He was an apparition of the wee hours and one of the hardest working men that I ever knew in those days. He drove a truck, a tandem dump truck, making deliveries all over our neck of the woods to dairy farms.

Delivering what ? We called them “beer grains”, the residual malted barley left over after a step in the brewing process. Both Wayne and his brother, Stanley, drove their rigs in the middle of the night, relieving the Pabst brewery in Newark of their residual grains.

The grains were wet, saturated , in fact. Straight from the brewery, they were steaming and HEAVY ! They were even pleasantly aromatic.

So, the Capron’s middle-of-night trucking schedule was dictated by the Pabst Blue Ribbon brewing schedule in beautiful Newark, N.J.

I usually had a chance to chat with Wayne just for a moment or two while he dumped his delivery. That was in the 4:30 neighborhood of the morning, still dark, of course. I was just a fourth grader, so the scope of our conversations was limited, but always pleasant.

Then Wayne was off, up the lane and back into the darkness. I remember thinking to myself how he just did this, and did it and did it. That made me think of what I was going to do when I was older. I remember thinking that I didn’t want to do what Wayne did.

We needed a delivery approximately every third week. The tandem load filled our “beer grains pit”, a concrete block box contiguous to the dairy barn. Truth be told, at the end of the three week cycle, the grains at the bottom of the pit were nothing near aromatic. In fact, they stunk . Extra care needed to be taken to assure that rancid portions were not shoveled onto the feed cart.

I was the daily shoveler. My ass was on the line if that happened !

Judy occasionally remarks about my “beer grain wrists”. That, of course, is a testament to the rigors that I endured for untold days of untold years shoveling beer grains.

So, you ask, why beer grains ? Can’t cows just eat hay ? Yes, I suppose, if you weren’t a milk producer. But , the milk scales don’t lie and beer grains make milk like nobody’s business. They were the “go-to” dairy cattle feed.

Sadly, Wayne motored out the lane one day, never to be seen again. He’d been barreling down Rt. 22 that night in foul winter weather. His truck slid and and crashed, killing him instantly.

Wayne got me to thinking again. Life can be brutish and short. It was for him.

We can’t be too careful. Who knows ? Perhaps a little less speed might have made the difference for Wayne. It was not for him to know. Another chapter in the local lore had ended.

It is remarkable how this Corona stuff (not the beer) has altered people’s habits in relative overnight fashion. That is not to say that much of the change hasn’t been dictated by local or federal government and become the norm by statute.

“Social distancing” has become the protocol in a hurry. A month ago, who was talking about self-quarantining ?

Living where Jude and I live is a sort of self-quarantine every day just by going home. But that’s another matter.

Some of the Corona changes can’t be legislated. They are preventative suggestions. There is one in particular that I haven’t been able to get my head around : Don’t touch your face.

Seriously ! In fact, I first heard the suggestion being discussed by President Trump. Avoid touching your face was a response from a TV talking head that the President noted.

Sorry Mr. President. How are you doing with this one ? I know that half the people in the country would find this an opportunity to make some salacious smear. I’m not going there, but I’d love to know if you’ve had any luck not touching your face.

I have not ! I guess I’m too scroungy . Yes, I occasionally have to touch my face to scratch an itch. It’s not anything that I normally need to write about. It’s just the way it is, a conditioned response.

I mean who doesn’t touch their face ?! Corona or not ! Did you wake up this morning hell bent not to touch your face ? That’s just not normal !

Recently I inadvertently dropped a bit of food while dining in my accustomed leather recliner. Unaware at the moment that it happened, there it stayed aside a cushion for some days until I was itched by a plethora of tiny ants .

Suddenly they were crawling all over me ! Reminiscent of some barbaric torture technique, there was NO WAY that I could not touch my face. Corona virus had to be a picnic compared to this !

Thank you, Jude for wreaking havoc with the ants. They’re gone.

Thank you ants for reminding me that there’s worse things than Corona virus… thus far.

A friend in California recently counseled me on the stark reality of global warming. A nuclear physicist, this fellow is educated to an extent vastly beyond me.

I don’t have an adequate grip on the nuts and bolts of his argument, so I’ll spare you any assuredly lame attempt to repeat it. Suffice it to say that it’s pretty dark stuff.

I suppose it would be a perfect plot in a fairytale. The writer in me finds it delicious. The valiant young farm boy at length lays down his garden hoe, the water reaching an unworkable elevation in his garden plot. He is scared.

What should he do ? What could he do ? Was he but a lamb being lead to slaughter ?

Oddly, I was having these moribund thoughts today while bathing in the warm winter sunshine on the Writer’s Perch.

Many a march I can recall of bone–chilling cold, howling wind and the like. Given the picture I’ve just painted, am I, at least, to feel sheepish about enjoying this third day in a row of an unseasonably mild March ?

Does not the old Willie Nelson lyric apply ? “There’s nothing I can do about it now .”

Were you to log on to my IPad you might find yourself concerned with my overall stability. No, I’m not talking about my balance . That’s been pretty well shot for some time.

I’m not talking about my mental acuity either. That’s always been questionable.

I’m just talking about one small adjunct to my generally disheveled being.

I am relegated largely to writing because that’s what I’m still able to do. Writing is fun. I enjoy it. Recently, however, I had to give myself a good talking to.

My writing instrument, an IPad mini, has become so helplessly cluttered with sundry documents, coupled with insufficient attention to proper filing, that I can scarcely find what I’m looking for.

Enter the BIG OFFLOAD ! I’m not ready to pull the trigger yet, but am preparing to download to petetucker.net, my website, an accumulation of 10 short stories and over 50 poems for your reading pleasure. It’ll be a while before all is ready, so as they say in Houston, Stand by in Slow-Mo.

Soon, however, enjoy the read. Pete

Here it is, born of this damned virus that has everybody’s knickers in a twist . A new concept comes into being… social distancing.

I can’t help but say ‘Good luck with that one !’

The idea, of course, is for folks to stay as far from each other as possible. As though the country isn’t already divided .

I hate to beat an old war drum, but you may remember my past description of my old 7th grade teacher, Mrs. Berger. Being cruel kids, we furtively called her Pocahontas. (Meaning no disrespect to a recent presidential candidate of the same name .)

Mrs. Berger wrote the manuscript on social distancing… with a ruler ! School dances had their protocol . Rapturous slow-dancing bodies had to maintain a six inch berth. What chance did a virus have ?

I suppose, living at Tuckaway , that we maintain a sort of built-in social distancing. Is a half mile entry to the property sufficient? I suspect not. After all, Corona has already made a bee line from its source, a distance further than Tucker Lane.

So, here we are living in a culture that wouldn’t seem to stand a chance. Socially, we are huggers and kissers to the nth degree. The distancing protocol just isn’t in our DNA .

In a country of ideas, I hope we come up with a better one.

It was a fair day some twenty years ago. Jude and I were seated outside on the veranda enjoying the surrounds when two gentlemen on horseback ventured up the driveway.

There was nothing different about that circumstance. In the course of a day, it is not unusual to see more passers-by on horseback than in a car. But who were these fellows ? From the distance, at least, we had no idea.

They obviously they we’re practiced riders . Getting closer and upon greeting us, they immediately seemed affable. It was evident that they were wanting to say their ‘Hellos’.

Here in bedrock Hunterdon County, Sal and Tommy Aversa were betrayed by their Staten Island accents, but a single attendant fact tempered that condition: they were on horseback, one great leveling circumstance !

Welcome to the neighborhood ! In fact, they had both recently purchased homes a few miles from our farm. From the get-go we got along fabulously.

From within this context, the Aversa’s eventually suggested to us that we commence a township association of neighbors with a mutual interest: HORSES.

Thus was born the Alexandria Equestrian Association (AEA). We got off the ground with the expected fits and starts that a new organization will endure. Purpose and folk’s expectations were the initial order of the day. Over time, things ironed out.

Last night at our annual “Trail Owner’s Tribute” bash we celebrated 20 years of having fun, with ourselves and with our horses. The event was held at the Quakertown Recreation Club. (Some of us politically incorrect old-timers still call the place The Gun Club .) By the way, it was a hunting lodge long before I was around.

The intent of the bash is to say ‘thank you’ to the landowners who allow us to ride the edges of their real estate. After all, to what avail a trail association without trails ?!

Fate treated the AEA ever-so kindly. It happened that our township was looking to create a community park. An old horse farm was purchased for re-invention into that end. A splendid adjunct to the endeavor was the existence of a 75×200 feet indoor riding arena.

“Yeah”, said the AEA, “we’ll be the stewards of that building !”

For 20 years it has been a sound marriage.

Maintenance is the abiding matter with any such facility, not the least of which is the current need of a new roof. Let’s see. 75 feet by 200 feet. Ca-Ching. Ca-Ching !

After several years of holding varied equine fund-raising events, AEA announced last night their contribution of $50,000 toward the new roof. Not bad for a pack of old gauchos !

Congrats to the esteemed Niles Rostran of Somerville, N.J.

Mine was a trick question yesterday (What famous movie was filmed on this river ?)

Apparently nothing gets by Mr. Rostran ! Indeed, Cahulawassee is a fictitious name, as he noted.

I know not where the name is from, perhaps the conception of a producer of the movie I was thinking about, DELIVERANCE.

Anyway, that movie was filmed on the Chattanooga River.

( Same message as yesterday: Don’t mess with that river !)

No, it’s not the Missouri. Surely not the mighty Mississippi or the Columbia , not even the not- so- subtle Cahulawassee .

Plain and simple, it’s the Delaware. The unassuming, humble Delaware. You know, as deeply rooted in American history as any of them.

Don’t tell. It is beguiling . It doesn’t often look it, but the Delaware will snuff you out as soon as look at you. It’s not a kind river. It plucks a careless victim or two seemingly every year. Some not as careless as foolish.

Often I have stood on the bridge in Milford or in Frenchtown

If but one reader here is dissuaded from an ill-considered challenge to swim that river, then the simple writing of this missive will have been the least that I could do.

Read that river when you have the chance. Notice an occasional whirlpool ? An eddy or two ? Can you swim through them ? Maybe. Maybe not ! One of them might grab you 10 feet under water! There’s a great chance that it’s stronger than you are . Why tempt fate ?

I am prompted to write this by a conversation I just had with a good friend of mine. He told me of his decision not long ago to swim across the Delaware with a buddy of his. He lived to tell about it…. BARELY.

Do me a favor. NO, do yourself a favor. Learn the word that best describes the Delaware.

INSIDIOUS : 1- intended to entrap or beguile

2- stealthily treacherous or deceitful

That word so describes the Delaware ! Nuff said ?

Oh. For extra credit… while you’re thinking about rivers… at the top of this writing, I mentioned another river that you’d never want to mess with: The Cahulawassee . What movie was filmed on that river ?

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June 14, 1940 , Paris, France

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It had been a month since the Nazi war machine (Wehrmacht) had stormed into France. On this date, Paris succumbed to Hitler’s invading forces.

Life quickly changed for Evelyne LeSeurd , a vivacious young lass? Paris sidewalks were suddenly strewn with lifeless bodies, unsettling circumstance for a young lady, to say the least.

During World War 1, Evelyne’s mother had had a romantic interlude with a dashing American naval officer, Alfred Schanze. Evelyne had been born of that dalliance. Despite her half American heritage, she was a tried and true Parisian, her paternal Father having long since returned to America.

Life in Paris was abruptly transformed to a sullen matter of simply surviving, laying low and avoiding occupying Nazi soldiers as best possible. It was out of style for Evelyne to carry a loaded pistol under her overcoat, but the lady did what she had to do .

The war lingered. A full four years passed before combined elements of the French 2nd Armored Division and the American 4th Infantry Division encircled the city . On August 25, 1944 the Nazis surrendered their grip on Paris. After a five day battle, Paris was liberated.

Evelyne ultimately moved to America.

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July 7th, 1968 Pittstown, New Jersey, USA

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Mom and Dad were hard at work in the garden at Tuckaway.

A bit distant, they noted an unfamiliar car slowly motoring down the lane.

The car stopped in front of the fence near the house. A couple emerged hesitantly. Seeing Mom and Dad in the garden, they ambled in that direction.

Now within comfortable distance, they introduced themselves. Dressed quite properly, the lady of the couple had a pronounced French accent.

“Are you, by chance, Janet Schanze”, she inquired of Mom.

A bit taken aback, Mom explained that she had been Janet Schanze, some years ago.

“Very well then”, the lady enthused. “My name is Evelyne Powers. I am your sister from Paris. I can explain if you have a moment.

Actually half sister, but neither cared about that. Garden hoes were set aside. Mom had only vague understanding of this reality, but today she was quite taken by surprise. All four retired to the back porch for some iced tea. There was more than a little family history to discuss, not the least of which was Alfred Schanze’s adventures in France !

My dear Aunt Evelyne, over the years, counseled me on more than one occasion to never let my kids and grandkids forget what the Americans had done for Paris during those fateful years.

I’m sure that I would have received the same counsel from my Grandpa Schanze had he not died in 1950, three years before I was born.

Not long ago I was bequeathed a manuscript for a book that he typed while sailing on the Corsair during World War 1. Digitizing OUR NAVY IN FRANCE was as close as I ever got to him, but wouldn’t it have been nice to hear his own words about being a gunnery officer when the U.S. Navy was a smidgen of what it is today ?

We’re not always in the right place at the right time. That’s just part of life.

Being in that right place is sometimes a matter of paying attention to what’s going on around you… then taking action if the goings-on are applicable to your business.

By God’s good grace, my career unfolded in the right place at the right time. Already in the newspaper business in Hunterdon County, N.J. , a phenomenon was developing. Brother Dave, my business partner, and I had an office in Flemington.

Since 1908 there was The Flemington Cut Glass company. For years shoppers flocked there for affordable glassware. Demonstrations of in-store glass cutting were part of the shopping experience. Shoppers were entertained.

At another spot in town was located a pottery store and manufacturing facility operated for many years by the Stangl family. It was eventually sold to the Pfaltzgraff Company, pottery and cookware manufacturers themselves. That, too, was entertaining.

Then there was the Vandermark Merritt Glass Studio that elevated the glass-blowing art to a sophisticated level. More entertainment while shopping.

A shopping niche had developed In Flemington. Eventually bus loads of shoppers were the daily standard in town. This wasn’t just an also-ran shopping mall. Flemington was a destiny to an otherwise sleepy country town. Untold ladies auxiliaries and the like descended upon Flemington. It became a shopping mecca.

Then a new phenomenon was engendered in retailing. Manufacturers in America warmed to the concept of operating their own retail stores. Initially the idea was to provide a means to sell their overruns or “irregulars”, slightly blemished goods that were an adjunct to their manufacturing process. Heavily discounted, of course.

They called these stores Factory Outlets. They served their purpose. Manufacturers sought locations for these stores that would not compete in the same locations as big retailers who were already carrying their goods. The conflict here was obvious.

In the meantime, there were a lot of shoppers coming to Flemington who didn’t have a clue where anything was or a map to get them there. The need stared a local publisher right in the face. Put a hand-out publication with a map and ads into shopper’s hands right when they arrive. Simple point of purchase advertising.

Distribution costs were minimal. Shoppers just picked up a copy from our racks located in common areas around town. Content in the publication was simple , a map (2 pages) and nothing but ads, full page or half page. We published monthly.

In its heyday, SHOPPING in FLEMINGTON was , depending on time of year, between 52 and 76 pages per issue. Yes, the margins were fat, but that was just the start. For example, the outlet store that was thriving in Flemington, with our help, also had a store in Reading, PA. and multiple other locations where these stores were starting to congregate.

Holy Smokes, we realized, America is a big territory. What sense did it make to limit our gig to Flemington!?

It was sweet while it lasted. The outlet industry waned, a victim of its own success. To hell with overruns ! There wasn’t enough of them to feed their thriving outlet stores, anyway. More importantly to the manufacturers, a whole new profit niche had been born of their outlet stores.

Discounts be damned ! Regular goods in the outlet stores became the standard.

Long story short, as retirement rolled around, we sold the newspaper. We then sold all 10 outlet publications that served a scattering of locations from Maine to Florida.

Today ? Well, I’ve sorta lost touch with things, but look at Flemington’s main outlet center, Liberty Village. It’s practically a ghost town, over 60% empty. Having been sold to a distressed property developer ( talk about a discount !) , the question now is what the hell can be done with this white elephant ?

I was done 17 years ago. Finished. I never worked another day, except on the farm. In short order, Judy couldn’t stand continuing to work while I was at home. She retired, too.

Yes, my career had been in the right place at the right time. One other detail, though. The market had indicated when it was time to get in and when it was time to get out. What was the key ? PAYING ATTENTION !

This didn’t start out as a “happily ever after” story but, damn, if it didn’t turn out that way !