A federally funded project designed to replace a bridge and culvert over Route 97 near Utley Road has led to a discovery of a gnome family, their home, and working gristmill dating back to 1682.

As construction began in November, Department of Transportation (DOT) workers had difficulty completing simple tasks, as some of their tools mysteriously disappeared and a portion of the previous days’ work was sabotaged. Cameras placed around the project led to sporadic sightings of a gnome family, and finally of a well-camouflaged, but fully working gristmill.

After weeks of careful negotiation, involving members of the Governor’s office, a deal was struck to move the Ebenezar Bakker Button Family up a 1/2 mile to a well-fitting niche at the Pribble’s recently reconstructed dam. Ebenezar’s wife, Eliza (Hammond) has already made fast friends with famed bakers Laurie Pribble and Trent Montgomery’s Little River Bakery with fine flours for their specialty products.

After learning of the nature of the project, Ebenezar was inclined to help the DOT, as he had worked many years to help stabilize the bank. With this winter’s torrential rains, destabilizing the hillside’s stones and gravel, he was tempted to give up and move. “We’ve spent almost two hundred years here. This was my mother’s father’s mill. When he came here from Holland, he made fast friends with the Nipmuck, as they observed him as a respectful steward who would keep the water clean, and have a good product to trade. They were also greatly appreciative of my mother, who helped their medicine people discover and make natural remedies to help with the small pox that the English brought.”

“This winter has been especially hard on the wildlife, and those living in Fuller Brook. Just yesterday, Eliza and I had to make a warming waterlily broth for the frogs.”

Asked about his longevity in Town, Ebenezar demurred, but slyly commented, “it’s in the water”. Continuing about his experiences with Town characters, he regaled this Gazette writer with historical insights and fond memories of those who made a difference.

Eliza gently reminded him to mention the ones they had helped and those who had helped their family in kind.

“Well, there were those nice women up the road who had trouble with that fellow building that big place on the hill. He was a nasty one. He used to follow them around threatening them with his walking stick. We got him good one night—set the stick into the horsehair wall and covered it with plaster. He kept complaining, but they finally got the better of him.”

Eliza remembered the many kind farmers who would share their harvests and recipes: “One special evening, I brought my mother’s diary with me down to the Loew Farm. Eva was milking one of their more difficult bossies, a big girl with one horn named Octavia. I poured a little Valerian tincture into the hay in front of her. After a snort of that she settled down. It was lovely of Eva to help me translate some of my mother’s letters from the German. What a surprise when we found a little ditty from Muti’s dear friend, Wolfie, a wild joker and musician who died too young.”

Eliza continued, wagging her finger at her husband playfully: “And then there was the time Andy Woodward saved your bacon when you decided it might be fun to slide in the mud down to the pond and almost ended up as goose feed!”

“Not true!”, growled Ebenezar, “I slipped when I was trying to fix the waterwheel.”

“Pish-posh,” snapped Eliza, her face softening with a smile. “They were good neighbors, the Woodwards, we loved watching the boys grow up and helping Mrs. Woodward with her poultry. She taught all of my children to read, write, and do their math in her kitchen.”

“Speaking of schoolteachers,” Eliza continued, “That Catherine Ameer girl was Some-thing! She could play almost everything, and even if she couldn’t we thought she could! Remember when the neck to your fiddle cracked and you thought the world was going to end? She sent you right over to that charming Mr. Davis and his smiling Alison. All fixed and we had a proper little party to celebrate on the porch there looking out on their fields, making music and listening to the cows across the way.”

“So many people”, Ebenezar recalled fondly. “I remember when little Peggy Marcus (Fox) first found us after school was out, and wanted to take us home to play with her cat. We had a hard time convincing her it was not a good idea. The people who moved there after were good, too. Edwin and Nellie were always sharing their stories with us”.

“Hampton has been good to us,” offered Ebenezar. “There have been some tough times, but we’ve had good neighbors, especially some of the more colorful ones! We’re looking forward to our new home at Little River Farm, Paul has already drawn up plans for the move and a home under the waterfall better than Frank Lloyd Wright’s! We’ll miss our gracious neighbor, Arlene Becker always with good cheer when she pops out to feed her birds. But it just might be a faster ride down to get maple syrup at Bright Acres. Now where’s my kayak?”

Mary Oliver

Ever since we produced our April Fools issue in celebration of our 40th anniversary, we’ve published humorous items in our April issue. We can always count on Auntie Mac, Fire House Dog, and the Reluctant Gardener, as well as the humorists on our editorial board, some photographs captured and captioned, and local folklore to help us with this – thank you to everyone who offers the gift of laughter to us, this month and throughout the year!

The Hampton Gazette

The Connecticut Department of Transportation has been steadily working on the replacement of Bridge No. 02591, Route 97 over Fuller Brook, near Utley Road since late last fall. Many commuters watched as trees came down and the vision of the waterfall (on the Brown’s side) continued to a steep rush below Arlene Becker’s home. This project consists of removing and replacing the existing culvert bridge and all the superstructure elements above. The new bridge will be constructed above the 100-year design storm elevation.

This project was awarded to New England Road, Inc. at a cost of $2,463,762 and is scheduled to be completed by November 2024. The project is administered by the Bureau of Engineering and Construction, Office of Construction, District 2 in Norwich.

While there was a lane closure on Route 97, the traffic signals have been removed. Route 97 will be closed from the beginning of May —August and detours will use Routes 44, 169, and Route 6. This may lead to more traffic on our back roads. Be careful out there, folks!

Mary Oliver

Voters at the March 12 referendum approved in a 112-22 vote the purchase of a new fire truck, with roughly half of the price covered with funds earmarked for the purpose. Support for the purchase was not a surprise, as there was no opposition voiced at the Town Meeting on March 4 called to discuss the purchase.
About two dozen officials, members of the fire department, and residents attended the meeting to hear Fire Chief Rich Schenk explain the process used for the purchase, which included listing criteria and ranking the selections. “We looked for the best truck before looking at the price tags,” Schenk said. The committee charged with selecting the new truck brought their recommendation to the whole department, which unanimously approved their choice. Their selection of Firematic Supply Company included extra perks, such as annual inspections of the vehicle. The company is also an equipment supplier with a shop in nearby Rocky Hill. These were “major draws,” Schenk said.
Schenk also listed issues with the current truck, which at 30 years old is “at the end of its life cycle”. It is expected that it will last until the next truck comes in, which could take three years, though the price will remain the same no matter the time of delivery. First Selectman Allan Cahill explained that the old truck belongs to the Town and “has value in its parts”.
Board of Finance Chairman Kathy Donahue stated that with $344,404 in American Rescue Plan Act (ARPA) funds, and $159,058 from the Capital and Non-Recurring Account for trucks and equipment, the Town is left with $584,000 to finance, less a 5% return on the pre –paid deposit. Though one resident advocated use of the General Fund to pay the remainder, major expenses could be on the horizon, Donahue said, citing the elementary school’s HVAC system. She also noted that budgeted items previously funded by ARPA would now have to become part of the Town’s annual spending plan. Both Donahue and Cahill said officials will be looking into the financing, through loans and use of surplus funds. We have to find “the sweet spot between the two”, Cahill said.

The Hampton Gazette is pleased to announce our second year of offering a $1000 scholarship to a deserving high school senior from Hampton. The 2024 recipient must complete an application, available online at hamptongazette.com, and submit a 500-750 word essay on this year’s topical topic, “Democracy”. The essay must include the applicant’s understanding of democracy and its importance to our country, as well as using personal experiences which describe the way living in a democracy affects their daily life. The essay must be the students’ original work; quotations may be used sparingly if plainly identified. The applicant must be a resident of Hampton, currently enrolled in high school, graduating in June of 2024 and planning to attend a college, university or vocational school in Fall of 2024. Applications and essays are due May 1, 2024, and must be mailed to: The Hampton Gazette; P. O. Box 101; Hampton, CT. 06247. The $1,000 Scholarship will be awarded on June 1, 2024.

The Editorial Board of The Hampton Gazette

Many towns have what is known as “the village idiot”. Hampton is not one of them. We have no idiots here, in the village or elsewhere. We have, however, “colorful” people who we lovingly refer to as “characters”, those unique individuals who fearlessly insist on simply being themselves. We have plenty of them. Our history is rich in characters, and they are among the most beloved and remembered of our neighbors.

The character most familiar to many of us is Paulie Tumel who lived all his life in the center of town but was visible everywhere.
When “Dr. Dirt”, as he was fondly called, rode his trusty bulldozer into his last sunset, seventeen residents contributed to the Gazette’s front page tribute. They shared: Paulie’s words of wisdom, “Don’t go into a hole that you can’t back out of!”; ‘Paulisms’, such as “I got two permits – one for me to mind my own business and another one for you to mind yours!”, and “If I ever shoot a deer with your name on it, I’ll bring it right up to your house!”; and stories, like the time an FBI Agent solicited Paulie’s help to investigate a suspicion of Communist activity in the area. Handing him a pitchfork, Paulie said, “you’ll need this,” explaining when the agent asked why, “to clean my barn”.

“I’m not doing your work,” the Agent objected, to which Paulie replied, “then don’t ask me to do yours.”

Apples don’t fall too far from trees in Hampton, so it should come as no surprise that Paulie’s mother was a character, too. Paulie said she had a “swear jar”, claiming, “it’s getting so I can’t afford to go home!” It proved less than adequate; as P. J. Navin pointed out, “Paulie always had the last word, but his first words were always “J**** C*****!” Her mode of transportation to Willimantic, almost daily, was much more effective. She simply stood in the middle of the road so everyone was forced to stop. Many of us remember the formidable bearing and no-nonsense expression which no one refused. She used the same method to return home.

More recently there was Don Ladd, who completed restoration projects on two famous Main Street Homes, Governor Cleveland’s and Reverend Moseley’s. But he not only beautified the village, he spiced things up a bit every once in a while, like the time he drove his vehicle through his competitors’ yard sales, or the cars he impaled with a spiked wrecking ball when he caught teenagers parking in his driveway. Good times.

Many of us remember Barney Pawlikowski who lived in the village all his life. He was such a celebrity that we declared a holiday, “Barney Day”, to honor him when he retired. From the humble beginnings of making cabbage crates, Barney eventually learned plumbing, heating, carpentry, mechanic, and electrical work, passing all examinations in 1970 when the State required licenses. The quintessential “Jack-of-all-Trades”, the town counted on him for everything. “You could always tell what work he did on a given day”, his daughter, June Miller, relayed.” If he came home covered with cobwebs, he was in someone’s cellar.” He always considered what his customers could afford, and responded immediately to their needs. Frozen pipes in the middle of the night? Furnace breaks during a blizzard? No problem. As June confirmed, “He thrived on emergencies.”

Eunice Fuller was a memorable Main Street character who served as our librarian for 40 years. In “One Proud Yankee Who Kept Her Sox On”, the Willimantic Chronicle described our “crusty, yet loving” librarian and “dispenser of literary taste” as a “tree trunk of a Yankee woman whose feet were planted firmly in the Hampton soil.” They were also firmly planted in the Fletcher Memorial Library, where she knew where every book was without use of the card catalogue, disapproved of certain selections with “an askance look or a click of her tongue”, and if she disliked someone on a magazine cover, she would “give them a mustache with her date stamp.” An avid Red Sox fan, she listened to every one of their games on the radio, refusing to watch them play on television or at Fenway Park despite several invitations, and recorded their scores in a journal only if they won.

Some of us still remember Harold Stone. In Alison Davis’s Hampton Remembers, Harold recalled swimming in Bigelow Pond daily, including in winter, when he cut through the ice to bathe there because it “wasn’t as bad as taking sponge baths with cold water in a cold room.” His was one of the first motorcycles in town, which he purchased “in gold.” He brought his bride, Hazel, all the way from New Jersey in its side car, and during the Depression, the couple ran a Bed and Breakfast, the Yankee Tourist Home, after tired travelers on two consecutive evenings stopped and asked to spend the night. What Harold remembered of Hampton was this: “You stopped as you were going along the road, stopped at your neighbor’s, chinned with him a few minutes. Everybody knew one another. You never sent any bills. You never had any contracts. Everything was word o’ mouth and it was worth something’!”

Harold also recorded stories of other characters, of a classmate who called out, “I was put together wrong. Here it says you smell with your nose and run with your feet, but my nose runs and my feet smell.” Or the woman who tied herself to the railroad tracks for “publicity”, knowing the train would notice her “cause she wore her red outin’ flannel petticoat”. Or the “awful swearer” who worked at the Chelsea Inn, explaining “There’s no harm in swearing when you’re so god-damned mad you can’t help it!”

One of the characters Harold described was Main Street resident Ella Sharpe:

One April first Ray Baker and Herb Copeland, they had soldered a quarter to a spike and then drove it in the sidewalk that used to be right out in front of the house. They were working upon the roof and keeping track of the people that was coming along, and by and by Ella came along. And she spotted that quarter. Of course she stooped down to pick it up and she couldn’t get it. But she worked on it, with her shoe, until she got it loose. And then they hollered “April fool!” She says, “I got the quarter – I don’t know who the fool was!”

“She was a woman who liked to have her way,” Gertrude Pearl relayed. “She had a whole bunch of keys tied to her belt. She was a great one for locking up things.”

She also made, and donated the proceeds for, a thousand walnut-faced granny pen-wipers. “One thousand dollars for the church,” Helen Matthews recalled, “That’s a lot of little walnut dolls!”

Andrew Rindge didn’t live in the village, but his presence was certainly felt there. In A Naturalist Buys an Old Farm, Edwin Way Teale wrote of Rindge’s poems, “usually dealing with local happenings and the foibles and misdeeds of his neighbors” which he posted on the bulletin board in front of the store. Margaret Marcus, in Hampton Remembers, was more elaborative:

One time he wrote about a certain lady who was very nice to all the gentlemen. Then she decided she’d settle for just one, and all the others weren’t welcome so all those others caught her lover and tarred and feathered him. Well when this poem came out, there were the names of all the men who patronized this lady, you see, and they didn’t want to be there at all – it was all very hush-hush, of course – and to have it come out and tell who they were – ‘cause most of them were married men – a scandal in Hampton!

Rindge lived at Trailwood, where his chickens roosted in his bed, and his pig, who ate potatoes with him from the same pot, lived in the hallway. His method of heating the home was, shall we say, minimalist as well. When the weather cooled, he simply put a large log through the window and sawed off pieces for the fire.

The center of town wasn’t the only “hot spot” for characters. Those who met Vic Postemski could never forget him. A hard-working farmer from the North end of Town, he taught his kids and any others how to swim by chucking them in the pond. A salty character, usually chomping on a cigar, he also had a softer side. To cheer a friend one weekend, he drove into the yard with an enormous armful of daffodils just picked. Neighbor Roma Dupuis happened to be there, and couldn’t get over their beauty. “They look just like the ones in my yard,” said Roma. “Well,” laughed Vic, “that’s ‘cause they are!”

There was “The Farmer Poet of Hampton”, “Thunderstorm Bill”, so named for the force of his spit whenever he spoke, “The White Tornado”, a whirlwind of a welcome wagon, Charlie Baker, who bathed in the rivers because soap and water were “pieson, “Uncle Gene” Darrow, the tin peddler, who also dispensed advice on revenge, “You don’t want to do nawthing right aways. Even if it takes ten years, get even,” and “Aunt Josie”, who was so superstitious that when it “wasn’t the right time of the moon”, Helen Mathews relayed in Hampton Remembers, “she put on an old coat that had a hole in the pocket and put the seeds in the pocket and went out and jumped around on the ground. And that’s the way she planted her seeds at the wrong time of the moon!”

And, of course, there was Stanley Gula, who earned national recognition when Charles Kurault interviewed him for the CBS News show, “On the Road”. A Polish immigrant, he provided Dickinson’s with the witch hazel he found and cut in the woods, delivering it in his Model A. He built a house that he never inhabited, preferring to live with his antique vehicles in his garage. He took excellent care of his animals – pigeons, roosters, rabbits, horses and a cat, and the strawberries he cultivated, never letting anyone with large feet pick in his patch. He distributed “magic” eggs wrapped in handkerchiefs to children, which reportedly would hatch “little Stanley Gulas”. Maybe, but like all of these other individuals, Stanley was one of a kind.

Dayna McDermott

Short Stories of “Growing up in Milford and Other Far Away Places” is a wonderful, new book written by resident Jamie Boss. Though Milford is the setting of most of the stories, with far-away places, and closer to home, Hampton, included as well, the book is really about friendships, and encounters with people in different stages of the author’s life.

Jamie’s book entertains us with an America that has, to a large extent, disappeared, introducing an era to a younger generation, and permitting those of us of a certain age to reminisce over what life was like. The book brings to mind, for example, all the things that we got away with when we were kids, and our parents were never aware of what we had done — right under their noses!

Jamie began his book with a chapter titled “The Big World of Small Town Life”. He describes Milford as “a centralized New England community focused around a large green in the center of town. Everything you needed was downtown.” Some of us remember that downtown — a movie theater, clothing, hardware, record, grocery and drug store, a place to hang-out and watch the goings on in the community. On top of all of this, Jamie’s small town had a marina, a river, and the Long Island Sound to pique his interest. Though thousands of miles from whence I came, the adventures he describes are those that many of us might have experienced on our home turf in 1950s and 60s America.

One of the earliest memories is of Jamie, as a three-and-a-half-year-old, deciding that due to the unfair treatment of a boy known as “Bad Eddie”, he would run away from home to China, that “far-away place” that many of us thought we could dig to in our sand boxes. Jamie had no idea that China was not “…a bus stop on the main intersecting road”. He packed his six gun holster, a cowboy hat, and a peanut butter sandwich for his trip. The bus stop didn’t resemble the China he imagined. A stranger asked, “Are you alone little boy?” This forced Jamie to retreat and abandon his plans. He walked home, where his mother, who hadn’t noticed he was missing, asked, “Where were you?” His quick response? “I was in China”.

We can all relate to Show-and-Tell, which was usually the first event of the morning in school. Normally it doesn’t involve a visit to the principal’s office, or your father having to come to school. Jamie and his friend Dave brought in very authentic and memorable items to share with their classmates. Nowadays DCF, local police and the school psychologist would have been involved. All I can say is — I’m glad they weren’t loaded.

Later in life Jamie recalls a “huckleberry moment”. When a friend is suspended from school, before the parents are notified, Jamie and his friends decide a move to Florida may solve the problem. They conjure a plan to hop a train, knowing exactly where they can accomplish this. Jamie is first, and his jump is a good one, except that inertia was never considered and he is knocked out. His friends, thinking Jamie is dead, make alternative traveling accommodations. And leave Jamie to fend for himself. Someone spots his body and contacts the State police. The train is stopped, and he’s awakened by a trooper. Jamie creates a story that is believed and is given a ride home. His parents have no idea what he has done. And his friends? They make it to Atlanta before their trip is aborted.

Another theme: it’s a small world. We may encounter people from our small town in America anywhere in the world, and once while walking in the wilds of Vietnam, Jamie encountered a person from Milford. Jamie was one of the “lucky ones” who the selective service chose to serve this country. He spent 1968-1969 in Vietnam repairing tanks, day and night till the job was done, in the sun and humidity, in clouds of mosquitoes, in monsoon rains, on base, or in country, aka combat zones. He told his Dad about missing his guitar and his Dad sent it to him, but during an attack on the base, it was trampled to pieces. He also became very aware that he could lose friends at any time, and tried hard not to think about when his time was done.

Vietnam was not without its lighter moments. Once when driving to deliver a motor, Jamie spotted a pretty woman with a swaying red ponytail. His focus caused him to miss a curve and drive into a rubber tree. If you hit a rubber tree, you’re not going to bounce back. Driving your vehicle into a tree might not seem particularly “light”, but relatively speaking…

And then there were the poignant moments. While working in the driving rain, a representative from the Red Cross approached and asked, “are you specialist Boss?” He delivers the news, “Your wife is well and you’re the father of a son. Congratulations.” The messenger hands him cigars. The birth of his son in his absence leaves Jamie in a state of depression, his salty tears concealed by the heavy rain he must continue to work in.

An investment in the purchase of this book — Short Stories of Growing Up in Milford and Other Far Away Places — will be well spent. One maybe inclined to visit Milford just to explore some of the places that Jamie wrote about. This book is one of those you’ll go back and read when you need to smile or just take time to think about the innocence we grew up in Small Town America. This book can be purchased from the author, at The Hampton General Store, on Amazon, or by calling 844-714-8691 and online at www.XLIBRIS.com.

Growing up as a Native person from the southwest, rain was one of those things that the Creator delivered. Yes, we had our ceremonies — a rain dance, but to counter that there was the occasional ceremony to stop the rain, or to cut the clouds. I saw the consequence of the latter only once, and it did not rain for seven years.

As a Native person — rain, sun, wind — are all a part of what’s natural. People here would question why I’m not scurrying away from rain. I’d explain, where I come from it’s a gift, and so we take the opportunity to embrace it rather than complain.

While New Englanders might not understand my affinity for rain, I must say I don’t understand your descriptors. “It’s raining cats and dogs”. Now there’s one that’s hard to imagine. Who has actually seen these two animals falling from the sky? I’ve never seen that phenomenon. I suppose it could happen after a tornado, when they could have been sucked up and dropped in the rain afterwards. But I understand why you dislike rain if it involves the possibility of being hit by one or the other. I imagine this leads to a few lawsuits, if the pet can be linked to the owner. I’ve heard of attorneys who are “ambulance chasers”. Are there “cat and dog chasers” when it’s raining them?

The next phrase to consider — “a driving rain” Does rain actually drive? And what state is rain licensed to drive in?

Then there’s the “hard rain” and the “soft rain”. A hard rain is not actually so hard that it may injure you. Out west on the Rez, a hard rain is actually an opportunity to take advantage of a free shower. Grab your soap and shampoo, and don’t forget your towel! A soft rain offers another chance to take a shower, but unlike the hard rain, people don’t necessarily seek shelter in a soft rain. I don’t see myself disrobing at a time when others may remain outside, strolling and singin’ in it.

The last phrase I’ll question is “raining buckets”. How come I’ve had to buy buckets when they’re falling from the sky? Where are they stored? Are they recycled? Collected and sold? Apparently there’s a fortune to be made if you’re willing to brave the elements when the weatherman predicts that it will be raining these items.

Back to the point. It is not in our nature, Native Americans, to curse the rain. But the torrents that we’ve had to endure this particular winter have left me less than a happy camper, and I haven’t even camped during them. For starters, I’ve chased my driveway down the street – how many times? I’ve had to gather all those stones to fill in the ruts that were left behind from the rain that gouged them to unprecedented depths. I suppose I shouldn’t complain when others have had to deal with ruts so deep their vehicles have been damaged driving into them. Those ruts are ruinous to our cars — the alignment, the tires, damage to the undercarriage. Mechanics must look out their windows and smile during this winter’s rain, thinking about all those owners left with holes in their wallets. I’m sure there were incidents necessitating tow trucks. There were also neighbors who risked life and limb retrieving their mail from receptacles on the side of the road.

This winter’s rains have created a small river in our backyard and in our front yard, actually small creeks. I’ve considered damming them and installing rotors to generate power when I lose mine, or to create alternative methods of electricity. Puddles are actually lakes, and I’ve considered skating on them when they freeze. I’ve also considered taking an engineering class to build bridges to navigate the puddles. Questions: What is the water flow per minute? What is the strength of the current? How deep is it, and what materials do I need so my crossing won’t get swept away in next week’s rain? We have over 40 gardens to deal with, too. We hear our poor plants call “help, I’m drowning here!” When we begin our annual spring clearing of winter’s debris, we are forced to consider moisture rather than leaves, branches, and budding daffodils. The task resembles puddle jumping rather than raking.

All this rain has promised us beautiful spring and summer flowers — and one really good mud season. My boots sink in and soak my feet and everything else. And there is my personal forgetfulness to contend with, my wife’s look of disdain when I walk into the house and forget to take off said boots. Are you denying that trail of mud is yours? I try to explain that I didn’t walk down the hallway, but the mud evidence disputes what I say. My wife likens herself to an F.B.I. agent. She’ll point to the patterns of mud left on the floor and then ask to see my treads. Of course, I’ll be found guilty. I clean up after myself, but only after losing my argument.

Still, I appreciate the rain. I remind myself, “Juan you’re from the desert. What are you complaining about?” I’ll remember the rain as I cut the dusty lawn in the summertime, or worry over a drought. I keep my choice words to myself when the Creator is listening; I look to the heavens and say “thank you for the rain”, while under my breath, I mention the picnic we had to cancel, that barbecue I’ve been promising, the party that depended on dry weather because – how could we fit everyone into the house? But we did, somehow, and the BBQ waited another day, as did the picnic. And so when it comes, driving, or in buckets, or with cats and dogs, all we can really say is, “Let it Rain!”

Juan Arriola

Dear Auntie,

My teen-aged daughter asked me to take her shopping for a new swimsuit. Her mother is away for a couple of months helping her sister recuperate after a serious accident, and I don’t want to bother her about it, but my female co-workers have me scared witless sharing tales of florescent lights and cruel mirrors that can make an already difficult reality lead to an emotional melt-down. I’ve been holding down the fort in my wife’s absence, but this is beyond me.

Out of My League

My Dear Neighbor:

Auntie Mac applauds you for wanting to take an active role in your daughter’s summer sartorial excursions, but she hopes she will be forgiven if the merest wisp of a smile, and perhaps a soft guffaw, passed her lips as she read of your perceived dilemma. Since you have intimated that you are not wise to some of the ways of what may be called “our camp,” you can be forgiven for taking your female colleagues’ tales of dressing-room degradation and subsequent emotional scarring at face value. Auntie Mac advises you to pause, let your breathing return to normal, and entertain for a moment that these women are taking no small amount of enjoyment in seeing you implode at the thought of having to offer just the right amount of encouragement and then console the poor thing after she has articulated in detail to you her post-dressing room existential crisis. In other words, dear, they’re having you on.

Your daughter has not asked you to take her shopping so much as she has asked you to be her chauffer. The fact that she has requested this of you indicates not a fragile ego about to be shattered but a well-adjusted young woman who needs to get to the mall. She certainly does not expect you to constantly be by her side agreeing that this year’s high-waisted bottoms seem frumpy, or that hot pink is a bit déclassé. As a matter of fact, a friendly wave and an “I’ll be over in the fly-fishing department” might be just the level of interaction she’s hoping for, as opposed to a glum posting on a nearby tufted bench. It is almost certain that you will be called upon to transport one or two friends with her as well, and if not, you might suggest she bring one along. Should this occur, Auntie Mac assures you that you would much rather be examining plastic worms and eight ounce sinkers than be within earshot of the shrieking and howling erupting from the swimsuit area.

There are, of course, ground rules to set. Unless you have one of the most comfortable and egalitarian father-daughter relationships on the planet, your daughter is not going to model her choices in front of you. And so, you must let her know that you trust her to choose a suit that is both pleasing to her, fits comfortably enough to swim and lounge about in, and appropriate for her age (which, brace yourself, allows in pretty much everything except see-through bras and thongs). If she chooses to show you her final selection, and you see that she feels confident and happy with it, then congratulate her on a great choice and get out your credit card. And put the worms back—this day was not about you.

Your Auntie Mac

The other day I was at the post office and struck up a conversation with a guy picking up his mail. I commented on how good the body is at predicting weather. I told him that the weather channel had predicted rain for a certain day last week, and my right hip didn’t hurt on the day preceding the predicted rain day. On the predicted rain day, it didn’t rain, and my right hip said: I told you so. This guy then asked me what my left hip says. I answered, oh, it doesn’t speak to me. He laughed and said that reminded him of someone he knows.

Do you have body parts that speak to you in predictive ways? Check this out. Barometric pressure is the measurement of air pressure. Low barometric pressure causes the joints of many people to ache. Why? Because as the air pressure drops, which happens with a rainstorm, soft tissue in joints and fluids in joints expand, irritating the nerves. Cold temperatures can affect joints also. Low temperatures can make fluids in joints thicker, which makes those joints feel stiffer. I remember decades ago reading an article in the newspaper written by a scientist who had no medical training at all. He was angry at the medical establishment for scoffing at people who thought they could predict weather by their joints. The doctors all said that is an old wife’s tale (meaning not scientific and a bunch of crap). This scientist said that some joints have bursa in them (small sacs of fluid) that can expand in bad weather and put pressure on nerves in joints. He was laughed at by the medical establishment. I researched weather and joint pain on Google before writing this article. I hope the man who wrote that article on weather and joint pain is still alive, because now the medical scientists admit that barometric pressure changes can cause pain, and they explain why that happens.

What happens to some people when there is high barometric pressure? This can cause headaches and mood changes. Well, you can’t make a rainstorm go away, but with high barometric pressure you can take aspirin or ibuprofen plus have a scone and a cup of tea.
Maybe people could form their own little weather channel clubs with friends or family. If the weather channel says heavy rain tomorrow, you could sign into your joint pain weather club and see if your family or friends, who get joint pain when it rains, have any joint pain yet. I have already discovered your joints are always right. The same club could send out emails if they have a headache when there is a reading of high barometric pressure in their area of the state. That’s one good excuse to get together with people for tea and goodies!
Angela H. Fichter