry provided stamps to embellish signatures, patterns, sample verses, and calligraphy advice to the nation’s quilt makers. The tradition continues and is still honored today by contemporary quiltmakers.

Women’s Writes will run from May 13 through July 11, 2010. Support for this exhibition is provided in part by Mancuso Show Management.

Want to learn more about signature quilts, women’s activisim through quilting, or how to made a frienship quilt? Check out our reading list, featuring just some of the books in library on this and other topics on quilting, fiber arts, and women’s history.

New England Quilt Museum

18 Shattuck Street
Lowell, Massachusetts 01852
(978) 452-4207 Ext.15

HOURS & DIRECTIONS

Tuesday through Saturday, 10-4

From May throughOctober, we are also open Sunday, 12-4.

CLOSED MONDAYS

For directions to the museum, visit the directions page.

I still remember how Buffy came into my life, or vice versa, whichever view works. Buffy is our dog, sort of a Rhodesian-Ridgeback, a breed used in Africa to hunt lions. There is, however, not a single aggressive bone in her. She is very affectionate, and she likes to please – provided she knows you. In her younger years she liked to run until she would pass out, and she is still very protective of my wife, and, now that he is part of her life, our son Patrick.

In that spirit, she put on her best threat show when she saw me first, ready to kill me on the spot if I was to harm her Alpha. Well, history has shown that I didn’t harm her. In fact, Susan and I dated for a very brief period of time, married a few months later, and moved to the far away and undiscovered territories of Western Massachusetts. Buffy and I became good friends, especially after she started scratching the lawn in the backyard which I still – after eight long years – try to culture. The only solution to the problem was to walk her through our three-and-a-half acres of land, just for a short period I thought, to give the grass a chance to grow. That was several years ago, and she still insists I walk her every morning after breakfast and every afternoon when I come home from work.

Susan and I were already married for five years when we added another member to Buffy’s pack. In the beginning we were very cautious and wondered how she would react to Patrick. During the three days that Susan spent in the hospital I made sure that I brought home one of her T-shirts and assure Buffy that her Alpha was still alive and well. In addition I let her sniff Patrick’s hat, one of those disposable little things you get in the hospital, to prepare her for the new arrival. When Susan finally came home we made sure she and Buffy had a few minutes of undisturbed quality time together before I brought the little bundle into the house. Buffy took only a brief and unemotional sniff like she was saying, “Okay. That’s him.”

In retrospective, all the cautionary measures and worries were most probably not necessary. The day Patrick was accepted into the pack, Buffy, now not being the junior member anymore, took on her role as an elder. For the first few days she notified us as soon as the little guy started crying, or when his diaper started to smell. After that, the four hour feeding cycle and the diaper changing became daily routine for her as well.

Needless to say, all the articles we read about dogs and babies were useless. The saying is that you should never ever leave a dog alone with a baby, even if you trust the dog implicitly. Never has there been an article in any of the multiple parenting magazines about “How to protect your dog from your baby.” As of today, Patrick is roughly six weeks short of his third birthday, and he “tortures” Buffy on a daily basis. The interaction between the two of them is nothing short of amazing. Whatever the little guys is doing to her (with the best of intentions, of course, and without being aggressive), she takes it mostly as a game and complies, and it drives Susan absolutely crazy when the two of them whirl back and forth in the living room and the kitchen. In case it becomes annoying, Buffy politely asks to be let out into our garden where she can relax in the sun.

Also needless to mention, the walks with Buffy now includes a third member. The photo in the upper left corner was taken a few weeks ago in the forest close to our house (Click on the photo to enlarge). Buffy hardly ever moves more than thirty feet away from Patrick, regardless of where I am in this whole scenario.

Buffy is now ten years old, and we hope we will have her for a good number of more joyous years. We love her, and the little boy beside her absolutely adores her. She is truly the Grand Old Lady of Log Plain Road.

This morning, though, I turned the radio off due to the happy snow report from the Vermont ski resorts (Our house is about 15 miles South of Vermont). We are in the middle of a major snow storm with several towns in the neighborhood declaring an emergency due to loss of electrical power and severe road conditions. After all, this is New England, and harsh winter conditions don’t come as a surprise. Ergo, if somebody declares an emergency here, it must be severe.

Then, in the best Hollywood always-be-happy attitude, there is this lady on the radio promoting Vermont ski resorts, absolutely excited about the snow conditions, and how wonderful and orgasmic the experience is. Sorry for frowning at her remarks and storming over to shut her off. We are very well off in our warm house; we have electricity, but it could hit us anytime, too. Naturally, I am worried about my family’s well-being, but I also think of those families who are stuck in their houses and hope they have a fireplace, a woodstove, or at least a gas stove to make a hot tea. I also think of the caravane of cars coming through from Connecticut and Southern New York State. In fact, each Friday – going North – and Sunday – going South – the percentage of out-of-state cars reaches 90% easily. It makes me wonder if they all live a miserable life where they live, and why they need an escape every single weekend. The other sad part is that the majority of  these “foreigners” not only violate the speed limit by at least 20 miles per hour; they also drive very agressivly. The result is that, every now and then, the state police in Massachusetts and Vermont need to scratch the remains of irresonsible drivers off Interstate 91. I am not kidding, they still go between 80 to 85 miles per hour under any weather condition, and they are the cause of many accidents.

So, now you may understand why the happy weather report doesn’t sit well with me.

Well, the crazy man is yours truly, and the line is from Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. As usual, when I work outside, I have my iPhone with me and listen to music while I’m working. It took the entire last weekend and the following days to blow and rake the vast amount of oak leaves into strategically positioned piles. The weather was cooperating, meaning the leaves were all dry and the leave blower was in full action. Now, crazy as I am, I am waiting for the rain to compact the piles so that I can pick them up and put them into our compost piles.

The area of roughly one acre is the front part of our property, and there are about fifteen oak trees plus the same number of pine trees growing in roughly the same space. They are between 60 and 80 feet high. The problem with oak trees in New England is that they shed their leaves between October and March. I usually spend between two and three weekends in the fall removing leaves, and another weekend in spring for the final clean-up.

The other problem with oak trees is that their leaves take forever to rot. If I wouldn’t remove the leaves, we would end up with a leaf cover roughly one feet high, and the leaves would suffocate any other plant life beneath them.

The next problem is that the leaves clog up our gutters. Years ago we had the gutters installed to prevent the rain water from flooding our basement (the previous owners apparently didn’t mind). Little did we know at the time that we also need gutter guards. I bought some “easy to install” gutter guards at the local Home Depot, but now I am ready to kill the person who came up with the “easy to install” line and who doesn’t know our gutters. It seems we will have to live another season with temporarily cleaned gutters.

The good thing about oak trees is that they make good fire wood. I prefer not to remove trees, but in this case it makes sense, not only to save some valuable times by not removing leaves, but also to get more sunshine on the property and being able to plant more colorful trees and plants.

Well, again, this is life in New England. And by the way, just the last few days I peeled about 20 pounds of apples and roughly 20 pounds of pears. My wife canned apple sauce and diced pear. We are getting earthy-crunchy!

Advertisement

The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

I am not kidding, but “Heroic Goldfish Heads Home” was headline news in Greenfield, Massachusetts on September 9, 2009. “The Recorder”, Greenfield’s local newspaper, had previously reported about the incident in which a goldfish was “accidentally flushed” and then recovered by workers of the water treatment facility. Now, as the headline indicates, “Poopsie” is home again.

Let me quote from the article as it appeared on the front page of “The Recorder”:

“The little goldfish that could is back home and safely swimming with his tank mate. “Poopsie,” the 3-inch goldfish who took a swim through Buckland’s sewer system earlier this week, was reunited with his family on Wednesday.

Wastewater treatment plant operator Alan Nichols and Chief Operator Daniel Fleuriel have seen many dead goldfish coming through the plant, because so many pet fish are given “flushing funerals” after they die. But a live goldfish coming through the sewage, twitching against a screen that filters larger objects, was a shock to both, said Board of Selectmen Chairman Stefan Racz.

Sherry Clark, town administrator and administrative assistant to the Board of Selectmen, named the rescued fish “Poopsie.”

“That was for obvious reasons,” she said with a giggle.

…

“Everyone is very, very happy that Poopsie was reunited with his family,” said Clark. “And the family was delighted.”

Poopsie’s familiy has decided to remain anonymous, but told treatment plant employees that it was an “accidental flushing” that occurred while they were cleaning the fish tank.”

As I wrote before, life in Greenfield, Massachusetts is not far from that in Leonard Wibberly’s Duchy of Grand Fenwick. Wibberly would be delighted if he could read the article.

“And, yes, those camouflaged critters you’ve see entering and exiting the woods this week are indeed bowhunters coming and going from their stands. The archery deer season opened Monday and will close Nov. 21. The big bucks will start coming into the checking stations in two or three weeks, when they go into prime rut.”

Note the “you’ve see” in the above quote, which I did not correct, since it may be bowhunter talk, and I am not a bowhunter.

“Maybe I should go over to the hardware store,” I told my wife, “and buy a bow, and this afternoon I kill us some supper.”

“You need a license to do that,” she told me. “And you need to wear a camouflage suit.”

“Oh, my favorite color,” I grinned.

In my mind I saw myself, dressed in the mandatory olive green and black suit, going through the woods, bow in my hand, and my two year old son, also dressed in camouflage, by my side. What a joy it would be to teach him the virtue of killing deer with a bow. Then I asked myself what these virtues might be, and I couldn’t come up with any good reason.

Well, maybe we just read a good book. That’ll do.

My wife had insisted on looking for the table of one of our friends, Lisa Gancy. Lisa and her partner Andy live in Shelburne Falls. They have a beautiful daughter, Stella. Lisa runs the Smarty Pants Project and she sells her smarty pants at events like the Ashfield fair. Parts of the profits are donated towards the cure of breast cancer.

According to Lisa’s web site:
“The Smarty Pants Project is an endeavor to create funky, affordable children’s pants using a combination of recycled, vintage, new, and donated fabrics.

Each pair of pants is a one of a kind combination made from local sources. What also makes these pants dance is that a portion of our proceeds is donated to Rays of Hope, a rock-your-socks organization that gives so much to the families of the Pioneer Valley who are coping with breast cancer.

SmartyPants started out as a design specifically for the cloth-diapered babe, but now we have designed pants for children up to age 5, too. The baby/toddler pants have a “butt-panel” that provides extra room for a diaper (cloth or paper), yet equally important, it creates a look that is so fun. The waist is a simple elastic band for easy on/off action and comfort. And, all our seams are serged for durability.”

Lisa also shares her own story on the web site:
“The idea for this project was born at the time my daughter Stella was 21 months old, and I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Cancer turned my world upside-down as well as inspired me to launch this dual-purpose mission, on that, already at such an early stage, has brought me great joy and a sense of purpose. I turned to the sewing machine for comfort and have become a wild sewing-mama ever since! As part of deepening my commitment to live more green, SmartyPants and my love of sewing are traveling down a unique path, one even richer in color and texture than I previously imagined. My goal is to succeed at operating a local endeavor that is steadfast in its social and environmental initiatives while having fun!”

You can order Smarty Pants through Lisa’s web site at http://www.smartypantsproject.org.

Today’s headline in the sports section of our local newspaper said, Angels close out Papelbon, Sox. I knew that already. I saw the game. Amazingly enough, I understood the word game. Jonathan Papelbon’s job was to close out the Angels (not vice versa), and he failed miserably. Baseball season is now officially over. No, don’t tell me, there are other games, and two other teams will eventually compete in the World Series. Every citizen of Red Sox nation will agree, baseball season is only over when either the Sox win the World Series, or, as they did yesterday, loose in the play-offs.

Many moons ago, when I arrived here in the Unites States, coming from Germany, I had heard about baseball, but I never considered it a real sport. As Yogi Berra said in his own typical way, “Baseball is 90% mental, the other half is physical.” I never understood the concept of holding a bat and looking at the ball swishing by, waiting either to be walked or struck out. I never understood how you can injure yourself by running a mere 90 feet from the batter’s box to first base. I’ve seen it several times now.

Being a football fan, I vividly remember seeing my first Superbowl – San Francisco 49ers vs. Cincinatti Bengals. One of the players broke his leg during the game, and they showed it in detail and slow motion multiple times on TV. The player refused to be driven to a hospital. He insisted on staying in the locker room and watching the game on TV until it was over. Then he agreed to the trip to the hospital. Compare that to a pitcher who is being replaced because he broke a fingernail. It did happen! So, for many years football was my kinda sport! And by the way, why do they call it World Series…?

No, wait, don’t start yelling at me! This season I watched almost all Red Sox games, and only a few minutes of the New England Patriots. I have to admit I had problems following the games when the Red Sox were on the West Coast. We have a two-year-old, and we’re happy when we go to bed after an East Coast game, which is usually around 10:00 pm.

My Red Sox addiction started after I met my wife, who is a vivid fan. She was the reason that the 2003 season was the first I watched from beginning to end. I experienced the typical Red Sox drama by watching them losing in the seventh game against the New York Yankees. Even I yelled at the TV when the Red Sox manager (whose name is not to be uttered in this household) did not pull Pedro Martinez when it was obvious he didn’t have it anymore. Well, the rest is history, and the Red Sox won the World Series the next year. Many people here in New England and beyond have waited a lifetime to see this happen, while I was privileged to wait only two seasons. Maybe it’s the German efficiency.

So, coming back to yesterday’s game. I saw Papelbon allowing two runs in the eighth inning with two outs, and, in view of Papelbon’s track record so far this season, I expected the worst.

At the beginning of the  ninth inning, with Papelbon still up, I looked at my wife and asked, “Can we load the bases, please?”

My wife looked at me and said, “You know Max’s famous word when he left the wild things?”

She was referring to Where The Wild Things Are, one of my son’s favorite books, and now a movie.

“His famous word,” continued my wife, “was NO!”

“But,” I muttered, “can’t we just load the bases to make things a bit more interesting?”

“NO!”

“We could also allow another three runs.”

“NO!”

Yet again, the rest is history. Papelbon did load the bases eventually, and he did allow three more runs. And I still don’t understand the concept of loading the bases with an intentional walk. For me Torii Hunter was as much of a threat as Vladimir Guererro. In the end, the Angels were the better team.

Last, but not least, while I, as an author, have the liberty of distorting the facts, the conversation with my wife happened as I described it. Now it’s time to focus my attention on the Patriots, even though I have the nasty feeling that Tom Brady’s priorities are currently more with maintaining his status as a star, rather  than his performance as a quarterback.

However, last night was a dream, because I woke up in a hotel room about eighty miles away from home and family. I finally got up at about 8:00 am, had a hot shower, got dressed, packed my belongings, checked out, and, finally, I was on the road again. I programmed Lilly, our navigation system, to lead me home, and off we went.

As usual when I take off to drive home I don’t waste any time with having breakfast at the hotel. Being in New England, I was sure to find a Dunkin’ Donuts eventually. Eighty miles to home also implies there should be at least 57 Dunkin’ Donuts on the way.

After only a few miles I yelled “hallelujah”. There it was, a Cumberland gas station with a Dunkin’ Donuts attached to it. First, I took care of the car and filled the tank. This was when I saw the sign above the pump, Pay for the milk, not the cow, and I had to laugh. Then I rushed into the coffee shop and ordered the essentials for the trip home, a caffe latte and a coffee roll.

“HOT latte please, and NO sugar!”

Sometimes they don’t get it, so you need to make sure, you don’t get an iced latte. Yikes!

Then back in the car. Lilly leads me from Route 9 into Interstate 495 North, where I go about ten miles over the speed limit, while being passed left and right. Lilly is very effective, and she knows all short-cuts. So, she tells me to take Route 117 towards I-190. The problem is, the speed limit is only 35 miles per hour, and I am stuck behind a red van who follows the speed limit meticulously.

I am yelling at the driver, “Hey! I need to go home to my family, and I would like to get there before Christmas!”, but he doesn’t hear me. Finally, there comes I-190 and I can pass him. From there on, as soon as I hit Route 2, everything goes smoothly, and an hour later I drive into the garage.

It is a wonderful feeling being greeted by a “There’s Daddy!”, followed by a BIG hug. Well, eventually he did let me kiss my wife, too. It’s good to be home again.