“If there is anything we can do to make your flight more enjoyable , please don’t hesitate ask.”

Surely the flight attendant meant well, but really. Other than a box of Cracker Jacks; what could she have possibly done? I had already reached the comfort level of a sardine . The lady seated next to me I’d already poked in the ribs, inadvertently of course. Let me see; other than two obnoxiously loud kids, I had to wonder if the flight attendant had any duct tape.

Oh,yeah, a guy sat next Judy. He was the spitin’ image of Hank Williams Jr. Wirey beard, cowboy hat. Unbeknownst to me, as I was across the aisle, he had explained to Jude that he suffered from Scoliosis and tended to markedly droop in his chair. The flight proceeded.

Somewhere at 34,000 feet, I glance over and see Hank’s face practically planted in Jude’s lap. Surely this wasn’t part of the flight attendant’s repertoire to make the flight more enjoyable, or at least I hope not.

I reached over and poked Jude’s arm, my facial inflection questioning the oddity before me.

Jude whispered that it was okay. I, in turn, wondered how Hank got away with it. As he drooped, he definitely leaned left, which I hoped wasn’t the way he voted.

I mused to myself, and somehow invoked the old TV character of yesteryear, Maxwell Smart.

“Ah, yes, the old scoliosis trick.!”

ACROSS FLORIDA.

I’d made this trek before, but I can’t remember when. East to west, the slice through southern Florida offers a mixture of tangled underbrush, cow pastures, then gates and fine-trimmed lawns. The occasional marshy ground has alligators written all over it.

The names of a few cross-roads are drenched with local color. YeeHaw Junction gets it started. Really. How many folks do you know who are from YeeHaw Junction, Florida?

Then there’s Frost Proof . Imagine that I am an aspiring apricot farmer. Am I not immediately interested in a nice piece of ground in Frost Proof, Florida? Talk about apricot-friendly coordinates!

These names are reminiscent of past trips I’ve taken in the rural America. Perhaps there is only one Bald Knob, Arkansas or only one Maggie’s. Nipples, Colorado. I’ll stop there before rural America gets a bit too colorful.

Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

I’m fairly certain that line is attributable to Mark Twain. If not, then I beg his indulgence posthumously. Posthumously? Yes, him, not me. Lest I resurrect the rumor,…or commence one.

Now, where was I going with this? All this talk about resurrection and posthumousness. Is my reader old enough to remember Resurrection City? 3,000 wooden tents crowded the National Mall in Washington DC. It was the culmination of the Poor People’s March lead by Martin Luther King. Dark days, they were in 1968.

That’s right. And here I only intended an observation of the winter! The stubbornness of the temperature, that is. Let’s not forget, however. Winter is doing what winter does. It’ll be over soon. You’re ever so lucky to have a touch of Cabin Fever! The alternative is well beyond worse.

Pardon my scattered mind.

Our son, Jason, resides in Sarasota, Florida. He describes an eerie encounter with hurricane Milton. The storm had made landfall at approximately 8:30 in the evening, accompanied by the much anticipated howling gales and furious wind. Milton carried on in such fashion as to remove any doubt that an epic weather event had arrived .

The storm wore on, driving blinding sheets of horizontal rain. Then, as if conducting an orderly meeting, Milton deferred to a breathless inexplicable calm. The eye of the storm was above. Milton had tapped his gavel until such time that his wickedness might resume.

Jason went outside. It was eerily quiet. Though 13 miles inland, the pungent smell of sea water was pervasive . Indeed, nature had chosen a quirky path!

I

Over this morning’s coffee, Judy and I raised our cups to the memory of

Sally McCabe, Judy’s grandmother. Sally McCabe. Could her name possibly have sounded

more Irish? Apparently her red hair and freckles were a dead giveaway when she boarded

the ship…. alone, at the tender age of 16.

Her teenage despair, her abject poverty was no longer tolerable. The details are sketchy as to

how Sally managed to become a passenger on that ship. Was she a stowaway? Did she arrange to mop the deck every day? Or, was her fare a more sordid ticket? Whichever, Sally

McCabe was on her way to America for a “better life”.

I have tried more than a few times to get my head around this story. As a kid, I worked like a dog, but, at age 16, to board a ship, leave home , cross an ocean where I knew not a soul

and never go back…what kid does that? One with shear will and determination, to say the least!

Indeed, Sally McCabe found her “better life” in America. It was not one of wealth or extravagance, but it ran circles around the misery that she left in the old country. America afforded her a glimmer of sustaining hope with which she lived the rest of her days.

Happy St. Patty’s Day Sally McCabe.

Joseph Addison, the English essayist, playwright and politician is interred at Westminster Abbey in London. He was born in May of 1672 in the Hamlet of Milston, population 130 in 2011. That population count was the same in 1861. May we infer that Addison’s hometown was a sleepy neighborhood.? Time seemingly stood still here next to the River Avon.

An American essayist, Henry David Thoreau, might well have written of the River Avon, “its thin current slides away but eternity remains”.

Then there was Clare Addison Tucker, his middle name in recognition of Joseph Addison. Clare was my Father. Regrettably, I never learned any of the lineage details that wove Addison with the Tuckers. Maybe I can off-load that research to my niece’s son, Addison Idol. Obviously the name appears intermittently in the family.

Meanwhile, I thought I’d lay off the writing for a bit and do some reading. The book was an easy choice. A volume from the Harvard Classics collection devotes its first pages to …tada… Joseph Addison, as though custom- scripted for my humble writing endeavor here, the first chapter is entitled Westminster Abbey.

In the first pages, Addison is at once comical and macabre . Apparently he was given to whiling away hours in or around the ancient cathedral. May I have you join him in his own words? But before I do, an editorial note: Addison wrote with an extravagance in style that is, safe to say, all but non-existent today. Your patience as his reader, I’m sure he would have requested, were he wrangling with this same time lapse.

Shall we join him: “Upon my going into the church, I entertained my self with the digging of a grave; and saw in every shovelful of it that was thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull intermixt with a kind of fresh mouldering earth, that some time or other had a place in the composition of a human body. Upon this, I began to consider with myself what innumerable multitudes of people lay confused together under the pavement of that ancient cathedral; how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were crumbled amongst one another and blended… undistinguished in the same promiscuous heap of matter.”

Apparently, “Cousin” Joseph was buried under that pavement, one hopes comfortably separated from the promiscuous of masses. How would I know that? I recall my Dad’s account of his and Mom’s guided tour of Westminster Abbey. Dad inquired of the tour guide as to any idea where Addison lay. “Funny you should ask”, the guide replied. “You’re standing on him right now.”

Anyway, back to my book. Addison further noted regarding the graves, “I examined it more particularly by the accounts which I found on several of the monuments which are raised in every quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of them were covered with such extravagant epitaphs that, if it were possible for the dead person to be acquainted with them, they would blush at the praises which his friends have bestowed upon him.”

Coincidence never ceases to amaze! My niece, Krista Tucker, Addison Idol’s Mom, attended a seminar a few years back somewhere in Arizona desert. At this event, she had a conversation with a gentleman whose business happened to deal with rare documents. Imagine Krista’s surprise upon hearing that this fellow had in his inventory a letter written by Addison in his handwriting. Not long afterward, Krista became the grateful owner of this document, bequeathed to her by this gentleman in the. Arizona desert.

While taking a short break from the keyboard, I ponder what I’ve been doing ; that is writing of a family member who lived 350 years before me. That alone is humbling. While I dabble with writing, his had a measure of eloquence that I have no expectation to equal. Then I compare the divergent mechanics of inkling letters onto paper. I poke at a keyboard. His calligraphy was infinitely more time consuming, a tad more articulate than my helvetica.

Further humbling, Addison wrote far more prolifically than I probably will ever find the time to muster. I can live with that, though. That is, if time ever becomes measured by words never written. If not, I’ll just write ‘till I die, then simply resign myself to Mt. Thoreau’s mediation: “Time is but the stream I go a fishin in.”

Did someone here in this Philadelphia suburb just not know how to spell? Bryn Mawr. Really? Okay, it is a Welsh spelling. And what was the miracle? Read on.

50 or so years ago there was a little, inconspicuous coffee house on Lancaster Avenue in Bryn Mawr. It was called The Main Point. If you blink while driving by, you could easily miss it. In those days, more than a smattering of upstart musicians would play at the Main Point. Mind you, there were maybe 45 or 50 seats in the place, but it was a known location for budding musicians to play.

They would sip coffee back in the kitchen and yuck it up with the help. Their names weren’t all that recognized back then, but unbeknownst to the kitchen help, they were mixing it up with a miracle. Performers at the Main Point included Jackson Browne, Bruce Springsteen, Bonnie Raitt, Linda Ronstadt, Jim Croce, Arlo Guthrie, Don McLean, Janice Ian, Tom Paxton, Gordon Lightfoot, Billy Joel and a pack of others.

Then there was a miracle of a different sort. You’ll remember the kitchen help, two cute little teenage girls, one of them named Judy Harding. Years later, Judy would become my wife! In my opinion, there’s no better miracle than that!

To this day, Judy reminisces over the days of her chatter with the stars. But then she married a farmer. To this day, I thank the stars for having had a sobering effect on Judy.

1825 – Vienna, Austria

Do note the year and place. Culturally, the city was ahead of it’s time, sheltering among other gifted artisans, an entire society of orchestral composers. Among them was 25 year old Franz Schubert.

How did it come to be that he is most known for his Symphony #7 (or is it 8?) UNFINISHED SYMPHONY?

Over the centuries, a host of scholars have checked in on the question. Why wasn’t it finished? Collectively, their diatribes are insufferable, in and out of the musical weeds, then back to whatever explanation that could be plausible at the time.

It was said of Franz Schubert that he was simply scatter-brained, that he would place documents of his work in a desk drawer only to forget where they were years later.

Another critic suggested that his contraction of syphilis interrupted the flow of his work. Yikes! I’ll choose not to even go there!

I was reminded this morning, however, of Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony when I reviewed some pages on my computer with a plethora of unfinished writing This was started. That was started. Where was I going with that? With this?

My face managed a coy smirk. What business did I have comparing myself to Franz Schubert?

Yes, he was a musical genius. I’m not a genius at anything. But, hey, he wasn’t the only one with a desk drawer,

It doesn’t happen often, but now and again we uncover a story that is dripping with circumstance, so much so that it begs to be told. One such tale commences in Alexandria and Holland, contiguous townships in Hunterdon County, New Jersey. To tell it, though, we must begin in San Diego.

My grandson, Tucker Haerle, “Tuck”, recently visited us here at Tuckaway Farm in Alexandria Township. The farm, of course, is Tucker’s Mom’s childhood home. (Mine too) To circumvent a ton of superfluous words, let’s head straight to San Diego where we’ll find “Tuck” and his lovely girlfriend, Margaret. There. You’ve never traveled 3,000 miles more quickly! Ah, the magic when you read!

Quizzically, Margaret has family connections in Holland Township, but she grew up in Wilmington, North Carolina. Such cross currents never promised to be a synch to follow. I write in fear that I’ll botch this beyond recognition! Is it any wonder? Folks commonly relocate with their jobs. Divorce is rampant, relocating one or another partner. Kids no sooner finish high school when college ships them a thousand miles away. Where the hell is everybody anymore?

Margaret’s grandmother on her father’s side married Oscar Rittenhouse, former Hunterdon County Prosecutor. He died tragically in a plane crash in March of 1979.

That association briefly explains young Margaret’s early nexus with Hunterdon County.

That already seems long ago.

Meanwhile, this page was written on the single remaining day of 2023. Not much more than a year ago came a day of significant consequence. Tuck met Margaret!

Margaret had very recently made a change of huge significance in her life. Her job wasn’t floating her boat. She longed to do something of her own, something entrepreneurial. Her and a girlfriend took a giant leap of faith, said ‘so long’ to their jobs, and moved to California.

One day Margaret and Greta are sitting on the beach in San Diego. A few guys approached and asked if they’d be up for a ride on their boat. The normal trepidation ensued, you know, strange guys etc. A brief glimpse at Margaret will explain the guy’s interest.

It became apparent in their conversation that Margaret and Greta were not the only girls lined up for the boat ride. In fact, there were several, seemingly an opportunity to make some new friends. Now that was much in their interest. So, it was welcome aboard for both girls.

Around the same time, Tucker moved to the area with his job. He didn’t really know anyone, except his college buddy Jared from Michigan State. Jared knew people in the area, and so Tuck figured he would hang out with Jared and meet others. One day Jared was invited to go to a “pre-game” before a concert. Jared asked Tuck to come along. At the same time, Margaret was invited to the same gathering with her new friends from the boat. Voila’!

Point of order: It just occurred to me that I used a term that is before my time. No, actually it is after my time: PRE -GAME. Pardon me while I experience a little time-warp. Pre-game, you see, is a present-day kid term. It means a party before the event, a little imbibing “tune-up” before festivities begin.

A lot of happenstances have just been parlayed here. Jared and Tuck just happened to be college buddies who, by chance, re-connected. Margaret and Greta just happened to be seated on the beach when the guys ambled along. And there’s this: Tuck made his way to San Diego, originally from Massachusetts. Margaret did the same from Carolina, but just as though it was part of a plan, they had a chance meeting in San Diego.

And get this: Richard, Margaret’s Dad, in his Jersey days, attended high school for a few years at what school? Delaware Valley Regional. So did I. We both played football there. Tuck’s Mom, Vanessa, also went to Del-Val.

Within these few paragraphs, a dizzying array of coincidence has spilled upon the page. Not all of it was explicable. At least not all of it made perfect sense! Such is life, wouldn’t you agree? Consider, however, what life supplanted. A perfect package… I am hoping for years of these visits from Tuck and Margaret!

It was somewhere in mid September, 2023. Faster than you might think, both of my legs locked up. A fall rendered me a hard blow to my head on the Dining Room floor. That old Long Leaf Yellow Pine doesn’t exactly have a lot of give to it.

The ambulance delivered me to the Emergency Room at Hunterdon Medical Center in jig time.

Was this yet another MS episode? Or some other fluky incident? Who knew? I had been born here in ‘53. Perhaps that was the real flukey incident. Mom would have said, “Perish the notion!”

At any rate, here I am ensconced at Kessler Rehabilitation Clinic in Chester ,N.J , longing to be released from solitary confinement in short order. It couldn’t happen too soon!

In fairness to Kessler, this is a first rate facility, not without a few quizzical leanings of its own. Staffed mostly with high quality people, one might find an occasional staffer who would seem directly out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. But then, that wouldn’t be too unusual. There’s a few in every crowd.

Time has lingered on here at Kessler. At 26 days, I can’t help but ask myself what game may have been in the making that a good old knock on the head tends to obscure without the knocked even realizing!

Now that I’m home, the essence of being here is sweeter than could ever be! Being with my wife, being on the farm and being where I belong. There’s a great day a’comln’.

The new state legislation was to be signed by then Governor Christie Whitman.

Date: January 27, 1983

Location: The Swift Farm, Rick Road in Alexandria Township, Hunterdon County.

Swift’s farm is contiguous to Tuckaway, so I thought I’d walk through the pastures to witness the signing ceremony. With a flair for authenticity, Jake Rick (RIP) awaited to drive the Governor down “Swifty’s” long lane in his 1924 Studebaker.

Was this the first occasion that the Governor ever had to traipse past cow pies in her high heels to get to the signing table in a barnyard? Ah, the vicissitudes of governance!

Now, nearly 40 years since, the stroke of her pen was momentous. The New Jersey Farmland Preservation Program has enabled the preservation of 250,000 acres, with a stated goal of doubling that figure.

Thus far, the total of preserved New Jersey farms is 2,843… 466 of them are in Hunterdon, leading all of the counties in total number of preserved farms.

Jersey’s farmland preservation achievement has been remarkable, garnering notice nationwide. How did it happen, anyway? I’ll spare the details of its origin and growth for someone else. I wish only to note here the remarkable achievement of New Jersey voters who have, time and again, recognized the value of what they are doing via their ballot.

Their vote has demonstrated a steadfast respect for agriculture in New Jersey, the abundance we’re known for and the sheen that farming keeps on the state. Thank you New Jerseyans!