“I have seen the splintered timbers of a hundred shattered hulls,

Known the silence of the granite and the screeching of the gulls.

I’ve heard the crazy widow Cather walk the harbor as she raves

At the endless rolling whisper of the waves.”

– from the song DogTown

by Harry Chapin

What powerful writing !

If I listened to that song once there in Wessels Hall, my dorm at Rutgers, then I listened to it a hundred times. Nay, two hundred.

My roommates were equally as spellbound by Chapin’s compelling lyrics. Now when we gather, some 49 years later (gulp), we still sing DogTown lyrics.

” I’m standing on this craggy cliff, my eyes fixed on the sea.

Six months past when his ship was due. I am a widow to be.”

The words of a song are an admittedly odd motivation to pack up the bag and take a road trip. Apparently we had listened to the tune just enough times to venture a journey up there.

Just where is there? Again, Chapin’s lyrics best explain:

“Up in Massachusetts There’s a little spit of land. The men who make the maps, yes, they call the place Cape Ann.

The men who do the fishing call it Gloucester Harbor Sound, but the women who stay home waiting , they call the place DogTown.

So, not knowing exactly what to expect, up we drove to the nearly northeastern most tip of Massachusetts. A bit of philosophy must be engendered in one’s soul to thus travel. It’s simple. Even if the place is a complete bust, it’s still a part of America never seen before.

Unless it is destitute, boondoggle and bereft, maybe a good time is to be had. Maybe America’s beauty will shine through.

Our eyes were wide open as we pulled into DogTown, more respectfully, Cape Ann.

What a gem ! What an understated piece of Americana , rapt by a whaling history that, surely, is told by the endless rolling whisper of the waves. Indeed, what a tribute to the waiting women who soon learned of more than one way to drown.

More than one monument about town commemorates the men and women of a storied whaling village, a trip so worth it. We were beyond entertained; not the first time we’d taken a trip inspired by song.

Are there other journeys out there streaming from the lyrical realm ? Perhaps, if we can maintain our quizzical approach to road trips. There’s always Lukenbach, Texas. Maybe Tallahatchie, Mississippi.

Oh, Boy ! Both will take some convincing to get Judy on board!

I don’t exactly languish on Facebook. I’m noticing more and more days when I haven’t even been on.

People’s bio information, however, is interesting…. where they work, where they went to school, etc . Observing where folks now live, as opposed to where they’re from is a fun study. People sure do move from place to place.

That mold is broken with me. My bio reads: FROM PITTSTOWN. LIVES IN PITTSTOWN. I’d love a button on Facebook that calculates the percentage of enrollees who bloomed where they were planted. Not many, I’ll bet.

It is a credential that has a grounding effect. One is “settled in”, couldn’t it be said?

Some would suggest that never getting off the farm is borderline hillbilly. If that’s the case, then please hand me my corncob pipe. I’ll stay in these hills.

It happens perhaps once a winter, maybe twice. Every twig on every tree is luminously coated with ice, producing a brilliant, exquisite sheen in the morning sunshine. The countryside is masterfully staged.

Storms of freezing rain are nature’s magical method of trimming her trees. It’s simple. The weight of the ice snaps off the twig; sometimes a whole branch. Trees are thus pared.

Unfortunately Jude’s windshield was walloped by one yesterday that caused a thousand cracks in the glass. God realized that he’d gotten a little exuberant with his ICECAPADES . He thus created auto insurance!

“There is always some great leveling circumstance”, wrote Emerson.

He is seen in a wheelchair, then he isn’t. He is seen using a walker, but not all the time.

Such inconsistency! Which is it ?

Recognizing my discrepancies, I ask myself if folks don’t sometimes wonder. Is this guy faking it, or what ? Maybe I have some “splainin'” to do.

Well, let me tell you what you’re looking at.

I know. I know. I don’t have to explain anything if I don’t want to, but I want to ! I must look like I’m sending mixed messages. You’re either in a wheelchair or you’re not, right ?

What you are looking at is someone who is , ever so slowly, losing his grip on the everyday things that he used to do — everyday. I can walk, but barely. I can keep my balance, but barely. I can work – this really hurts – but barely.

Shame on me. How I took my everyday capabilities for granted. I miss them, now that they are seriously waning.

It is a life lesson, this fickle disease. Be thankful everyday. The everyday may not always be there.

It is a line that little Jude heard from her Mom frequently. Apparently it was Mom’s default reply whenever one of her six kids was complaining about whatever.

Indeed, it was not a perfect world. Surely an annoyed little kid could devise some rebuttal or another to that reasoning, but really. What was a sound reply ?

Little kid. Big kid. It didn’t matter. Any youngster already had it figured out. That was the whole reason for complaining. No, it wasn’t a perfect world!

Judy’s Mom spliced a few other interjections to the fray.

“Get over it.”

“Life isn’t fair. Never was.”

Whichever the expression, one gets the idea that Mom was a no nonsense lady. She had to be. She had six complaining kids. The need to manage expectations was very real.

That was then. This is now. Yes, a few things have changed. For starters, not a lot of parents are having six kids anymore.

Some factors remain quite the same. First, kids still complain. There’s still a need to manage kids’ expectations.

And, of course, it’s still not a perfect world.

Indeed, it’s on the map

If you’re so lucky as to see

This tiniest of settlements

In middle Tennessee.

Folks try to go there.

Attempts often render ruffle.

They are never really sure, you see

That they’re really in Bugscuffle.

But, it is on the map.

Yes, you do have to squint.

Does it really read Bugscuffle?

Or is it just a piece of lint ?

How do I know about this place ?

I’m from New Jersey, you see.

I had a little farm here once

In middle Tennessee.

Where was that, you ask ?

You’re allowed a polite chuckle !

Near a tiny little whistle stop,

By the name of Bell Buckle.

This, of course, begs the question

When dining at the cafe

How to get to Bugscuffle?

Who here knows the way ?

It remains a burning question,

If you’re nestled here in town.

Find the road to Bugscuffle,

If you can with out a frown.

Some say they’ve been there,

But never seem that sure.

They can only tell you this much:

The place is well beyond obscure.

And just what happened in Bugscuffle,

That it is called such a name ?

An entomological ruffle

Of legendary fame ?

Pete Tucker

– Pittstown, NJ

My Grandfather, Father and Brother were all sailors at one stage or another in their lives. For yesterday’s Army/Navy game then, you will understand why I nurtured a Navy bent.

My wife’s family has similar predispositions to the Army side, so my reader will understand the annual ribbing that takes place in our household.

The 31 to 7 shellacking that the midshipmen put on Army was sweet viewing for me, especially after the game had gone the other way for the prior three years.

Yesterday’s game, however, beset me with thoughts never before arisen by the classic rivalry. I could actually recall the game in 1960 when Navy’s Joe Bellino ran roughshod over Army.

GEEZ ! That was sixty years ago. How do I remember it ? I wouldn’t expect you to have a clue here.

I was naught but a chap-lipped youngster, caring for livestock out in the fields. You know, heifers, chickens, pigs and the like. The bovines, at least, we’re all given names so Dad, brothers and I always knew which critter was being talked about.

On that day in 1960, we endeavored to name a young bull calf there on the farm. Given what had just happened in the world of sports, why not name the bull Bellino ? We did. We just pronounced it Bullino , not Bellino.

Same difference !

Well if you don’t learn something every day.

Mom used the word frequently, but given her grandparent’s prevalent Scottish bent, I always assumed that it was one of the many Scottish words that accompanied her from childhood.

That assumption was all the more plausible in that I’d never heard anyone else use it, other than Mom. From years of context clues, I simply assumed that the word “dingus” was an esoteric term referring to some little mechanical contraption, the use for which is all but lost to time.

Then I wised up. In a moment of unexpected vigor, I pounced into action, seized a dictionary and looked up the word dingus.

Lo and behold, there it was ! DINGUS, a gadget, device or object whose name is unknown or forgotten.

Well, I’ll be dinged !

Apparently, there it had been, all of this time, since Funk & Wagnall endeavored to define the funky little word in the first place!

Oh, wait a minute. You, my dear reader, have known all the while what a dingus is, haven’t you ? And to think that you sat there this whole time and allowed me to dwell in ignorant bliss.

Don’t ever think that I’ll fall for that again!

It wore a villainous look as a streak of light caught its face. Once in awhile a tree-camera finds one of these creatures, each more wolf-like than before. Be that as it may, the coyote’s countenance winds up on Facebook.

“It’s so cute”, go the comments from a browser who obviously doesn’t have a clue that this beast would dearly love to rip her to shreds.

Where was the photo taken ? Oh, less than a mile from my house, but they do a lot of wandering. Who knows where their constant troll for the next kill will take them, but I’d surely prefer that its ghastly howl not awake me in the middle of the night.

They compromise a curious phenom, these canines of the wild. Years ago they weren’t even close to here. Was Ontario not big enough that they had to make their way to Jersey ? Somehow that doesn’t compute.

It doesn’t seem to matter where they are, though. Night gets darker than black. Black gets darker than night . The coyotes let loose. Their dreadful decree defines the night, a harrowing howl that rends a restless repose.

We didn’t used to see coyotes. We didn’t see bears. Just how is it, in 2020, that the countryside has gotten wilder?

It’s 10:50 A.M., Dec. 7.

The seventh shotgun blast of the morning just emanated from the woods. The deerslayers are about on schedule. It is, after all, the first day of “Shotgun”, that hallowed annual rite when local hunters take to the woods looking to drop that ten-pointer they’ve been watching for a while now.

Alas, it is the first day of “shotgun season ” for deer. Truth be told, few of them survive to ten point maturity. When one does, the ooing and ahing is audible betwixt the deerslayers.

Where does that expression come from anyway? Originally, I haven’t a clue. I first heard it from my high school algebra teacher, Maggie Carpenter. She called the hunters, deerslayers.

This was in the day when the sun rose and set solely for the first day of deer season. Absence on the part of a student hunting deer on the first day was excused.

Meanwhile, Maggie seemed a bit forlorn for the deer. Her term “deerslayers” intoned a perceptibly derisive edge, but, to her credit, she never voiced opinion. She was well aware that she taught in a school nestled in a corn field. A contrary outlook toward deer season was “non grata”.

How about me, you ask. For two very different reasons, I never hunted deer.

First, Dad was never particularly interested, so certainly it wasn’t a tradition that was handed down. We were expected to be in the dairy barn, anyway . Period. Our freezer was well stocked, with beef, not venison.

In later days, (reason #2) as a custom abattoir, we processed deer for the locals to the point of delirium. It got to the point that I didn’t care if I ever skinned another deer, EVER. Why would I would I go to the woods and get another?!

So, for all of my neighbors who wish to hunt deer, have at it. I understand. I’ll have that buck dressed faster than your knife is out of its sheath… if I was so inclined. But, I’m not.

I also understand Mrs. Carpenter’s point of view.

Ah, to sit in a tree, freezing cold, pitch dark, 5AM, snowing . Does it get any better than that ?

I’d rather be in algebra class !