Veterans aren’t supposed to let this happen. I did the same this Winter morning as I’ve done for decades, that is prepare this evening’s fire at the living room hearth. Later this day when it’s time to gather ‘round, just the strike of a match will result in a roaring fire.

We burn wood that is at least three years cured, so when the faggots are lit, believe me, the flames roar. That wood is so dry, it’s just itching to catch fire.

What’s that ?

Yes, faggots. Pardon my Scottish heritage. It’s the Scottish word for kindling. We collect faggots years in advance, too. The kindling has to be bone dry, also. How would the fire take off with wet faggots? Won’t happen.

Meanwhile, back to the veteran fire builder. It is an art form, you know ? There is straightforward technique that yields the same result with every fire, but it must start with DRY wood.

First, I’ll call it the channel, using two pieces that have been purposely split so they are flat . Their dimensions might be a rough 2”x 8” placed on their edge at the front and back of the fireplace grate. They form a V-shaped channel in the hearth, neatly confining three or four crumpled up balls of newspaper.

On top of the paper place four, maybe five faggots. On top of that place two or three not bulky pieces of firewood. Voila, this evening’s fire now needs but a match.

So what happened to the fire preparer this morning ? Well, I was faked out by the oldest trick in the book. There was no flame, no visible smoke left from last night’s fire. No nothing! So, I went about building tonight’s fire.

But, still obscured in that pile of ash were glowing embers not even visible, ready to wield their insipid treachery. They did.

With the damper closed, and I having left the room, those embers wrought their haughty presence . I returned to a room filled with smoke that no mortal would ever dare to breathe. Opening two doors to allow the smoke to billow away was my reminder that it was a balmy 20 degrees outside.

The day wasn’t off to a good start.

As she does each morning, Judy walked into the living room with the tray of hot coffee. It is a ritual that has surely withstood the test of time in our home ; 40 years worth at least.

We then settle into conversation that normally covers a spectrum of subjects — what we’re doing today, the weather, the headlines, sports scores, doings on the farm, the whole nine yards. We’re never at a loss of subjects over morning coffee. It just percolates, if you’ll pardon the pun.

This morning Judy noted a peculiar story in the news . She gushed a little about it, making no secret as to her proclivity toward the matter.

Apparently, some divorce court Judge somewhere in this great land ( probably California) ruled yesterday that a gentleman was to financially compensate his wife for her years of housework.

Our conversation was thus fomented along lines of what Judy’s appropriate compensation might be for the last 40 years , a subjective deliberation at best. What algorithms did the California judge employ ? Did he happen to notice that he’d opened a colossal can of worms ?

Dating back, did Gloria Steinem ever assign a daily value to house work ? Marlene Dietrich or Betty Friedan ? How about Eleanor Roosevelt or Ruth Bader Ginsberg ? How about it, ladies, what was housework worth in the day ? Peg Bracken, where are you when we need you ?

Without revealing chapter and verse of the values that Judy and I determined, the conclusion was that I owed her $584,000.00 !

Alas ! Judy recognized the reason in my argument : To what avail, piling dollars on top of dollars ? We concluded to call it a draw. It had been another invigorating coffee hour.

Or was it a near miss ? Beware the vicissitudes of coffee conversations.

Judy endeavored to clean out a closet the other day. I don’t normally experience that condition, so I’m pleased that she does. As a youngster, such housework was generally not in my purview.

Keeping a dairy barn in shape for the unannounced visit from the milk inspector…. well, that was another matter, a constant matter. As a kid that’s the house cleaning that I did.

Long story short, and getting back to Jude’s closet cleaning episode, she chanced upon an old envelope filled with letters from me written to her ! They were circa 1980, you know, back in the old courting days .

At that time, I obviously was not in contention as seriously with MS as I am now. How so? Well, the letters were hand-written, neatly I would add. These days, I can barely handwrite and if I do, it’s not a pretty picture. Unnerving neurological impairments have exacted their toll.

But, so what! That’s life. Something else struck me about these notes. Who handwrites them anymore ? What letters, notes, missives etc. are rendered without use of a computer keyboard ? I scanned these dusty old documents and imagined myself a relic .

But here’s the cool part: Reading these old overtures reminded me of how effective the written word is, provided, of course, that they were deftly crafted messages. It seemed as though they were. They must have been. After all, here we are still courting 40 years later.

It’s been an interesting study in contrast. We were in Naples, FL. in late December and returned yesterday, Feb. 14. For this old farmer, that’s a long time away from home.

Let’s see. What did we come home to ? Wait, first what did we leave ?Surely Florida has the climate that keeps on giving, the most consistently beautiful weather of any place I’ve ever been. And, yes, I’ve been around. At our departure the cloudless sky offered brilliant sunshine, 82 degrees and a breeze wafted generously.

Who, of sound mind, would ever leave in the first place ? Is Jersey weather equally compelling ? Well, let’s see.

Turns out it had only snowed two feet, but it had been on the ground long enough to take on that lovely soiled and dirtied look that negates the magic of freshly fallen snow.

Then, of course, the next night’s forecast is for freezing rain. That does no one any favor unless, for insurance purposes, you were seeking to crash your car tonight. Freezing rain almost guarantees that result.

Then there’s the upcoming insidious mix of temperature changes that melt a weenie bit of snow, only to freeze it again tonight. The purpose of this is simple. If you haven’t, as yet, slipped, fallen and broken a bone, tonight’s ice will double your chance. Just keep at it.

Fast forward to the next morning. Preparing to head down to the barn to feed horses, Jude straps on certain footwear known as Yak Tracks. If they don’t sound terribly sexy, that’s because they’re not! They do, however, offer close to the same sure footed ness as possessed by a Yak. (If my reader is uncertain as to the qualities of a Yak, that is understood.) Just be assured that they seldom slip and fall on the ice.

Lo and Behold, Jude drives the Chevy Silverado up from the barn, turns toward the house and gets the truck stuck at the turn. This will ,of course, require firing up one of the tractors, setting up a pull to extract the truck.

All of this evokes an already noted question. What, again, was the reason we came home ?

It occurs to me that it’s been some time that I’ve written in my blog. Surely by this time the huddled masses have missed me . NOT !

It further occurs to me, as a retired publisher and ad guy, how lovely it is not to have any deadlines. Pinch me, if you would ! I came to ponder the other day the fact that, although retired, how writing is still a sweet way to wile away the hours.

While I was wiling I considered just what prompts me to write in the first place. Indeed, it is no longer deadlines. So what is it ? I reached the simple conclusion that writing is entertainment. It is this old man’s answer to video games .

Really! Wouldn’t I rather be writing this than playing COUNTER STRIKE ? Wouldn’t I rather be scribbling away than playing GRAND THEFT AUTO ? Writing is just more me. Dare I say, less violent .

I react to sounds that stir my pen; a flowing brook, ocean waves, coyotes in the night, the distant whinny of a horse or a softly breeze . They all may, at one time or another, subtly suggest to ready the quill. It is held firm in wait, poised to capture the whims of the hour. Nature need only speak.

I noted in my October 3 blog (Traveling Shoes) a recent visit from my cousin, Beau Bailey. Beau, you’ll recall, hangs his hat in Snohomish, Washington. My Mom and his Mom were sisters. Their Dad, my Grandpa, owned a 104 acre spread in Franklin Township, Hunterdon County. Beau and I both spent a sliver of our respective childhoods there at Capoolong Farm.

Whenever Beau and I visit, we invariably compare notes from the old days. His Mom and my Mom were markedly different ladies . My Mom spent a bit of time with the milk cows. Beau’s folks were not dairy farmers. Among other pursuits, they were habitual travelers.

Life was notably different back then. Beau, just yesterday , told me something I hadn’t before known. His Dad worked in the city. His Mom, quite busy with four kids under the age of 8 and a fifth in the oven, packed the kids in the station wagon one day and headed west.

For health reasons, a doctor had recommended a dryer climate for one of Beau’s sisters. The search was on for a new home, as it turned out, in Arizona. Beau’s Dad, my Uncle Ray, remained at home until the crew returned. Somebody had to work.

Travel insurance was provided by Smith & Wesson. That policy was under the seat. The kids were strictly warned not to touch it. That, of course, is the first reason a kid needs to touch it !

The trip was adventurous. After the day’s driving, they’d find a place where a tent could be pitched and a little grub could be warmed by a campfire. One evening, after chowing down, Beau felt his back to the ground for a bit of stargazing. They were at the foot of a shallow cliff. The waning fire was yet able to shed vestiges of light up to the brow of the cliff.

Beau gazed further into the darkness of the night when he realized he was being watched. There was a glint in the eye of a mountain lion perched motionless atop the cliff. The cat was kind enough to remain so until all hands could scurry into the station wagon.

And so it was for years henceforward , the Baileys, vagrants in the vicissitudes of the night. Travelers ever and anon.

Way back when, Johnny Cash sang a tune, “I’ve Been Everywhere”. In his classic ‘ half conversation, half singing’ style, he lapses into a rhythmic litany of towns throughout America that he once graced with his presence.

We’ve been graced with such a traveling man for a couple of days now. My cousin, Beau Bailey, HAS been everywhere! He’s a walking, talking encyclopedia of destinations throughout the U.S.A., which makes him a pure delight to hang around. These aren’t necessarily tourist destinations. After all, he is here at Tuckaway.

Beau is of the camping culture. Don’t bother to offer him a bed. After the evening’s visit and we’re heading for our TempurPedic, Beau heads outside to his vehicle and his styrofoam. When he describes himself as “self-contained,” he means it!

He has visited most of our national parks, many multiple times, and been to a total of 330 attractions and destinations managed by the National Park Service. Not surprisingly then, he is conversant with an abundance of things Americana. Get him on a roll and you’d swear he was a professor of……. well, you name it.

Since I commenced writing this entry, Beau has had breakfast with us, bade us goodbye and headed down the road. To reciprocate, we’d have to knock on his door in Snohomish, Washington someday but that’s not likely to happen soon. Our traveling shoes aren’t as broken-in as Cousin Beau’s are.

We just returned from a quick trip to Alexandria… Bay, that is . We’ve always lived in Alexandria, but it was sweet to experience upstate New York’s version.

Alexandria Bay is fed by the St. Lawrence River, long a shipping channel for an array of commerce. We don’t get enough of our next-door neighbors in Alexandria, so we lodged with them in the Rochelle’s Alexandria Bay cabin. Old Home Week away from home !

Canada is quite visible on the other side of this splendid waterway.

Our trip was not timed for the ritualistic Autumn leaf-looking, but it couldn’t have been planned better if it was. The scenery was spectacular ! How could I not make note of it ?

Every year there seems a grander measure of nature’s generosity . Every year she valiantly attempts to out-do herself and, in my estimation, every year she does ! How could that even be ?!

I resign myself to a simple explanation. Yes, Autumn is gorgeous every year, but one thing has changed each year. Me. I’m older. I like to believe that I do a progressively better job of appreciating what is given.

This is not a dress rehearsal. I heed Nature’s reminder that I am experiencing the real deal ! Time marches on . It would be selfish to expect that it gets any better than this.

9/25/2020- Where did that word come from, anyway ? While you’re contemplating that, I’ll write about where we will skedaddle to tomorrow. It’s about a five hour haul, so good luck to my dear wife, Judy. She does all the driving these days.

We’ll join our neighbors, Phil and Susan Rochelle, to do some fishing near Alexandria Bay on the St. Lawrence river. I’m not sure what we’ll be catching, but be sure of this : It won’t be the one that got away !

You will note, interestingly, how we just can’t get away from Alexandria. If it ain’t broke, why fix it ?

Over on the other side of the river is Ontario, Canada. Ya see, it is a haul. If we should perish during this mission, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of its intent !

It’ll be like old home week, in the meantime. We’ll blast past Saratoga (have certainly hung my hat there a few times). We’ll cross the Tug Hill Plateau (the snowmobiling capital of the universe .) I’ve hung my helmet there now and again.

Then we’ll make our way to the Rochelle’s hut in the woods. There we will live deliberately and eat fish to delirium . Mercy, this is shaping up before we even get there .

Oh, just for the record, the word SKEDADDLE was invented by some newspaper guy in Richmond, Virginia in 1865. The word, he thought, well described the hurried Confederate retreat from what had been their Capitol.

It is always interesting to re-construct last night’s dream. That, of course, suggests that vague remnants of it still survive . They don’t always.

I was recently prompted to recall some details from early grammar school days, many decades more distant than last night’s dream , but the memories flooded back amply. The brain is remarkable, isn’t it ?

Allow me to re-construct : I watched an ad for a video baseball game. Pity the youngster who does that rather than play the real game, but that’s a conversation for another day. The game reminded me of playing baseball in my grade school days at Alexandria Twp. School (now Lester D. Wilson School).

Certainly the ball field was evocative of a different era. The left field fence was on the common boundary between the school property and Norwood Reid’s cow pasture. The fence was typical for livestock, a combination of woven and barbed wire. Quite rusty it was.

It was a continual reminder to the left and center fielders to be cautious when leaping for a deep fly ball about to sail over the fence and into cow pie territory . No, not for fear of stepping in cow shit, but becoming ensnared in barbed wire. An outfielder couldn’t just bounce off of this wall after his scintillating catch !

Third base was a piece of river rock. John Shoudt buggered himself up pretty well one day sliding into third. There was no such thing as base pads at Alexandria school. As I write about this stuff it occurs to me that school was one big liability suit waiting to happen, but folks had no taste for such long ago .

A fly ball hit sharply foul toward toward left field flew over School House Road and into Moldoch’s pasture. Here again was the same cow pie concern. It is a stark reminder of days past when a school kid’s most immediate concern was scrapping the cow shit off his shoes before he went back to class.

‘‘Twas the age of innocence .