The Squeaky Pen

May Madness

2013-05-21T10:49:00.000-04:00

Some months it's just not worth getting out of bed.

The lilacs are finally in bloom after a lingering winter. My cats are sunning themselves on the front steps. Those are two good things that have happened so far this month.

On the flip side, I've lost my glasses. Again. I have several pairs of glasses, one pair so old that I look a bit like a bug when I put them on (as pointed out by my friend Jan on her recent visit here). But the two unbug-like pairs have vanished, under a chair or beside a bed or resting on some table as yet undiscovered. I'm a contact wearer but am down to one lens, which has a chip in it, and I haven't found time to go to the eye doctor for a new prescription. So I've been reduced to wearing the bug glasses in my search for the lost spectacles. The other night I was coming down the stairs, bug glasses in hand, and stumbled over shoes I'd foolishly left on the bottom step. Staggered, grabbed the rail, saved myself. Alas, in the midst of the stumble, the bug glasses in my hand were snapped in two.

Harry has escaped twice from the back fence. The first time he was spotted racing down my street by a friend (fortunately he came home unsquashed by a truck) and the second time, a few days ago, I went to check on him and saw him fooling around in the bushes by my car, again unfettered by the wooden walls built to contain him. Again, he came to me when I called. At least he's coming back, about which I am relieved as in the past when he's escaped he's been gone like a shot, through the gate and hell-bent for Main Street. I discovered his escape hatch (a hole dug under the fence by my terrier son) and plugged it. I am now compulsive in looking out the kitchen window at him, anticipating another prison break when he finds more soft under-fence soil.

The same day of Harry's most recent escape, he murdered three baby rabbits, two of which he presented to me in full bloody carcass form on my kitchen floor. The third was mostly devoured by the time I got to him. He looked up at me, rabbit entrails dangling from his smiling and bloody teeth. Luckily, since I have no glasses, the image was blurry.

Yesterday I was hanging flower baskets on my front porch and noticed that a wicker love seat, which in truth I was planning to toss to the street due to a broken leg, was missing. Porch thieves have struck. I only hope when they sit on the thing the back leg finally collapses and they fall over, cracking their stupid skulls.

This morning, while writing this, I was on my porch admiring the lilacs -- one of few May pleasures so far -- when a large bee darted from a lilac blossom, made a swooping turn, and took a high dive into my half-full coffee cup. At least I saw it happen. Had I not, I'd more than likely be in the ER right now facing doctors with tweezers pulling a stinging insect out of my throat.

Ok. Karmic message received. I'm going to pull the May blankets up over my head and hunker down until June.

Without Vision, Cultures Perish

2013-05-17T23:08:00.000-04:00

Patience is frustration. To be patient is to learn how to count to ten. Or twenty. Or ten thousand. To lose patience is, truly, a waste of time. It gets you nowhere to be impatient. You tap your toes and drum your fingernails and say why isn't this happening more quickly? Your head spins. You complain and wonder why people aren't moving along on your schedule. In the car, in the grocery line. Or in the case of my little place in the world, on a building that stands at the four corners of town.

Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project has taken on a large task. We have purchased an historic building with warped floors and moss on the porch roof. The building has sat empty for over a decade, collecting bird carcasses. Now the geezers in the diner are chewing their toothpicks and pointing fingers. "Yeah, we knew the building would still sit there. Nothing is happening."

If only the geezers could live my life for a day. Or the lives of the other eight board members of SSIRP. We are always on the telephone, or planning, or presenting our plan to someone, or tweaking budgets, or meeting twice and sometimes three times a week. We are told by the historic preservation folks that in order to get a substantial and deserved grant we must leave the paint alone, must let the moss lay on the roof. To make The Sherburne Inn "pretty" to appease our community is to put in jeopardy our grants, because the grant people have to know the building is in dire straits (which of course it is). Not only can we not paint trim on the windows, we cannot paint more than one trim on one window. We cannot repair a column. The building must remain in need, and when it does for months forward we will hear about it from the geezers. A major grant, nearly $500,000, has an application deadline of mid-July and an award date of October, at which time snow will probably start to fall. Actual funds will not be awarded until January 2014, meaning The Inn will sit as it has for another year. The geezers will trill, "You see? We told you so!" Therefore SSIRP must be patient, and within this patience we will need to brush off the geezer talk.

There is nothing we would rather do than paint the trim and wash the bricks. We want to repair the columns and do things we know will make the building beautiful again. We are talking with preservationists, meeting with preservation architects, who tell us what we already know: Don't touch anything. Take this step by step. You are doing the right thing, so far all of your steps are right. Be patient.

How hard it is to be patient and to ignore the chatter. How hard it is to be patient and shut down our ears to the pushy who want us to make quick progress that will hurt our prospects for grants that will help all of us...SSIRP and our community...ultimately succeed in economic development and a revitalization of downtown. How frustrating it is to listen to those who sip coffee on early diner mornings and pontificate without knowledge, pointing fingers and waiting to see this project fail. How unthinkable that leaders in this village tap toes and anticipate failure, all with some sort of twisted glee in thinking that an all night gas station would have been an improvement instead of a death nell to a village that is already frayed at the edges.

On Thursday SSIRP presented our project to the Hamilton Rotary, people who really should have no interest in what we're doing being a village 12 miles away and with their own lovely hotels and restaurants. We received applause and accolades. One man, a minister, gave an invocation thanking those of us involved with saving The Sherburne Inn. He said this: "Without vision, cultures perish."

Amen.

Every day, every day, we hear criticism about our work. And then someone like this man inspires us again...and again, SSIRP is rejuvenated.

"Without vision, cultures perish."

For those of you who are paying attention, we in Sherburne have a culture. It is one in which children ride bicycles safely and unattended to a summer pool, towels flapping in the breeze behind them. It is one where the elderly ladies of the Pratt Newton Home set out chairs in anticipation of Pageant of Bands. It is one where the Lions Club sells hamburgers on Fourth of July, where our Memorial Day Parade features fewer than a dozen veterans walking down village streets tearful and proud of their service and where boy scouts wave American flags. America is not perfect, that much is certain; but here in this small place our culture is perfect in its own way. Without vision, this culture will perish.

Listen carefully, geezers: We are people with vision. We will brush you aside because we care not about about your toothpick-chewing criticism. In two years, or three, or maybe even four, we will cut the ribbon on the front doors of The Sherburne Inn at the grand opening. Maybe you should stay home on that day because the rest of us with vision and hope and heart will reopen an historic building that deserves saving. You will probably come into the Inn for a beer once our doors are open. You will be welcomed and served, but understand this: we will know who you are and still we will be polite, because that is who we are.

Pay attention geezers young and old: patience will take us where we need to go. Your words, to us, are are nothing more than fading and forgettable mist.

2013-05-15T23:01:00.002-04:00

The Sherburne Inn Hits The Airwaves

2013-05-02T13:46:00.000-04:00

Get your DVR record buttons ready...on Sunday, May 5, The Sherburne Inn will be on television!
On Wednesday, May 1, a crew from Mohawk Valley Living took a tour through The Inn in preparation for a feature on SSIRP's project. SSIRP board members met with producer Sharry Whitney and host Richard Enders, while a cameraman filmed interior and exterior shots of the building. Our own Rose Tenney, SSIRP Board Secretary, was interviewed for the piece, which will be shown on Sunday, May 5, at 7:30 a.m. and 11:00 p.m. on WFXV 33, as well as at 11:30 a.m. on WUTR. Mohawk Valley Living is a weekly television show that explores the arts, entertainment, culture, and heritage of the greater Mohawk Valley region of New York State. It is broadcast 3 times a week on Utica's NBC affiliate, WKTV. It is owned and produced by Lance and Sharry Whitney and is hosted by actor and playwright, Richard Enders. Thank you to Mohawk Valley Living for covering "good news" news!

To donate to saving The Sherburne Inn, please check your check, made payable to SSIRP, to POB 1102, Sherburne, NY 13460, or visit our website to pay securely by credit card (click "contribute" link).

Snake in the Sofa: Update

2013-04-30T10:51:00.000-04:00

I admit: I haven't yet moved the sofa because a) I haven't heard any scritching lately, and b) I can't budge the thing. However, there is an update about the seemingly endless number of creatures -- other than myself, a dog, and two cats -- who have decided to take up residence in my home.

As I write this it's Saturday, a balmy afternoon in spring. I'm sitting at my kitchen counter, eyes darting. Earlier today I decided to unload the dishwasher. Opened the door. Took out a glass, and thought I saw movement (nah, it's your imagination my pea-brain whispered). When I reached for the second glass I most certainly saw movement, not to mention the movement's source: a mouse. A big one. Perched on a coffee mug. On the top rack. INSIDE the dishwasher.

We had a moment, the mouse and I. I froze a foot away, glass in hand, staring in disbelief. The mouse stared back, frozen and also, from what I could tell, in disbelief. The seconds played out. I wondered what to do, I guess the mouse was also wondering. He was a good-sized fella, as big as a hamster. Little beady eyes. Tiny toenails poised delicately on the mug. Distantly, I wondered where the cats were, not that the lazy slugs have been doing the job preordained. The dog was outside, barking at something most certainly not the mouse in the dishwasher.

In the dishwasher!!

In my paralyzed state I wasn't sure what to do...slam the door shut, thereby locking him inside along with the dishwasher controls, or shoo him out, thereby causing him to race unharnessed and uncatchable into the recesses of my house. I chose option 1. Door was slammed shut and now, with horror, I wondered what to do next.

Like all modern women (note sarcasm), I called a guy, a friend who I determined would advise me on the next course of action. Vince arrived armed with flashlight and sticky live trap. I stood on the kitchen stairs as Vince creaked open the dishwasher door, asking at the same time "Are you sure it was a mouse?" I resisted the urge to say "No, Vincent, it was an alligator." He flashed the light around, picked up dishes, peeked under pots and pans. No mouse.

Now in full hysteria, I asked him what to do. "Run the cycle," he said mildly.

So I did.

An hour later, long after Vince had exited the premises, the cycle ended. I opened the door and there he was, Mr. Mouse, deceased and bug-eyed at the bottom of the box. I donned rubber gloves, picked him up by the tail, disposed of him down the toilet, and proceeded to run the powerwash cycle another 14 times.

I am aghast. Don't ask me how he got in there, maybe down the disposal and through some plumbing apparatus I don't understand. At least (praise god) he wasn't in the disposal when I turned it on to mash up my morning eggshells (stomach churns, eyes twitch at the thought of THAT). Still, as aghast as I am, I feel guilty somehow. I picture the poor little guy's reaction when scalding water poured onto his unsuspecting head. Just an hour before we'd looked into each other's eyes, giant human and tiny rodent, each wondering how this would turn out. We both knew one of us would lose this battle. I'm glad it was him. And I'm also sorry.

I don't like to take the lives of living things, no matter how objectionable they may be. I was morose the rest of the afternoon. Then, later on, I looked again the coffee cup on which he was perched, ran the cycle a 15th time, and whispered to myself for the 100th time...a mouse in the dishwasher...in the dishwasher!

How long will it be, I wonder, until I'm no longer afraid of my kitchen appliances?

As for the snake in the sofa, I can only hope there is one. Don't they feed on mice?

How I Am Awakened Every Morning

2013-04-26T11:07:00.000-04:00

It's Official! The Sherburne Inn Is Ours!!

2013-04-25T14:45:00.001-04:00

As of Thursday, April 25, 2013, The Sherburne Inn Is Ours!!! Today SSIRP closed on the purchase of The Inn, which will be brought back to this remarkable community of people who have donated time, money, and effort in saving it. Our next steps will be to move forward with continued fundraising in Sherburne and in the surrounding communities, and to reach out to corporations, family foundations, grants, and individuals from around the country who have shown interest in this project. We need help from everyone to restore and reopen this historic property, and to make it better than it ever was before.

In the coming weeks SSIRP will call on volunteers and others, and will begin the planning, restoration, and renovation process. We ask for your patience as work kicks off.

This will be a long road, but the first huge step has been taken: ownership of a building that means so much to this village, and to its anchor corner.

THANK YOU to everyone who has donated funds up to this point. It is not an understatement to say that your contributions have enabled us to buy the building. Without the donations received so far, purchase would not

have been possible. Please do what you can to donate time and services -- as well as funding -- and share this post with all of your social networking and other contacts. Our reach needs to be far and wide in letting people know that historic buildings can be saved if citizens band together to make it happen.

Our journey has begun. Join us!

To donate to Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project, send your tax deductible donation to:

SSIRP

POB 1163

Sherburne, NY 13460

or visit our website at thesherburneinn.org and click the "Contribute" link to pay securely by credit card.

Bloody Boston

2013-04-15T22:10:00.001-04:00

I never went to war, never served "point," never had to crawl through the jungle or the sand avoiding bullets shot by faceless enemies. Still, there's a little piece of me that feels as though I have been in a war of sorts. I feel this way when I turn on the news and see another explosion, another street full of smoke and tears.

On September 11, 2001, I watched the towers burn from my office window. I remember feeling shocked and overwhelmed. Stunned. Horrified. There are no words in fact to capture what I felt as I watched those buildings fall. I'd been in them many times: the most memorable, on a Christmas date; and another time, on my 41st birthday having drinks with friends from Tennessee. I rode with clenched teeth in the Trade Center elevators, rocketing skyward to emerge relieved into a magnificent restaurant at the top, dazzled by a view unmatched. On 9-11, the buildings were gone, destroyed by people who hate Americans. By people who kill innocents because they hate our government. On 9-11, like so many others but for my own personal reasons, I was shattered.

It's been twelve years since the September 11 attacks. We've all gone on with our business, walking city sidewalks without fear and boarding airplanes, worrying less now about dark-haired men with knives and back to dreading the food and inevitable delays. Then on comes the news and we return. To bombs and blood and screaming people.

I have a friend, once a brother-in-law, who served in Vietnam. I used to marvel at his dull eyes when he watched Hollywood's versions of that war. I would cover my face at certain scenes; his eyes did not waver. "They never get it right," he used to say, and I would wonder how he could remain unshattered, seeing this horror again.

Years later, I smelled the burning bodies of those lost in New York City on 9-11. Today I saw the news and watched, dull-eyed, at the screaming and the blood in Boston. I don't want to be numb to it, and am horrified by the scenes near Copley Square, saddened by the stories of dead children and amputees. I am disgusted that, once again, people who hate have caused more heartache for the innocent. I am not, however, overwhelmed, nor am I shattered.

This is now the world.

No, I never went to war. Yet I am numb as though I did, because every day -- in our beautiful cities and in the skies overhead -- there is a chance that war will come to me.

Thank You National Trust for Historic Preservation!

2013-04-13T13:18:00.001-04:00

Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project has caught the interest of The National Trust for Historic Preservation. The following was posted on their blog, Preservation Nation. Please share this link, and help us spread the word:

http://blog.preservationnation.org/2013/04/10/the-sherburne-inn-how-one-community-is-keeping-a-local-landmark-alive/#.UWWaC8otDcs

Our fight has gone national...thank you Preservation Nation!!

The Long Arms of The Sherburne Inn

2013-04-02T12:47:00.001-04:00

It's difficult sometimes for those of us in a small town to realize how important little villages are to people who live far away. We think we are cloistered somehow, that those who pass through our downtowns in cars see nothing but the road ahead en route to bigger places that offer theaters and shopping malls. We should think again. SSIRP received the following letter last week from a woman in Maine:

"March 25, 2013

Dear SSIRP:

Ever since I first read about saving The Sherburne Inn, I have read with interest of the project in The Sherburne News. I have fond memories of visiting my grandparents, Edith & Levi Collins at 14 East State Street, every summer, and later, when my father Earl Buell Collins retired to his family home. He contributed to the Sherburne Community with his musical talent as the organist at the Sherburne United Church of Christ, directing handbell choirs and teaching piano lessons from his home.

The Sherburne Inn was a vital part of the community where we would gather on special occasions.

How disappointed we were several years ago to learn that the Inn was no longer in business when we were in the area after my grandaughter's graduation from Syracuse University.

I commend all of you who are working on this project. The town of Sherburne is very dear in my heart; restoring the Inn will revitalize the whole community.

Sincerely,
June Collins Hopkins
(donation enclosed)"

Thank you, June, for reminding us again how special a place is The Sherburne Inn, and that like diamonds flung on open water, the precious many who remember her are everywhere.

To donate to Saving The Sherburne Inn, send your check made payable to SSIRP to:

Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project, Inc.

POB 1102

Sherburne, NY 13460

or pay by credit card at our website:

thesherburneinn.org (click on "contribute" link)

SSIRP is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit community organization

Priceless In Pink

2013-03-26T12:35:00.003-04:00

Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project has been receiving a steady stream of donations from people in and around the Sherburne community -- and indeed, from those around the country -- since our fundraising card was dropped in the mail two weeks ago. Every day checks arrive, often accompanied by notes of encouragement and thanks. Those of us on the SSIRP board knew we weren't alone in our belief that The Sherburne Inn was worthy of saving and restoring. What we didn't know is how many others are out there who feel the same way. As my dad used to tell me, when you see one rabbit in the road, there are a hundred more in the bushes.

As if the outpouring of support from our community wasn't enough, last week I spoke with Julia Rocchi, managing editor at The National Trust For Historic Preservation. Ms. Rocchi confirmed for me what those of us at SSIRP have known all along: that in order to save our historic places, citizens of small communities like Sherburne must get involved. We can no longer sit back and hope someone else will come along to preserve our history. We are "that someone." All of you who are contributing dollars to saving the Inn, who are urging us forward on Facebook and on our website, and who are showing hands and offering services are "that someone." Our story of rising up and saying no, we will not allow another historic building to fall, is not a good one...it's a great one. The National Trust is interested in our progress and will, as we move forward, follow our journey with the hope of sharing its success with other communities who feel as we do: that small town history and historic places must be preserved because who we are today and who we will be tomorrow is tied inextricably to what has come before us.

We have received thousands of dollars of support thus far, sometimes in the form of very large donations, and sometimes in the form of small ones. The smaller checks are those that tug at my heartstrings. Yesterday a $25 donation arrived. A small pink note was attached to the check that read as follows: "Committee: Keep up the good work. Don't get discouraged."

SSIRP is so appreciative of the benefactors who have and will continue to donate thousands. Their generosity will allow us to replace walls and retouch bricks and ultimately re-energize our downtown corner. But it is because of the lady and her pink note that the SSIRP board meets every week, that committee members gather to brainstorm, that we will approach corporations with funding requests, that we will spend hundreds of hours applying for grants, and that, once the building is ours, we will surge forward with plans for this community's future. It is the lady and her priceless pink note of encouragement for whom I get up every day and say we will make this happen. We will not get discouraged. We will keep up the good work because we know, as does every person who writes a twenty-five-dollar check knows, that we are -- all of us -- on a path of great and historic things to come.

To donate to Saving The Sherburne Inn, send your check made payable to SSIRP to:

Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project, Inc.

POB 1102

Sherburne, NY 13460

or pay by credit card at our website:

thesherburneinn.org (click on "contribute" link)

SSIRP is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit community organization

2013-03-20T23:06:00.000-04:00

Nonprofit status for Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project has been approved! Please donate to SSIRP by visiting our website, thesherburneinn.org (click on contribute button to pay by credit card via PayPal), or mail your check to SSIRP, PO Box 1102, Sherburne, NY 13460.

Beware The Ides Of March, Little Caesars

2013-03-15T12:41:00.000-04:00

Today is March 15, the Ides of March. This day is best known, as Wikipedia tells us, as the one on which Julius Caesar was assassinated in 44 BC. Caesar was stabbed to death at a meeting of the senate, with as many as 60 conspirators -- led by Brutus and Cassius -- involved in the plot. Apparently a seer had warned Caesar that harm would come to him no later than the Ides of March. Caesar, a bit full of himself by the sound of things, passed the seer on the way to the Theatre of Pompey (where the deed would take place) and joked "The Ides of March have come," implying that the prophecy had not been fulfilled. "Aye, Caesar," the seer replied, "but not gone."

It's never really a good idea to tempt fate. As Caesar found out the hard way, we just don't know how things are going to turn out. A few years back (egads, ELEVEN years back, time is certainly flying) I was getting "vibes" that something was going to happen to me before Christmas. Something as in death. I kept mentioning to people that I had this strange sense I wasn't going to make it to celebrate the holidays, and naturally, since most of my friends and family believe I lean to eccentricity, my concerns were dismissed. Then, on December 21, 2002, I fell and broke my ankle on my sister's slippery driveway. I was rushed to the hospital and informed by a very nice doctor that my ankle was broken in three places and I should have surgery. I had reached my fated crossroads, I could feel it, and knew for a fact that if I went into surgery I would not return alive. Instead, I elected to go the hard way...a closed reduction, which essentially means the doctor yanks and pulls and realigns the bones. Doc further informed me that by making this choice I would probably limp for the rest of my life. I kept to myself that I'd rather limp on earth than skip in heaven.

In February of the next year, while still hobbling around in a hip-high cast, I was on the telephone with my own version of Caesar's seer, a friend who dabbled in astrology. She didn't know when I broke my ankle, but when she looked at my chart she said "Oh my, you were surrounded by death on December 21st."

Unlike that poor chap who listened not to his soothsayer so long ago, I paid attention to fate's subtle nudging. And no, I do not limp today.

Whether or not you believe in events of fate, it's wise at least to give them a nod. Had Caesar done same and rescheduled his senate to March 16, the world might be a very different place. I pay quiet homage to The Ides of March every year having had my own internal seer portend trouble. The Ides should remind us all: heads up little Caesars...you know not what the future will bring.

The Sherburne Inn: A Spirit Alive

2013-03-01T13:18:00.000-05:00

Her lights have been dark for almost a decade now. Still, when you step inside, you can almost feel the souls who have passed through her doors since 1917 when those doors opened for the first time. For eighty-plus years people of this community -- and indeed, those from well beyond -- have celebrated life's moments within the walls of The Sherburne Inn. Our sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, grandparents and children, aunts and uncles and friends have crossed the threshold of this building to gather and make merry, whether at dinner or for a glass of wine, or for weddings, reunions, and milestone birthdays. The Inn's two fireplaces, cold now for years, once warmed the hands of those huddled inside away from our town's legendary snow. And on brilliant summer days in June, when Sherburne's Pageant of Bands brought streets to bursting, glasses were raised on Sherburne Inn porches to hail a village known for its generosity and love of rural sensibilities.

There have been many since the turn of the new century who believed the Inn's doors had closed for good. Our lady has endured much: rain and snow, falling bricks, a gathering of not people, but pigeons. Those who have owned the Inn in recent years had good intentions that, sadly and through no fault of their own, did not come to fruition. They are to be commended for keeping the bulldozers at bay. People become tired, or discouraged, when a project seems too big and when others are not stepping forward to help. But that day is behind us. Help has arrived in the form of individuals who care enough to say no: we will not let the bulldozers win, we will not let our community become another on a long list whose historic buildings have fallen in the name of "progress."

Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project has taken a giant step. We have raised the funds to purchase the Inn and will proceed to closing on the property. By spring, barring unforeseen circumstances, the building will be ours, at which point we will reach out to any and all possible sources to bring our dream to fruition. And "our" dream is not only that of SSIRP, but of the entire community of people who remember the Inn in her days of glory, when on our corner was fine dining and guest accommodations, a place to wed or meet, a pub where friends gather at fireside, away from blinking screens, to talk and laugh and fall in love; a spot for church ladies to lunch and service organizations to plan and school children to prom. The Inn will open its doors to seniors, to corporations, to out-of-town guests, and to all who know that a village is made of -- and thrives because of -- its people, and that the memory heart of a community is not in place to buy lotto and gas. Our memory heart is in our history, and in the knowledge that above all our job during this brief time on earth is to preserve that history for those who come along after we are gone.

Join us in reopening the doors of The Sherburne Inn. Help us turn on her lights. The spirit of the Inn is reflected most brilliantly in the spirit of our wonderful, hopeful, and caring people.

We are on a remarkable journey.

To donate to Saving The Inn, make checks payable to Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project and mail to PO Box 1102, Sherburne, NY 13460.

Visit our website (http://thesherburneinn.wordpress.com/contribute/) to pay securely by credit card.

"You Gotta Get Up"

2013-02-26T00:01:00.002-05:00

On Sunday I decided to tape the Oscars so I wouldn't have to endure all the commercials and those awards that, while deserved, are a little boring to sit through. I'm only interested in a few: best actor and actress, best supporting actor and actress, best director, best picture. Of course, being something of a technological idiot, I didn't consider that the show might run long, meaning I missed most of the awards I was hoping to see.

Thank goodness for the Internet. Tonight I watched Ben Affleck's acceptance speech on youtube, and he said something that I've believed all my life. In case you missed it, here's a portion of what he said:

I was here 15 years ago or something and I had no idea what I was doing. I stood out here in front of you all and was really just a kid. I went out and I never thought I would be back here. And I am, because of so many of you who are here tonight, because of this Academy, because of so many wonderful people who extended themselves to me when they had nothing to benefit from it in Hollywood...I want to thank them for what they taught me, which is that you have to work harder than you think you possibly can. You can't hold grudges. It's hard but you can't hold grudges. And it doesn't matter how you get knocked down in life because that's going to happen. All that matters is you gotta get up.

Mr. Affleck, you are so right. We will fall down, and sometimes people will knock us down, either accidentally or with intent. No matter who we are, we need to work as hard as we can, hard enough to hurt, because we won't get anywhere if we don't And by not getting anywhere I'm not talking about making money; I'm talking about changing people's lives, and changing the life of the communities in which we live, whether it's Tinseltown or Main Street. We will fall down. But the only thing that matters, in the end, is that we let those who knocked us down -- or tried to -- know that we will get back up to fight another day.

Suborder Ophidia; Order Squamata

2013-02-19T20:44:00.000-05:00

There must be something about me that draws animals into my home. I'm not talking about cats and dogs here. Animals. Like those who are supposed to be living outside.

I've reported here in the past that over the years I've had mice. Okay, mice aren't that big a deal. Mice come and go. It gets cold outside, a mouse comes in, you set a trap, you're done. I don't like mice, mind you, but come on. It's...you know...a mouse. Mickey and Minnie and so on, minus the gloves and conversation.

On Long Island a few years back I came home and saw the face of what I thought was a rat peeping out from under the chair. Turns out it was a chipmunk. I opened the door and shooed him away. Later, I found his sleeping corner, tucked under a little table in the guest bathroom. I wasn't thrilled that a chipmunk had taken up residence in the house, but again: come on. It's a chipmunk.

One summer (also on Long Island) yellow jackets invaded. Over the course of a few months I think my nephew and I killed about 300 bees. At first it was startling to have bees flying through the living room, but after awhile we got used to it. "Bee!" one of us would yell, and whoever was closest to the pantry would get out the Pam and take aim. We liked using Pam as opposed to actual insect spray because it was non-toxic. The bee's wings would get gummed up and the poor thing would fall to the floor, whereupon we'd step on it. I didn't like killing the bees, but it wasn't right, having bees everywhere.

There have been quite a few times when I've found the innards of small creatures at my doorstep. The kidneys were the most disturbing. And then there was the giant raccoon, the one who stood on his hind legs and glared at me through the French door windows one night.

I've come to deal with all this. That is to say, I can deal with the organisms I actually see. It's the one I think is living in my family room sofa that's got me crazy at the moment.

Without going into unnecessary detail, something is UP in the family room. I've been hearing sounds, like something scritching around behind the couch. This is a big couch, a leather sectional in fact, and is too big for me to move. If I was the only one hearing these sounds I'd write it off to "poor Kathy's brain is going soft," but Harry and both cats hear it as well. They go wild, racing around the room trying to get back there while I, in turn, sit with my feet up and wonder what's going to come rocketing out from under one of these days with three snarling pets close behind. The other night the scritching turned into scratching. Loud scratching. Sounded like my family room critter was burrowing into the sofa. Harry went purely nuts. As did his owner. I huffed and puffed and tried to pull the sofa away from the wall, but it wouldn't budge. The scratching stopped and I went to bed, plotting my next move.

The next move, as it turned out, was to take a poll of my friends. Most said "mouse." A few who like to torture me said "rat." A few others offered "chipmunk" and "squirrel," adding that household pet food might be getting them through the winter. Then one friend, with a Hannibal Lecter glint in the eye, suggested this:

"snake."

As in, per the dictionary, "Suborder Ophidia, Order Squamata: a long limbless reptile that has no eyelids, a short tail, and jaws that are capable of considerable extension."

Head cocked, I imagined some exotic pet-owning neighbor with an escaped python and asked myself the question: Was it scritching and scratching I heard? Or slithering?

I have now relocated myself to an upstairs part of the house for TV watching, and await the arrival of five strong men (not yet identified) who will move the sofa and banish whatever lies beneath. Meanwhile, I will be locked in my car with my cell phone, awaiting the call from five strong men who will report, I hope, that it was indeed just mouse.

Stay tuned.

The (Lost?) Art of Being Great

2013-02-11T22:01:00.001-05:00

I'm reading a biography about Barbra Streisand. I haven't gotten very far yet, but in the beginning the author talks about Ms. Streisand and her motivation. It wasn't fame, nor was it money. Barbra was motivated by quality. What she wanted was that her work be great. Not passable. Not good. But great.

In addition to being a Streisand fan, I'm also a follower of Stephen King. In reading King's nonfiction works, when he talks about writing, I find the same attitude: SK advises writers not to write for cash or accolades. Write, he says, because you must. Write for your art. Make your art great. If the money follows that's okay. But for the love of God, don't write because you feel warm and fuzzy when someone tells you you're a star. Let the work speak, and do all you can to make your work the best it can possibly be.

Have we lost this sensibility? Have we lost the motivation to strive for greatness, even if it means we make no money from our efforts? So many people these days seem to do something not because it's the right thing to do, or the best that we can do. Rather, people aspire to getting awards, or to getting manic applause from fans who may or may not be worthy judges. People make their so-called art and push forward for a paycheck, not because in their heart of hearts they feel they've done their best. As Streisand's biographer says, we now see celebrity born from drunken wealthy housewives, not from those who actually exert effort that has value. Money and fame have become our gods. Paying lower taxes and sticking a few extra pennies in the bank means more than something that inspires, especially when the inspirational "art" is difficult to attain and ultimately without financial value.

Indeed: what is the definition of art? Writing, painting, architecture, craft. Are these things art in 2013? Or is art now defined as the art of the political deal, the art of making a buck that we can later spend on a flat screen TV, or on a new and depreciating car? I took a fine art class years ago at NYU and was surprised to learn that most of the artists who are now considered masters died long before their work was ever appreciated. Their goal wasn't to make a million dollars and move to an oceanside condo. It was to make something spectacular, and hope that someday someone somehow might gaze at their masterpiece and gain from it.

How to we begin to re-teach this to the young, that their creative or community endeavors have value even if their bank account numbers don't rise? How do we teach them that art is in the effort and not in the reward?

I began this blog two years ago next month. I have made exactly zero dollars from this effort. The Squeaky Pen has not added to my net worth, has not added to the tax base, has not changed the economy by a single nickel. Yet I'd like to think that my words have touched some of my readers and have made them think about something in a way they hadn't before. Maybe some of you...and maybe not even very many...have returned to this blog to see what else I have to say on any given Tuesday. Maybe some of you have laughed, and maybe a few have cried. I'm hoping, if nothing else, that I've made some readers think. That is art in its purest form. Has my art been great like that of the great Barbra Streisand? Probably not (okay, certainly not). Still, it was my way to reach out and see how, in some little way, I could change my piece of the world by putting words and thoughts and ideas in your head that weren't there before.

So I guess I've answered my own question: this is how we re-teach the young. By example. We show them that even when we don't make a bloody cent the effort to be great, even if we aren't, is the most worthwhile effort of all.

Beverly Hills, Charlie Palmer, Ghastly Morning, and Other January Things

2013-01-28T22:43:00.002-05:00

I'm watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (yes: one of my guilty pleasures). There are all these women, Kyle Richards who was a child star and is the sister of Kathy Hilton and aunt to Paris; Camille Grammer, bitter ex-wife of Kelsey; and a half-dozen others, famous (well, sorta famous) women who spend $30,000 on a pocketbook, who live in houses bigger than most hotels, attractive botoxed broads who have not much better to do than go to parties and drive expensive cars and eat in fine restaurants. In fact, at this moment as I'm watching and writing, they've just sat down to a meal at Charlie Palmer Steak in Vegas. Charlie Palmer, Master Chef. Charlie Palmer, who has fine restaurants all over the country. Charlie Palmer, who graduated three years behind me in high school, who lived in a tiny town nearby that was even tinier than my tiny town. We knew him as "Chick" back then. He and I shared a home-economics teacher from whom he clearly learned more about cooking than I did. Charlie Palmer, that nice kid underclassman who has made such a success of himself that he's got botoxed broads from Beverly Hills eating in one of his many restaurants and they're showing it on TV. My mind goes a little haywire as I watch this. Good for you, Charlie. We're so proud of you here in your old hometown.

I got up at 6 a.m. today. One eye peeped opened, and then the other one's lids popped apart around 6:30. I was watching the coffee boil at 6:45, marveling at what outside looks like at that time of day, misty and gray, snowy this time of year, impossibly quiet. As I've mentioned more than once, I'm a night owl, but this morning's work required that I rise early. By 10 a.m. I'd gotten scads of work done, and by noon I felt like I'd put in a full day at the stockyards. Now it's 9:30 p.m. and I think I'm hallucinating. How do people do this, get up so early? I mentioned my pre-dawn awakening to several friends and got shocked gasps. I'm afraid this early bird news will end up in the paper.

It's been bitter cold here. Bitter. My sister, weather-watcher, reported that it was 15 below the other morning (she's one of those nuts who gets up at six). It was so cold the other day Harry couldn't move in the back yard. I had to rush out in socked feet to cart him back into the house, a whining frozen fish stick. In fact we were both whining. I. Am. Over. This. Weather. I'm dreaming about golf and green lawns. And Charlie Palmer's restaurant in Vegas, where it's warm. I should have been nicer to the kid in high school, maybe I could have gotten an invite out to Vegas for a winter vacation and a good meal.

It's Time To Act!

2013-01-25T13:45:00.000-05:00

Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project (SSIRP) is now accepting donations. Please make your check payable to Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project and mail to to: Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project (SSIRP) PO Box 1102 Sherburne, NY 13460 You may also donate at our website, http://thesherburneinn.wordpress.com by clicking the Contribute link. Nonprofit status is pending; donations will be deductible retroactive to January 15, 2013 to the fullest extent of the law. Thank you in advance to our patrons, and for joining us in this remarkable community project!

The Sherburne Inn: 2013 Update

2013-01-21T18:04:00.001-05:00

Much has been happening with The Sherburne Inn project in the last month. Our nine-member board of directors is complete (profiles of each member will soon be posted on our website), Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project is officially incorporated with the State of New York, our application for nonprofit status is ready to send off for approval, and our business plan is under review by the board and approaching finalization. Our volunteer list continues to grow; soon we will post a discovery survey on our website that will help us clarify the skills of our volunteers so that we can call upon you for specific needs as the project moves forward. Finally, we are initiating a weekly column in The Sherburne News as a way to keep everyone updated on where we are, and to provide a look back at the rich history of The Sherburne Inn.

Most importantly, in the coming days we will launch our fundraising campaign. In addition to calling on those of you who have already pledged a donation, we will also be sending a fundraising brochure by mail and email. Please be as generous as possible, share with your contact network, and become a part of one of the most exciting community projects Sherburne has seen in many years. The board is also hard at work on developing a video of the project that we will use for Internet fundraising, and of course we will be working on grants and talking with potential corporate supporters in the days ahead.

Stay tuned to The Squeaky Pen, our Facebook page, The Sherburne News, and our website (http://thesherburneinn.wordpress.com) for more information.

It's Just The Flu

2013-01-07T23:01:00.000-05:00

I was thinking about Ida Storrs Dietz over the weekend; about Ida, and her sister Mary, their parents and their aunt Mary Crary. Mr. and Mrs. Storrs and Mary Crary died in December of 1893 right here in my house, of "the grippe" (translation: the flu). The entire family of five was stricken with flu after Thanksgiving that year. Mrs. Storrs passed away first in one of the upstairs bedrooms; then her sister Mary; and finally, less than three weeks after his wife died, Mr. Storrs went too, passing on in the bedroom downstairs. I read of these dreadful events in Ida's diaries, which I stumbled upon in Sherburne's wonderful Historic Society archives.

On Saturday, I lay in my bed and wondered if I would follow in their footsteps.

I haven't had the flu since 1992, a memorable occasion because that year, the flu smacked me down a few days before Christmas. I was in bed then for a week. Two decades later the flu has smacked me again, not so seriously as twenty years ago but bad enough to make a note in my journal. It started with sneezing last week and segued into full-blown knock-me-flat on Friday. Since then, I've spent one day in bed, another day on the sofa, and yet another two drifting around the house in a big fog. This morning I wandered for ten minutes looking for my glasses until I realized I was wearing them. I wore the same nightgown for four days. My hair hurt. The dog has been looking at me with quizzical eyes, pawing at me with an expression of "What's the deal?" There are wadded tissues scattered everywhere, the result of my feeble attempts at hitting the trash can. The television has droned on for 72 hours. Thanks to Spike TV I've watched (sort of) all four Indiana Jones movies. Three times.

What must it have been like, back in 1893, when there was no electricity, no furnace, no Indiana Jones for those poor souls who succumbed to the flu in my house? In Ida's diary, she spoke of her delirious aunt Mary falling in one of the bedrooms with a kerosene lamp, marveling that the house didn't burn down. Ida and her sister, Mary Storrs, were carried upstairs by helpful neighbors to sit at the bedside of their dying mother and aunt. Her most chilling diary entry had her asking who would be next. On Saturday, as I thrashed around in my sickbed next to a whining, concerned dog, I was thinking it might be me.

It's Monday now and I guess I'm recovering. I actually took a shower, got dressed, and talked on the phone. My head remains full of fuzz, and the thought of food is nauseating (I think I had an egg sometime over the weekend, and I think it made me gag), but I'm better. I know where my glasses are. I've changed the TV channel. And Harry has stopped hovering. There's something indescribably creepy about a small dog an inch from your face, brown eyes anxiety-filled, sniffing what in my haze of illness I imagined to be the ghastly odor of imminent death. At one point both cats were there, too, eyeballing me with what I'm sure was the vague and selfish cat thought "If she dies, who'll feed us?" The animals have all relaxed and are leaving me alone, a good sign.

So many scary millennium predictions have been made, not the least of which was the end of the world. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm happy with the second decade of the new century. Unlike Ida and her doomed elders, I have medicine and lights and a wireless telephone where 911 can be dialed even with a hallucinagentic flu-virus-filled brain. Thankfully I never needed to dial, and my body is fighting -- and winning -- the good fight. All is well, or getting there.

Still, as I recover, I'm haunted by Ida's shaky handwriting; I'm haunted by the image of her there, sick and in darkness, scrawling in her diary: "Mother died around six," then "Aunt Mary is a corpse upstairs," and finally, "This makes three who have died in this house in less than three weeks. Mother 75, Aunty 78, Father 80 yrs. Who next?"

Haunted...

...by the heartache a hundred years ago, inside these very walls, caused by an ailment about which so many of us nowadays shrug and say, "Aw...it's just the flu."

Sherburne Inn Fundraiser, New Year's Eve

2013-01-02T14:58:00.000-05:00

December 31st rang in more than the New Year. A jolly group gathered for a New Year's Eve Party in Sherburne as part of the Save The Sherburne Inn Restoration Project. Below are some of the folks who came by to contribute and toast to all good things in 2013.

Kristina Rodriguez, Mark Perrin, Jorge Rodriguez

Mike Tefft, Colleen Law-Tefft, Rose Tenney, Cindy Carter,
Randy Muth, Patty Matson

Helen Braun, Lee Perrin, Scott Braun

Jackie D'Erasmo, Jim McDaniel, Bill Brown, Paul Harvey

Jorge Rodriguez, Vince Yacono

Kit Enscoe, Pamme Swan, Peg Jeffrey

Let It Snow, Baby

2012-12-28T00:39:00.000-05:00

We finally got snow this week, just in time for Christmas. Growing up I actually don't remember a Christmas in my hometown when there wasn't snow. I've lived in a few places where snow wasn't a guarantee at the end of December, and like the relentless salmon, I always navigated to snowy home when it came time for lighted trees and family.

This year was a bit strange at first. Not a December drop of the white stuff, only crispy grass and, in a few cases, temperatures in the 50s and 60s. I strung mini-lights on my porch in short sleeves and fought against melancholy. Would the words I'm dreaming of a white Christmas be accurate this year? Would I only be dreaming of snowy blankets? My gift wrapping was lackluster: it just didn't feel like Christmas.

Then the snow started last weekend. Not only were the rooftops covered, not only had the unraked leaves vanished at last, and not only were the newel posts and tree branches layered with a million geometric shapes, but the snow that fell was magical. On Christmas Eve, when guests and neighbors were sleeping, I donned heavy coat and scarf and went out to the street. I stood there alone in the silence of my town and turned my face to the sky. Snow fell like sugar, as though some benevolent giant stood high above scattering handfuls onto my cheeks and hair. I was transfixed, the only sound the icy powder's gentle shushing and ticking as it settled to ground. There were no tire tracks in the street in front of my house, no footprints but mine. Everyone was at home, burrowed under blankets, tamping out fires, tying last-minute ribbons on last-minute gifts as the world outside swirled. Then I sat bundled on my porch and waited for Santa, almost believing that his sleigh might glide by so spellbinding was the night.

Snow, for some, means plowing and shoveling and scraping and slippery rides. Not for me. Winter -- and certainly Christmas -- should not feature orange groves and trips to Disney. We humans need to wind down; we need to witness the cycle of life, the one that begins with falling leaves and concludes with stark, frosted trees. Looking to the sky and watching clouds release their frozen drops is my anchor. When in months ahead the snow arrives in earnest, I'll listen for early morning plows scratching away in the parking lot nearby; I'll notice the muffled rumble of tires on the eastern street, and I'll have boots and hats at the ready. Not all snow is magical, I know that. And just when I've had enough, when I've scraped my windshield one too many times and cursed the next storm front, spring rains will appear and melt the snowbanks away. Then the cycle will click forward, the season will change, and life will start again.

But we are in winter now; and in winter, I say let it snow.

A Very Harry Christmas

2012-12-26T11:39:00.001-05:00

A lovely Christmas here in snowy Sherburne, although Harry didn't think much of his new parka...

The World Is Still Around

2012-12-21T01:45:00.000-05:00

I'm writing this it's 1:35 a.m. Friday, December 21, 2012. So far so good regarding the world's demise, although it is a bit windy outside. Maybe the Mayans were talking about Winter Storm Draco. They probably didn't like snow.

Heard something hilarious regarding people and their end-of-the-world bunkers: one woman was bragging about her giant tube-shaped shelter. She said "We have food and water and enough room for 8 people to sleep. And we have a big flat screen television!"

Now I wonder...what did she think she was going to watch on TV when the world came to an end? If Satan arrived to send us all hurtling to Hell, maybe Fox so-called news would still be around. With the devil himself broadcasting, no doubt.

As for me, I'm going to bed and will finish up Christmas shopping over the weekend, happy that I didn't spend a hundred grand on an underground hideout.