Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.  Well, not really lions and tigers and bears, but there were goats, ponies, chickens and cows.   No sheep but, in fine Yankee style, there was some yarn spinning and undoubtedly a surreptitious goose or two.

This year’s Bright Acres Farm open house was blessed with fine weather that drew a large number of visitors from around the area.  Friends and neighbors, families, couples, singles, passers-by exploring the hidden treasure of the Quiet Corner.  Kids from infant to 80.  All having a good time.

There is something about a well constructed post and beam barn with its wide raw boards echoing under your feet that soothes the soul. Add to that some free sample maple sugar candies and a chorus of mmm-mms, and nirvana is but an ohm away.

Molly Miller, of Full Moon Farm, had on display (and available) a carton of free range eggs with their straight-from-the-nest red, green, brown and tan colored shells. It seemed as though they could go right into the Easter basket without the bother of dyeing them. Once you’ve had farm fresh free-range eggs you will be loathe to return to those anemic looking white eggs you find at the grocery.  She also had available to purchase organic beef and pork products. For taste and nutritional value you can’t beat locally grown organic products.

Michelle Thart, of Soapsium, had her stunning variety of hand-crafted soap available in all manner of scents, shapes, sizes and decorative themes — guaranteed to make the ladies smell and feel prettier. For you hard working smelly guys, they won’t make you prettier but your cuddles may be more welcome. The right combination of soaps may well produce miracles.

Set up near the goat pen, adjacent to the Sugar House, Bob Inman was demonstrating how humans made stone tools and arrow heads using stone tools. A skill known as flint knapping first practiced during the Stone Age and continued around the world up through recent centuries. It is still employed by some of the most remote tribes on earth. He had on display an amazing array of arrow heads, spear heads and stone tools he had himself made from and with stone. Yikes. That’s some serious skill and patience.

Next door to Bob, Joe Burnham was demonstrating old-school blacksmithing skills – making rustic coat or gear hooks. Some with fancy twists. Some plain utilitarian. All impressive.  Asked how or why he got into the hobby or trade he had no explanation — adding “neither can the guys who taught me explain their own interest.”  It just grabbed them and that was that.

Now for that thing that makes you forget all your troubles for a while and see that life is still worth living — Bright Acres Farm Maple Syrup. The best you will ever taste. If you have never tried it, you must. Treat yourself. You are worthy.  Great on oatmeal. Great in tea. Great in cookies. Great in bread and on your toast.  Great in yogurt. Great to lick off your fingers or drink straight from the jug like a mapleaholic.  And it’s good for your health. Just think of it as the Bubba Gump of the maple syrup world.

Producing this nectar of the gods takes no small amount of time or labor of love. There are over 1500 trees to be tapped, drain tubes to connect from tap to tap that eventually empty into collection tanks. Sap is then transferred from the collection tanks to the transport tank and trucked back to the Sugar House where it is drained into the evaporation pan and boiled to remove the water. The pan is heated by an oak-fed woodstove in which the temperature must be maintained at a constant 800 to 1200 degrees for 6-8 hours, depending upon the quantity and current water content of the sap. On a good day 2100 gallons of sap will net about 40 gallons of syrup. Go back the next day and start again. This whole labor of love falls mainly to event hosts and owners, Rich and Judy Schenk, and their good friend Noel Waite.

If you are one of the lucky ones who forgot your troubles for a while, attended the Bright Acres Farm open house on March 18^th, and treated yourself to some fresh air, sunshine, a yarn or a goose and some nectar of the gods, good  on you. Lick those fingers clean.

You can learn more about Bright Acres Farm on Facebook.

J.P.G.

Action Figures, Super Heroes: Women’s History

In 1973 Dale Pearl was just another miniskirt-sporting high school maiden, daydreaming about her yet-to-be-discovered Prince Charming, her Knight in shining armor, and wondering what adventures, what mysteries, lay in her future.  In the distance, across the river, beyond the meadow and through the fog, the faint clatter of hooves and clinking of metal interrupted her reverie, perked her attention.  The clatter grew closer, more distinct. A fluttering banner of the Round Table approached through the mist. The curtain of mystery was drawing back — her life of service dawning. The clatter stopped beside her. The banner fluttered still. The rider dismounted. Like a coach at a T-ball game he leaned across her shoulder extending his arm, pointing at a distant carriage and whispered: “Make thee yon, maiden. Make haste and tarry not. Fear not the dragons. Thence ye shall find great happiness. Thence ye shall bring healing to the lame and weary. Thence ye shall discover the meaning of life.” She tarried not but did fear the dragons just an itty bit. As she approached the carriage she began to cipher its meaning, for it bore a sign – HAMPTON/CHAPLIN AMBULANCE.

So began long dreamy nights of lying awake, staring at the fan.  Visions of her prince in every shadow on the wall. His voice in every rustling branch outside her window.  Butterflies floated and danced, cardio rhythms altered. The ticking clock mocking the slow passage of time. But time did pass. There was a great celebration. The people rejoiced. Church bells rang throughout the land. The maiden had cast off her Pearl and became Princess Dale, of the DeMontigny clan. A pile of dusty metal cluttered the mud room. A scraggly-looking donkey brayed in the meadow.

Some say it did not happen like that but after 45 years of marital bliss and dedicated service to community, what is to be gained by resurrecting old rumors of hidden misdemeanor or felony?

The details in the following account can be found in official records or have been verified by mostly reliable eye witnesses.

Dale Demontigny is a native Hamptonite. She graduated high school in 1974 and with support and encouragement from Prince Dave joined the Hampton/Chaplin Ambulance Corp, earning her EMT certification in 1975. She had found her calling and wasted no time enrolling in nursing school. By 1979 she had earned her nursing degree, and so began a life following in the footsteps and carrying on the work begun by such historical figures as Florence Nightingale and Clara Barton.

War has been the laboratory of emergency medical care since Barney first stepped out of his cave, whacked Fred over the head with a club, and made off with his prized Brontosaurus. When Wilma came racing from her cave and bandaged Fred’s cracked skull with some wooly mammoth gauze, she can safely be identified as the first first-responder. For centuries thereafter, emergency medical care made painfully slow advances — sometimes aided, often hindered by religion and superstition. But there were advances.

Aboriginal people, by both accident and experiment, developed many natural treatments for wounds, sickness and disease. Anything from spider webs to herbal remedies to feces to prayers, incantations and human sacrifice was included in their medical practices.  Many of these treatments found to be effective are still practiced today.  Others simply hastened the victim to the grave. Inter-clan, inter-tribal, inter-regional, international wars have continued unabated, providing a never-ending supply of victims on whom practitioners of medicine, religion and witchcraft could ply their trade. Inevitably, infection and disease sent more victims to their graves than death in actual combat did.  This trend continued uninterrupted until the mid nineteenth century and the Crimean War (1853-1856). At the time, emergency medical treatment of war casualties amounted to little more than“Suck it up, Buttercup.”

Until Florence Nightingale entered upon the scene.

She was born in 1820 into a wealthy and connected British family of the Victorian Era. In opposition to family objection and cultural barriers, and determined on a life of service, she began her “nursing” education at the age of 24 (actual nursing education had not yet been formalized). When Britain entered the Crimean War in 1854, she and a staff of 38 nurses and 15 Catholic nuns were sent to the Ottoman Empire. There, Florence found the conditions of the hospitals and patient care disgraceful and appalling. Sanitation and hygiene were near nonexistent.  Poor medical care was being provided to the patients by overworked medical staff in the face of official indifference. Medicine was in short supply, infection and disease rampant. The list goes on.

Her tireless and relentless work establishing needed improvements in every deficiency of care, supplies, hygiene and sanitation ultimately resulted in the death rate being reduced from 42 to 2 percent.  To the sick and wounded she was known as a “ministering angel.”  The nightly rounds she made when the other medical staff had retired for the day earned her the moniker “The Lady with the Lamp.”  On returning to Britain after the war she continued her nursing career and campaigned for improved standards of sanitation and hygiene for both hospitals and communities.  In 1860 she laid the foundation of her professional nursing school in London.

Her birthday, May 12^th, is celebrated as International Nurses Day. The Nightingale Award, recognizing excellence in nursing, is named in her honor.

Clara Barton came to prominence during the American Civil War. When war broke out she was working in the US Patent office and living in the unfinished Capitol Building – the location to which the first casualties of the war were transported.  She immediately assumed the task of caring for the injured and wounded in whatever way by whatever means necessary — launching a career in which she would become known as the “Florence Nightingale of America.” There are few battles in that war that do not have her name in some way attached.  She could be found distributing supplies, cleaning field hospitals, applying dressings, serving meals to wounded soldiers, reading or writing letters for them.  Her letters to Northern newspapers generated influxes of much needed supplies – supplies she would often personally deliver to the battlefield earning her the title of the “Angel of the Battlefield.”  She made no distinction between Northern and Southern soldiers in providing care.

After the war she traveled to Europe.  In Geneva she was introduced to the Red Cross. On returning to America and some relentless campaigning she was able to establish the American Chapter of the International Red Cross. American Red Cross Motor Corp (ambulance) was established in 1917. Initially and predominantly staffed by women and deployed to serve in WWI.

Dale DeMontigny: Completing nursing school is no walk in the park. Combining classes and late night studies with continued service with the H/C Ambulance Corps made it that much more challenging. Continued service on the Ambulance Corps was a double-edged sword. On one edge was the real-world experience of dealing with medical emergencies while maintaining a calm and comforting demeanor. It also helped maintain her motivation to become a nurse. On the other edge was the time consumed and the added pressure of dealing with real-world medical emergencies.

She reflects on a time when she was home upstairs, near tears, grinding away on her studies, with growing doubts about her ability to achieve her goal. Downstairs in the kitchen, Dave was busy canning tomatoes. She appreciated his diligence and support, yet envied his activity. Nevertheless, her prince would always step up with encouragement and take on whatever tasks necessary to relieve some of her stress, allowing her to complete her education. She completed her initial nursing certification in 1979.

Little did she realize at the time, “completing her education” would continue for another 45 years as she rose through the ranks of Windham Hospital.  Medical knowledge and protocols evolved. Technology advanced. Epidemics and pandemics needed to be adjusted to and dealt with.  Ambulance calls responded to. A Masters degree to be acquired.

She has memories of delivering patients to the hospital in the ambulance, then being uniquely positioned to care for them as a nurse the following day. Of getting off her shift only to respond to an ambulance call before arriving home. She has many good memories of positive outcomes – including delivering the babies of the babies she had delivered years before. And sad memories – particularly of accidents involving fatalities. There is at least one comical memory she shared: Arriving at the scene, she found an overturned sports car. She fully expected another fatality. Then a foot pushed out of the driver’s window. Another foot.  A leg. A butt.  A head.  The driver strolled over to the ambulance, not a scratch on him, sat down on the stretcher, looked around at the equipment and said: “Is that oxygen? Can I get a hit?” It is indeed a world full of mysteries.

In 1982 she was named Hampton’s Citizen of the Year. In 1985 she added “MOM” to her title. With “MOM” added to her title…and additional responsibilities, she necessarily had to dial back some of her Ambulance Corps activities, but continued as a member, serving the needs of her community both in and out of the hospital. Through it all she stayed on top of her game, ultimately rising to the pinnacle of her chosen line of Nursing: Operating Room Charge Nurse.

In 2001 she joined the Hampton Fire Company, initially serving as Secretary. Responding to dispatches she, as she says, served mostly as a “gofer” and as traffic control. This did not prevent her from dragging hoses, or operating or servicing equipment if the situation called for it. In 2002 she was named Windham Hospital Caregiver of the Year, nominated by her doctor and voted by hospital staff. In 2015 Dale was the recipient of the Nightingale Award.

Dale DeMontigny, RN, CNOR…(MOM)

“From knowing equipment, questions about procedures, to safety training, Dale DeMontigny is known as the go-to person in the Windham Hospital operating room. Dale DeMontigny, who has been a nurse for more than 35 years, is known as a valuable resource for urology, eye procedures and laser safety. She leads by example, assisting staff in choosing and organizing when they are faced with difficult procedures. DeMontigny says “nursing is about helping people through difficult situations and helping patients understand their illness after the doctors leave.”

For the past 10 years Dale has served as Treasurer for Hampton Fire Company. She retired from nursing last year but continues to respond to emergency dispatches and serve as Treasurer. Dave has been a member for 55 years and has served as President for the past 15 years.  As the sand continues to slide through the hourglass, both are looking forward to dialing back external commitments and having more quality us-time. This time Dale would like to do some of the tomato canning while her prince, having mastered origami, is upstairs struggling with his night courses on the art of folding fitted sheets.

Dale Florence Clara DeMontigny, Nightingale, RN, CNOR, MOM — Thank you for your service.

During the month of February members of Hampton Fire Company logged 85 man hours responding to 14 emergency dispatches and another 40 plus man hours on Training, admin meetings and other unrecorded services.  Be Safe.  Be Kind. Stay alert. Fear thee not the dragons. The life it saves could be yours.

Fire House Dog

Most everyone in our town recognizes Perry Mandanis’s  voice. From his strong rendition of the National Anthem during our Memorial Day ceremonies, to his soulful performances with local bands on area stages, including our own Community Center where he has also directed holiday radio plays with Hampton thespians at Christmas time.  Many residents didn’t realize that Dr. Perry Mandanis is also a Child and Adult Psychiatrist until he contributed “prescriptions” to the Gazette during the pandemic to help people of all ages through that first year of fear and isolation.

Recently it’s come to our attention that Perry is also a respected expert in the assessment and treatment of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). A relatively common condition, approximately eight percent of children are diagnosed with ADHD which presents as inattentiveness and/or hyperactivity.  Dr. Mandanis first started working with children who were referred by schools, but mothers answering questions about their children’s behavior would frequently come to recognize something in themselves. Dr. Mandanis describes this realization as a “light bulb moment”, parents’ sudden understanding that they, too, had ADHD as children. As a result, he is now treating as many adults as children.

It is not a rare circumstance for mothers to discover later in life that their childhoods were also impacted by ADHD. The rate of adults with ADHD having children with ADHD is statistically significant, and females continue to be under-diagnosed in schools. According to Dr. Mandanis, the symptoms girls experience with ADHD appear less disruptive in the classroom environment than those of their male classmates. Consequently, the average age of diagnosis for women with ADHD is, disturbingly, 37. At this stage in their lives, women initially experience a sense of regret, recalling struggles which were untreated, a feeling later replaced with relief as the disorder is addressed.

With this broadening awareness in women, Dr. Mandanis has started to use social media platforms to disseminate information on ADHD. The goal of these posts is to provide skills for people dealing with ADHD, to increase awareness of neurodiversity, and to promote “the importance of self-compassion in understanding one’s past to create a more vibrant future.” In a year’s time, Dr. Mandanis has become a well-known national figure on the subject, and frequently receives messages of gratitude from women who, as a result of listening to the information on his channel, have obtained formal assessment and started treatment for themselves.

Thank you, Perry, for continuing to share your expertise, your wisdom, and your compassion with us, for using your “voice” in so many wonderful ways.

Dr. Mandanis can be followed on Instagram @perry.mandanis.md and on FaceBook at Perry Mandanis. 

Robin Thompson, RN truly believes in the preciousness of life. She also believes soul searching can be a process leading to a sense of purpose and healing fulfillment. Passionate about what makes the best life and an understanding of what can get in the way, she seeks to connect with others’ unique, one of a kind self, leading to a more vibrant and healthy existence.

Robin trained as an RN and began her career in a conventional medical environment. Along with the benefits of hospital care she still felt there was more to offer patients through complementary care modalities. Consequently, she became a certified holistic nurse focusing on the whole person with emphasis on the healing arts.

She states, “I wondered about why some patients got better, and others didn’t, how do they get better, what did they do or not do? What were the characteristics of those whose attitude supported their ability to heal?” She wondered why some improved while others succumbed to illness or disease. Many factors seemed germane, connection to others, gratitude for those helping, staying in the present, and especially, a connection to heart.

Searching for something beyond nursing, and with a recognition of conventional medicine’s limitations, she trained as integrative health coach at Duke University in North Carolina. This training provided a ground work for a more integrated mind/body plan of care. During this time she continued nursing at Day Kimball Hospital in Putnam in the Medical/Surgical Department. Along the way, she campaigned for a more whole person approach to healthcare in a hospital setting, chairing the Employee Wellness committee. Eventually, Robin, with support from many physicians, nursing colleagues, and upper  management, created and led their integrative medicine program. They offered many complimentary modalities to assist conventional medical approaches in a hospital setting, such as massage, reflexology, health coaching, guided imagery for surgery, mindfulness and healing touch.

Robin states, “I feel conventional medicine is great at diagnosing a problem and giving a prescription. Integrative health coaching helps patients translate physicians’ orders into specific everyday actions.” Robin doesn’t see a person who is ill as broken. They are whole and have the capacity to tap into their inner wisdom to facilitate removing the barriers to healing and living a better life.

Day Kimball welcomed these integrative additions. Unfortunately, extensive budget cuts ended the DKH program after a few years and Robin returned to conventional nursing still hoping to offer a more whole person approach in and out of the hospital setting. After much soul searching Robin and her husband Wayne founded East and West of the River Wellness. They mostly focused early on massage and health coaching. Robin recognized the need for more extensive services. Networking and with many blessings, they transitioned into more of a multi-dimensional wellness destination.

With Robin’s extensive training at the Center for Mindfulness at UMASS, she offered an eight week mindfulness class, called Mindful Living at Day Kimball Hospital, and now on Zoom due to Covid.  Robin explains, “Mindfulness helps to shift out of a reactive and stressed mind to pause and become more embodied to respond with greater intention, wisdom and clarity. Stress is a huge factor in the body’s potential for illness. The mind can get stuck in a downward spiral of negative thinking; mindfulness is the useful tool in alleviating this.”

Always seeking to improve her approaches Robin also is trained in “The Art of Convening”. She is adept at facilitating  a sacred space to support growth. She states, “It’s less about me being the expert, and more about  creating space for each person to tap into their inner healer and offering healing practices to be added to their medicine bag.

Robin Thompson RN wears many hats in the promotion of living a better life. Akin to her holistic approach she promotes stewardship of the earth and reparation for racial injustices. Many of the programs she now offers follow the seasons. With her daughter, Chelsea Cherrier, with a master degree in Nutritional Science, they offer seasonal programs that include recipes, meals plans, mindfulness and insights into sustainable living practices. These programs remain mostly on line, but hope to offer in person classes in the near future.

Robin’s next seasonal offering SPRING RENEWAL begins April 23 and will be offered on Zoom. For more information please visit her website and become a subscriber for updates and class schedules.

Contact EASTANDWESTOFTHERIVER.COM or call Robin direct at 860-942-9046.

A few months back my partner and I decided to do a pizza night once a month, and check out some of the local places that had received some more than favorable reviews.

We consider ourselves “foodies” of a sort. So, we opted for a white pie with garlic and some veg. We paid online to make things easy. On arrival, we were met with well, I can only put it this way, “Cheerleaders”. Blonde, and way too perky for seven o’clock in the evening. But it was a new place for us, so we behaved, made small talk, looked around and complimented the rustic ambiance. And then…

Squeels of girlish laughter as a mustachioed forty-something sauntered through the door. “Brian!” (whispering, “he loves when we call him by his first name”).

Suddently, we were in the midst of a Three’s Company episode, with three Chrissy’s and no pizza, with Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility.

We asked, several times, when it would be ready. No response. We hung back at a table. It finally arrived with a now sullen cheerleader who’s attention had been callously stolen by us for our dinner.

Were we invisible?

We took the pizza home, and despite all the good reviews, it was soggy and cold. But THAT is another story.

We WERE invisible. How did that happen? WHEN did that happen? For me, I think perhaps somewhere after I turned fifty-five.

Let’s face it. I am not small. I am not quiet. In Kindergarten, our esteemed teacher aide, Mrs. Kennan told my mother, not quite discreetly, that I was “too bold”. To be honest, I may have been voted loudest in my class (I was in theatre – and yes, you may read, “drama queen”). Invisible, never.

A few days ago, I stepped up to the bank kiosk at the mall, and three boys, from about nine to eleven, rushed up in front of me to deposit their earnings in many, many, many one dollar bills.

“Excuse me?! I was about to do my banking.”

Blank, nanosecond stares. They quickly bgan their transactions. Huddled, they counted and continued their process.

“Boys…at the lobby or drive-up, one is usually allowed only three transactions.” My attempt at thwarting their plan has certainly failed. More huddling, more counting. Many, many deposit slips. Finally, business complete after fifteen minutes, they file out the door to a parent’s waiting minivan. Nary a glance of acknowledgement.

This is nw. Anonymous public dismissal. How exciting. To think of all the things that I can do now that no one really sees this almost sixty-year-old person. Let’s make a list:

Say outrageous things in public places. Oh, wait, I do that already.

Stop being polite in unpolite situations.

Call out stupidity. Yes, I used that word.

Be politically incorrect.

Talk to people who are maniacally texting or reading their cellphones in a room full of people who are also maniacally texting or reading their cellphones. Or walking down the side walk doing all of the above.

Hum. And then look around quizzically at another person nearby as if they were the one who was humming. And hum along.

It has been observed internationally that women at the average age of 52 begin to feel invisible. Apparently, I’ve wasted the last 8 years. For now, on the cusp of 60, I’m going to enjoy it.

Mary Oliver

We have all done it to a greater or lesser extent. Teenaged boys do it more — and more to the extreme end; it’s just the way the makers made us. (That’s my daughter, Chelsea’s, rationale for things she doesn’t have an explanation for: “That’s the way the makers made me, Dad” and then she’s done with the topic whether I am or not.)

My brother, David, is by all measures a straight-and-narrow, stand-up guy and has been for so many decades I’ve lost count. But there was this one time when he was a teen that he demonstrated just how far we boys can go when given the opportunity.

My parents invited friends of theirs – Lane and Gloria – who lived in Cambridge, MA, down to Hampton for a weekend away. They’d planned a trip somewhere and left all six of us kids home. It was supposed to be a shared babysitting responsibility twixt David and me but that was never in the cards as far as David was concerned. Lane and Gloria made the journey from Cambridge in their shiny new ’67 Plymouth Valiant and Lane casually left the keys to his car on the kitchen counter, unsuspecting of the mind of a teenager who didn’t have his own car.

Not many minutes after Lane, Gloria, and my parents had poured themselves into the Toronado and left Hampton behind, my brother called up Don Inman, grabbed the keys off the counter, and took off in Lane’s Valiant without so much as a “see ya.” I guess the two of them bombed around for a few hours, eventually finding themselves on Kimball Hill Road. David was putting the Valiant through its paces when they came to the winding turns that made the road so interesting to boys of a certain age and disposition. It was there that David lost control of the car and it flipped up on its side, skidding to a crunching stop against a large boulder on the side of the road.

I wasn’t there but I imagine the rear end of the car breaking loose first, swinging in ever larger arcs as David sought to wrestle the car back under control while the bias ply tires shrieked across the asphalt, the momentum building and the car reaching its apex before suddenly flipping on its side. The sounds of metal against pavement, of glass shattering from the impact, of the roof crushing inward towards their heads must have been devastating, echoing across the eternity of those scant seconds before a great silence descended upon the carnage.

Miraculously, neither David nor Don was injured and they crawled out of the car to survey the damage. They managed to muscle the car back onto its wheels – the roof crushed and the side planed flat by the car’s high-energy excursion across the pavement. Improbably, David was able to drive the car back to our house, no doubt a spectacle to any who saw him passing by, and Don, I think, hoofed it back to his house.

These were the ‘60s and, it being late on a Saturday afternoon, most shops and businesses were shuttering their doors until Monday. David tried his darndest to find a repair shop that was open on Sunday, something that was prohibited by the “blue laws” of the day. It was magical thinking that had him believing that it was even possible to repair that much damage in the few short hours remaining before Lane, Gloria, and my parents returned. When all hope was finally extinguished, he very carefully moved the Valiant back into exactly the spot it was parked in when they’d left and proceeded to work on his preposterous story: “What? Something happened to Lane’s car?!”

When my parents and company returned, they were dumbstruck at the vision of the Valiant, crushed and ravaged and looking for all the world as if an asteroid had landed on it. My father stormed in the house and, finding me first, demanded to know what had happened. I pulled my best Sergeant Shultz and claimed “I know nothing!” Given that I was 14 at the time, I think my father was predisposed to excluding me from the suspect pool. He found David in our room, called bullshit on his feigned innocence, and kept him in his bedroom on a bread-and-water diet until he fessed up. It took three whole days – David was, if nothing else, resolute.

These things have a way of making us stronger and David most assuredly learned several important lessons from this experience about truth and taking responsibility for his actions. It is, no doubt, one of the reasons he’s a straight-and-narrow, stand-up guy today and why he has the wonderful and responsible children that he does. I wonder, though, if he realizes how fabulously fortunate he was on that long-ago Saturday afternoon when the rubber left the road, and metal and rock and velocity and mass all pardoned Don and him from a profoundly worse fate.

Kit Crowne

Like the farmer of yore who refused to get his first tractor, I, too, had refused to acquiesce to modern equipment. I liked knowing that my labor produced what we needed: more wood for our fireplace, a trim lawn to enhance our gardens, candles and containers of water for when we lost power.

This year, with all the fallen trees waiting for harvest, and with a little of that reluctance still clinging, I purchased my first chain saw. You’ve probably seen me with my trusty saw, manually cutting wood outside in all kinds of weather. I convinced myself initially it was to exercise my arm, physical therapy for the shattered elbow I sustained a few years ago when I slipped on the icy stoop while hauling in logs.  This year I decided to join the 21^st century.

No one really trains you on the dos and don’ts of its use. For all her doom-and-gloom trepidation, I’m sure my wife imagined me walking into the house cradling an arm instead of wood. I’m surprised she didn’t suggest a suit of armor and found it strange that she only insisted on goggles. I mean — I do wear glasses, and after the first time, I left the cumbersome facial gear in the car trunk never to be worn again. For me, the problem with the chain saw is starting the contraption. After a brief lesson at the store on how to gas it, oil it, and what to pull, move and shift to start it, it seemed easy enough. Trying it at home, no go. I put it down, went inside and read the manual.  Tried various manners of firing it up. Nope. I predicted this would happen – that elbow, and machines which seem to know enough not to start when I need to use them.  I settled on Plan B. I ask friends Vern or Calvin to come by and start it up. Of course this entails swallowing my pride, but my time on this planet has forced me to recognize the need for machinery to humble me.

The generator was purchased under the duress of another set of circumstances: a heavy unseasonal Halloween snow fall that left us without power and flooded the cellar. It came with the inevitable manual. I started with the chapter on trouble shooting. Why bother with instructions? Let’s get to the real deal. My generator is not a trusted old friend. It has been obstinate at the worst of times. I have it on a wagon to roll it into place, and of course it’s rolled off –as if to ask — aren’t you due for a hernia?  Another time the rope broke, beyond simple repair, when I tried to start it. This last time, or straw, was when it was all set, freshly fueled, and starting with absolutely no problem the day before the storm, and when we lost power – nope, nada, don’t think so. I am grateful, at least, that during the throes of rain, wind, and snow storms, no one can hear my choice words for this contraption.

When we retired our first lawn mower, it didn’t take a forest of felled tree trunks or a hurricane to convince me of the necessity of purchasing a new one. It only took one trip around forty gardens and two acres with a push mower.  Now I‘m on my third riding lawn mower. Naturally, there is one thing they have all done – refused to start. I always have them prepped for the cutting season. They start fine for Walt, but as soon as his truck disappears, the mower will pull its stunt. I have learned to be patient — give it a couple of minutes, pet it, call it sweet names. It cranks, attempts to start, then, “click”. At this point, our relationship resembles that of the father and the furnace in “A Christmas Story”.  I don’t bother troubling myself any longer. I simply use jumper cables. I have someone shut off the car engine after the mower starts because I will not stop it until I’m done with the yard. Forget my thirst, or changing into pants rather than shorts to protect myself from chopped poison ivy, leave the sandwich I planned to eat, leave the ball cap the tree branches knocked off to find later, or the shirt I took off to become fertilizer or an unsightly mess. A word of warning: I don’t ever interfere with the lawn mower’s forward movement, so watch out.

I have accepted my lot with machines. I always expect the worse and they don’t disappoint me. If machines have karma, I am the recipient. Someone in my family must have done something drastic to a machine for which I’m still paying the price. I surrender to the punishment – just make it swift and painless. Neighbors needn’t wonder when they see me in the driveway with a snow shovel instead of a snow blower, no matter the depth. I’m not too crazy about the job, especially when it’s layered with ice, heavy with water, or when the wind, or a snow plow, fill in what I just finished shoveling. Yet I’m reluctant to rely on the alternative.  I can only imagine what might happen – snow too dense to blow, hood aimed in the wrong direction, blower jammed – I’m not sacrificing my digits for a quick fix. And of course the perennial problem — do I really need to frustrate myself with another machine that won’t start? Nope. When I get to the point where I can’t shovel myself out, I’ll hire someone to do it for me.

So no one needs to scratch their heads any longer when they see me with a shovel instead of a snow blower, a rake instead of a leaf blower, and clippers and scythes instead of weed-whackers. No thank you. In the same way we rely  on cow manure instead of tidy bags of fertilizer, natural rather than bagged mulch, a wood stove instead of a furnace  – we’ll continue to count on nature and elbow grease, on what we can rely on and trust. So if anyone asks – as I age — why do you shovel, rake, clip? I’ll say what my wife says when people ask why she walks everywhere – “because I can.”

Juan Arriola

Dear Auntie Mac,

Last month’s column answered a complaint of employee hygiene, or lack thereof, at the office. I have the opposite problem.  The perfume one of my co-workers frequently uses causes almost an allergic reaction for me, ranging from a migraine to nausea. Is it wrong for me to ask this person to refrain from using that specific perfume? Or to at least not to use so much of it?

Sign me,

Sensitive Sinuses

My Dear Neighbor:

Lars’ cousin Marta came to visit for several weeks last summer and stayed in his spare room in the carriage house. Like most young women from Estonia, Marta did not use deodorant, and as I spied her working diligently in the topiary garden, I observed that a razor had probably never grazed an inch of that ruddy eastern European skin. Auntie Mac noted this as a personal and most likely culturally-related choice and thought no more of it, but Lars had much to say on the matter after Marta had returned to the land of marzipan and saunas. He reported that during those first few days, her personal aroma was too much even for him, which Auntie Mac found startling, since she often believes that Lars manufactures his own brand of cologne from a bucket of week-old fish entrails, but he then went on to say that after several days he became quite used to it and even found it–he bowed his head sheepishly—faintly enchanting.  Which is to say that in a perfect world none of us would need to hide behind artificial scents that mask what, when we keep ourselves clean, are normal and far-from-vile bodily scents. But these days, we are all used to certain types of, shall we say, atmospheres, and some of us have more sensitive noses than others. And it is a sensitivity, dear, not an allergy, that you have to your co-worker’s perfume. Which, if Auntie Mac would hazard a guess, is neither Chanel No. 5 nor Acqua di Gioia but rather something that is not even perfume but cologne, watered down with preservatives, which do trigger headaches. Of course, courtesy dictates that you not comment on your co-worker’s taste in bargain-basement concoctions that could fell a longshoreman at twenty paces. Rather, you may tell her (or him) that while they are wearing a lovely scent, you are sadly allergic to strong fragrances and would they mind either not wearing it to work or wearing less of it? Apologizing profusely, of course, for denying this person from spreading the olfactory joy they seem to feel they are bestowing on the workplace. Auntie Mac does caution you, however, to be as kind and tactful as possible, and consider how often you come in contact with this person. If they occupy the next cubicle, then by all means, pull no punches. But if they work in the mail room and you run into them once per day, or if you are both telephone linepersons and ride from pole to pole in a truck, weigh the situation accordingly.

Auntie Mac senses that you already knew the answer to this question and merely needed her approbation, which she is more than willing to give, along with an aviso to others: simple, light, and understated are three watchwords that we should all heed in matters of practically everything, from perfume to our daily comportment. Gentility costs nothing, and its aroma is delightful.

Your Auntie Mac

A few years ago, news items of interest to those in Connecticut listed reports of assaults by hawks on people. Almost all of the attacks on people were in Fairfield, and a few occurred in Avon. I puzzled over the location of the assaults for a while. After all, we in northeast Connecticut have lots of hawks, but no attacks by hawks on humans. Then I figured it out. The people in Fairfield are rich. They eat filet mignon, so they probably taste better than people in Windham County, who eat hamburger. The reason Avon has had only a few attacks is that Avon is only upper-upper middle class, so less filet mignon, and we in Windham County are working class and hardly ever eat filet mignon.

In addition, people in northeast Connecticut are feistier than those in Fairfield.  After all, when Israel Putnam was plowing his field along with his son and got word of the battle in Lexington and Concord, he just left his plow in the field and rode 100 miles (on his horse, not in his Lexus like an Avon person might do) to Cambridge to aid the Americans. He fought in the Battle of Bunker Hill. Windham County was filled with brave patriots. In Fairfield there were a lot of Tories, who checked the reports from the New York Stock Exchange every day, rather than risk safety of wealth or health by fighting. The same types of people live in those two counties now. Why do I say that?  Well, the bird experts advise looking up at the hawk while it hovers and soars in the air, not ignoring it, because the bird likes to attack from the back. People in northeast Connecticut automatically look up at the bird, because they are the ones who raise chickens, minks, or rabbits, all of which are eaten by hawks. The only minks in Fairfield are already on the backs of the humans, and people don’t even eat chicken in Fairfield.

The hawk called Cooper’s Hawk eats only birds. It is also called a chicken hawk. I have had neighbors both in Scotland, where I lived for years, and here in Hampton where I now live, who lost chickens to chicken hawks. To save the rest of their flocks, they had to protect the chickens when they were outside by a cage-like apparatus with chicken wire roofs and sides on their outdoor coops. Chicken hawk has come to mean, in popular terms, a person who is militaristic, but avoids any service of his own. Eisenhower is one president who fought in World War II, and then in his farewell address as president, warned the nation about letting a military/industrial complex run the nation. The last president to serve in combat in a military conflict was George H. W. Bush. Since then we have had presidents willing to engage in new military conflicts. If presidents grew up in rural areas, would they be inclined not to wage war, but rather to use tactics and diplomacy?

Angela Hawkins Fichter

Recipes of the Month: Hampton Cook Book, compiled by the Hampton Parent-Teacher Association, 1949

1949: a simpler time, and recipes were no exception. These epitomize the acronym KISS, with recipes straight from the heart and served, undoubtedly, with love.

 Pear Salad

Roll canned pears in mayonnaise, then in chopped nuts. Serve on lettuce.

Virginia Valentine

American Chop Suey

Brown 1 small onion, chopped fine, in small amount of oil. Add 1 lb. hamburg, cook until done. Add 1 can tomato soup. Add one package of spaghetti, which has been boiled for 10 minutes.

Mrs. Evelyn E. Syphers

Hot Times Casserole

I can niblet corn

1 green pepper (sliced)

2 med. onions (sliced)

1 large can tomatoes (some juice removed)

1 lb. wieners

Shake on salt and pepper

Place in a casserole in the order they come in previous list. Bake in 350 degree oven for an hour. Serves four.

Sara McGillivray

Golden Corn Cheese Bake

In the bottom of a greased baking dish lay halved slices of white bread. Place slices of medium strong or strong cheese on the bread. cover with cooked or canned whole-grain corn. On the corn, place more halved slices of bread and cover the bread again with thinly sliced cheese. Dot the cheese with butter or margarine. Pour milk over the mixture. Bake 1 hour in 325 degree oven.

Mrs. Malcolm D. Burdick

Clear Vegetable Soup

1 bunch carrots

1 bunch celery

1 large onion

1 can tomatoes

½ cup uncooked rice

4 beef bouillon cubes

Cook carrots, celery, onion and rice in boiling salted water until tender. Add tomatoes and beef bullion cubes and heat until cubes dissolve

Marian MacMillan

Dutch Beets

Cook and slice beets thin, then add some vinegar and sugar, salt and a tablespoon chopped onion, very fine. Let simmer for a few minutes.

Elsiena B. Webster

Meal Pudding

Put 2 cups of milk in double boiler. When hot add 2 rounding tbsp. of meal mixed with ¼ cup of milk which is saved from the 2 cups. Let cook about ten minutes or until done. Add one beaten egg, 2 tbsp. of sugar and shake of salt.

Mattie Huling

Baked Cranberry Sauce

2 cups cranberries. Place in shallow pan. Pour over them a syrup made from 1 ½ cups sugar, dissolved in ½ cup water. Place in slow oven and bake until berries are tender.

Alice Mathews

Four Egg Sponge Cake

4 eggs, separated

1 cup sugar

Put one teaspoon flavoring and pinch of salt into yolks and beat together with half the sugar. Beat other half cup sugar into the whites, until rather stiff. Fold the beaten whites into the yolks, then folk in 1 cup sifted flour. Bake slowly. No baking powder is needed.

Mrs. Edna Colburn

Chocolate Nut Bars

1 can condensed milk

18 graham crackers, crushed

1 package of chocolate bits

Mix all together and spread in a thickly buttered square pan. Bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes. Cut into bars while warm and roll in granulated sugar.

Albina Fitzgerald

This last one I can vouch for – a cross between a brownie and fudge — you’ll never believe there are no nuts in it. Enjoy!