Archive » January 2025 » Columns

— Photo from Mike McCagg of BOCES

Alyssa Lawyer, Mrs. K’s granddaughter, is studying culinary arts at BOCES so that she can eventually run the family business in Middleburgh. “I plan to go to work for my grandmother’s restaurant — Mrs. K’s Kitchen — on Main Street. One day, I hope to take it over,” she said. The Old Men of the Mountain had breakfast at Mrs. K’s on Jan. 21 as part of their regular rotation.

MIDDLEBURGH — “How far below zero was the temperature at your house?” This was the prevailing question that opened most of the conversations around the tables at Mrs. K's Kitchen on this very cold Tuesday morning, Jan. 21.

Of course there was one OF who insisted that this wasn’t cold. The rest of his sentence started with, “I remember when, back in ’35, when it was minus 10 degrees for a month!” And the tall tales began again around the tables. The OMOTM are really good at this form of entertainment.

It also led to some age-old questions, such as, “Why is it that my snowblower starts with one pull when there is no snow on the driveway, and then my arm will fall off before it starts up on a cold snowy morning?”

Another question about the relative merits of using dry gas in a snowblower resulted in a rather complicated bunch of answers until some OFs mentioned that you should also have regular gas in combination with the dry gas. That led to a discussion of what ratio of dry gas to regular gas, etc., etc.

Here in the mountains and Hilltowns outside of the valley, the OMOTM enjoy the popular driving pastime of trying to avoid hitting things, like deer. One OF told the story of how this past week, while driving down in the flatlands, in the suburb of Guilderland, heading west just past the only stoplight and gas station, he managed to lose the game in a rather spectacular fashion.

He hit not one, but two deer at the same time! A buck and a doe.

The buck bounced off his fender and landed on its back in the middle of his hood, slid off onto the ground, got up, looked around for the doe. She had also bounced off the fender but did not fly upside down to land somewhere on his car; instead, she just had the wind knocked out of her.

She fell down, got her breath back, and continued running off between two houses. The buck saw her and was last seen chasing after her. Our OF was now shaking his head as he examined his beat up fender and dented hood.

He was heard to mutter, “I wasn’t expecting that to happen in a residential neighborhood.” (Having grown up in Delmar and Slingerlands, I could have told him a few stories, especially if some of your neighbors had an apple tree!)

Getting back to the conversations about cold weather, a few sorta related topics ensued. Thermostats and heating systems was one of these topics. When I moved into my house, I was impressed by the heating system that the previous owners had installed.

The house came with a high efficiency (plus 95 percent) liquefied petroleum gas boiler using both hot-water baseboard and radiant heating systems. I have heating zones, which I really like.

I can keep the two small guest bedrooms very cool in the winter, and my bedroom is also cool. In the loft where my computer is located, I keep it nice and warm as well as the main rooms downstairs. Programmable thermostats control these zones.

It is not a big house, just a bunch of smaller rooms that are the result of adding this or that over the years from when the house started out its life as a small two-bedroom camp on Warner’s Lake in 1952.

I have these wiz-bang thermostats that I have no idea how to program, so I am constantly adjusting them trying to save money. Looking at my latest heating bill, my efforts are not working. Not even close. With all this great equipment, my heating bills should make me the envy of the neighborhood. Nope.

Most of the rest of my OMOTM friends are in the same place as me. I think most of them have older thermostats and just leave them alone. Good idea, I’ll get there shortly, just as soon as I forget that I used to be smart about these things. At the rate I’m going, that should be sometime next week.

 

Silver King

A few months ago I wrote a column that involved an old farm tractor that had three wheels and was called a Silver King. One of the OMOTM, Joe Rack, gave me a very nice detailed metal image of the Silver King about two inches long by one and a half inches high.

It is like something you might put on the refrigerator door except it is not a magnet. It looks like it may have been made to hold the keys to the tractor. (I don't even know if they used keys in those days. I’ll ask.)

Anyway, I have it. Now I am wondering if Joe was just showing me what the three-wheeled Silver King looked like, or if he meant for me to keep it.

I can just imagine how he might have felt when I walked away with it. Probably thinking or muttering out loud, “How the hell did that happen? I was just showing him what that tractor he wrote about looked like, and he kept it!’”

Joe, I promise, I'll be at the Your Way Cafe next week and give it back to you if I did make a huge mistake.

Those OMOTM who didn't make a mistake about getting together at Mrs. K’s Kitchen were: Wally Guest, Harold Guest, Ed Goff, Hon. Albert E. Raymond, Jamey Darrah, Michael Kruzinski, Roland Tozer, Frank A. Fuss, Mark Traver, Joe Rack, Glenn Patterson, Wm Lichliter, George Washburn, John Jaz, Gerry Cross, Jack Norray, Herb Bahrmann, Dick Dexter, Lou Schenck, John Williams, Russ Pokorny, Warren Willsey, Jim Gardner, Bob Donnelly, Elwood Vandererbilt, Dave Hodgetts, John Dab, Paul Guiton, and me.

I didn’t vote for Donald Trump because my stance on abortion is radically inconsistent with the national Republican Party platform. Yet having spent several months in the crosshairs of relentless online defamation by the dogmatic acolytes of a liberal ideology with which I’ve been imbued since infancy, I’m uniquely postured to demystify last week’s inauguration for all those shellshocked and bewildered progressives.

But before we answer why Donald Trump was restored to the Presidency, we need to answer how.  Like, literally how, by the numbers. Because the magnitude of his electoral triumph compels sober examination, and the objective of my concededly stale analysis is to ensure we’re all on the same page.

A Diverse, Equitable, and Inclusive Coalition

I won’t overstate it; as a share of the popular vote, Trump’s margin of victory was the smallest of any presidential election in the last quarter century. But I won’t overstate that, either, because Trump pretty much won everything everywhere, surprising no one except those who still place their trust in incessantly discredited pollsters.

Because he positioned himself squarely in the breach against a perceived onslaught of liberal orthodoxy, it’s fruitless to dissect whether people voted for Donald Trump or against Kamala Harris.  The point is that the repudiation of the American left occurred on both sides of the political divide.

For example, in New York City, Trump won 30 percent of all votes cast — a higher vote share than that of any other Republican presidential candidate since 1988 — but more notable was the fact that Democrats lost half-a-million votes as compared with their performance just four years earlier. In broader New York state, the Democrats’ margin of victory was just 12 percent, i.e., the smallest margin in 36 years, while Trump’s share of the vote increased in every. single. New York. county.

Statewide exit polling revealed that Trump made gains among people with college degrees and without them, among Jews and Christians, among white and Black voters, among men and women, among the young and old. That’s right, folks: Donald Trump received a larger share of the “under 30” vote than any Republican since Reagan ’84. Gen Z might not show up for work, but it certainly showed up for Trump.

Moreover, the turning electoral tide wasn’t confined to New York; all 50 states and nearly 90 percent of U.S. counties “shifted red.” Trump won all seven swing states and performed better in the popular vote than in both 2020 and 2016 (he’s also the first Republican to win it outright in 20 years). But a more crucial factoid is that Kamala Harris — despite her campaign’s monumental cash advantage — received nearly seven million fewer votes than had Joseph Biden just four years earlier, which is a figure nearly equal to the population of New York City or that of the six least populated states combined.  

My point is that there are a lot of disaffected Democrats out there, and you can’t blame the outcome of this past election solely on the melanin deficient. According to reporter Nate Cohn, “almost every traditional Democratic constituency swung to the right. In fact, Mr. Trump has made larger gains among Black, Hispanic, Asian American and young voters in his three campaigns since 2016 than he has among white voters without a college degree …. In each case, Mr. Trump fared better than any Republican in decades.”

A third of all persons of color voted for Trump (accounting for his largest gains in the electorate) and he recorded historic levels of turnout from the Amish. The Amish, bro. By any metric, that constitutes “unifying.”

I mean, for god’s sake the dude won 45 percent of the Hispanic vote — more than any other Republican presidential candidate ever. A million factors might account for this, but here’s one of them:  Trump says [trigger warning] “Latino” instead of the academic fundamentalist’s preferred “Latinx,” which most Latinos see as a form of neocolonial linguistic imperialism by which “non-Hispanic progressives control what Latin people call themselves — in other words, a ‘white people thing’.”  

This gets us to the “why.”

No, Stupid, It Wasn’t Just the Economy

In a mea culpa that violently writhed and thrashed to explain why his electoral prediction was wrong, veteran Cajun political strategist James Carville for the 60th time trotted out his notorious prescriptive political adage. The octogenarian was joined by the left-wing’s younger but no less energetic keyboard commentariat in rushing to absolve itself of any fault.

Claiming the election had been nothing more than a referendum on the economy — an economy the Economic Policy Institute depicts as “historically strong” across nearly all indicators — these apologists insisted that the country’s turn away from the Democratic incumbents was not, as Francis Fukuyama claimed, “a decisive rejection by American voters of liberalism,” nor was it a rejection of the progressive stance on so many hot button social issues.

Except that it was. Just last week, a New York Times poll revealed that “[m]any Americans who otherwise dislike President-elect Donald J. Trump … support some of his most contentious [policies].”  For example, “55 percent of Americans either strongly or somewhat support” mass deportations of undocumented immigrants, while 71 percent of Americans want to prohibit doctors from prescribing puberty-blockers to minors.

Relatedly, 60 percent of respondents to a recent Washington Post-KFF poll said that transgender women should not be allowed to compete in female sports, while the Times reported that lifelong Democrats were crossing party lines for the first time in opposition to the Biden Administration’s immigration policies.

This was brought into even starker relief by New York Democratic Congresswoman Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez who was befuddled by data showing that many of her electoral supporters had also voted for Trump. She took to social media to genuinely study these split-ticket voters. Their reported reasons had little to do with the economy. (“Trump lets men have a voice. You’re brilliant and have amazing passion!”)

Now, I’m not suggesting that the 2024 election had nothing to do with the economy; Americans on the scary side of the socioeconomic spectrum were harrowingly battered by the worst inflation our country has seen in 40 years (a partial though direct result of the Biden Administration’s COVID relief measures via the 2021 American Rescue Plan). Yet the numbers don’t lie: Throughout his four years, President Biden presided over historic levels of job growth, market gains, GDP growth, and expansion of domestic manufacturing capabilities.

So how to explain the contradiction? 

In his post-election appearance on Late Night with Seth Meyers (Nov. 20, 2024), Brian Williams furthered an answer:      

“It is tough love time for the Democratic Party. I think it needs to be stripped down and rebuilt ….  That means a change in leadership. I want to know who thought it was a good idea that Joe Biden stand for another four years at 80 years of age and 37 percent popularity …. I think it’s insulting [to] members of the working class — which the Democratic Party has lost entirely in our lifetimes — to insist the economy’s doing great …. telling them that the Nasdaq is gangbusters is further insulting. The biggest unforced error of the Biden Administration, by far, was the border. To tell people it’s not a problem is insulting. For the working class to see incoming migrants getting ‘welcome bags,’ debit cards, and motel rooms is insulting as well …. [The Democratic] Party has gone ‘quinoa,’ and the rest of America is eating at 'Cracker Barrel'.”

Yep.

America’s right-wing is weighed down by its own unconscionable sins and extravagances, for sure, but those of the political left are more relevant fodder for discussion now, since it’s the left that drove card-carrying liberals into MAGA’s ranks.

More on that momentarily, but I can’t resist piling on as to one particular point: Until it became manifestly, publicly, irrefutably clear that the emperor had no clothes, it was deemed blasphemous to question whether a demented 82-year-old was the best choice to be the party’s standard bearer.  

That gaslighting by our former president’s handlers is appalling; had President Biden grace vice creeping dementia, he might’ve adhered to his pledge to serve only a single term, thereby passing the torch to a more capable candidate.  

So with that in mind, I’d now like to say to America’s Boomers what, coincidentally, I’d wanted to say to them back when I was a moody adolescent: Shut up. Whatever sage and transferable political wisdom you Boomers yet need to dispense is already articulated in a book that ChatGPT can summarize for me. There has been a Bush, a Clinton, a Biden, or a Trump on every Presidential ballot since 1980. Go away.    

An Aged for the Ages

In 2017, at age 70, Donald Trump was the oldest president ever to be sworn into office. In 2021, Joe Biden clinched that title, before now 78-year-old Trump took it back on what also happened to be Martin Luther King Jr. Day — because of course this would be the first time in 28 years that inauguration falls on MLK Day. And being twice sworn in as America’s oldest president is just one of the peculiarities by which Trump is ensuring his status as Trivial Pursuit’s most cited Commander-in-Chief.  

He’s the only president (indeed, the only federal official) to have been impeached twice, and the only president to have then been twice acquitted by the Senate. His second impeachment trial was the first impeachment trial of a former president. He’s the only president to have been criminally indicted, criminally tried, and criminally convicted. He’s now the only felon to ever serve as president.

He’s only the second president to serve nonconsecutive terms. He’s now twice entered office with both chambers of Congress controlled by his own party. He created a sixth branch of the military (Space Force), he appointed three justices to the Supreme Court, he adulterously slept with a porn star, and he was shot by an assassin. None of that even touches on his policies, prerogatives, pronouncements, and pardons — or any number of the unprecedented precedents that’ve blitzkrieged their way out of the Oval Office over the last 10 days.  (Has it only been 10 f***ing days?!)  

From guest on the Howard Stern Show to human embodiment of the Constitution’s Article II, Donald Trump has been a zeitgeist fixture for 50 years, and he’s now perched at the helm of a slavishly devoted social movement which will absolutely adorn his name on more than just towers, casinos, and golf courses. Bridges, tunnels, airports, vessels — emotionally steel yourself for the world that Trump hath wrought, because “Trump” has transmogrified from person to symbol, and hundreds of millions cling to that Trump mythology as a bulwark against liberalism’s excesses.

Yet although his team has already set about antagonizing the new elements of his broader constituency (like, for example, by installing a big “GO HOME” button on the now inaccessible Spanish language version of the White House website, which has since been conspicuously changed to read “GO TO HOME PAGE”), liberals should prepare for more of the entrenching, transformative sociopolitical achievements that would’ve been scrapped on Aaron Sorkin’s cutting room floor not that long ago.

For example, in 2016, President Trump’s campaign manager became the first woman to successfully run a presidential campaign; in 2024, he appointed the first woman ever to serve as White House chief of staff. In 2020, President Trump became the first president to name an openly gay person to a Cabinet-level position; in 2024, he became the first president to nominate an openly gay person to lead the Treasury Department. (If confirmed, Scott Bessent will become only the second member of the LGBTQ community to ever serve as a cabinet secretary.)

This is why anti-Trump hysteria risks falling on deaf ears. In the words of one young LGBTQ influencer: “The incessant fearmongering from the left is the reason why people are leaving the left in droves. No one takes you seriously anymore.”

Rebel without a Party

To be a progressive liberal is to be like infinity you can grasp it conceptually but you’ll never actually reach it. That’s by design, as a changing world forever demands adaptation; the chief tension in politics is always just a matter of how fast and in what direction change occurs.   

Yet the leftists currently hellbent on reducing themselves to self-parody are no less Jacobin than were their spiritual progenitors, though assassination today occurs “by character” “on Reddit” as opposed to “mortally” “by guillotine.” Portlandia once poked fun at liberal excesses; now it feels more like a documentary.  

This is why my peer group’s once solidly liberal blocs now concede in whispers that they feel abandoned by their party, cast aside by onetime compatriots, and adrift in this new political landscape.  When I’ve reported such shifting allegiances to the lingering True Believers, readers will be unsurprised to hear that these grumblings are met with dismissive hostility.  

“I could care less what a bunch of white men in Albany think,” said the person with whom I was texting on Inauguration Day, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she hails from a demographic that has never once budged on Donald Trump, to wit, white women, 53 percent of whom voted for him in 2024, which is roughly equal to their share in 2020 and 2016.  

(I could’ve noted that the particular gripe we were discussing had been vocalized by a proud Bronx-based Boricua, but it seemed best to let that one slide.) 

Yet this anecdote accentuates columnist Maureen Dowd’s observation about a “revealing chart” in the Financial Times showing that “white progressives hold views far to the left of the minorities they champion.” White progressives claimed that "racism is built into our society" at rates higher than their Black and Hispanic counterparts, while "many more Black and Hispanic Americans surveyed, compared with white progressives, responded that ‘America is the greatest country in the world.’”

So let this sink in, folks: It wasn’t Bush, McCain, or Romney who forged a multiracial Republican constituency atop the pillars of the working class. No, it was the racist billionaire anti-Semite with three Jewish grandchildren for whom the moniker “Hitler” just didn’t seem to stick.

The narrative needs to change.  

It wasn’t that long ago that my head was bit off for questioning a student loan forgiveness program that incentivizes academic institutions to saddle students with unsustainable debt while imposing no price controls on tuition, but which then doesn’t make similar financial investments in young people who elect not to go to college. Evidently that was sacrilege to even voice aloud.

And I know readers of this column have been just as aggressively derided for opining on the tyranny of the human resources department, the weaponization of hashtags, the thought-policing of our speech, the abject failure of New York’s bail reform, the futile pandering of indigenous land acknowledgments, the lunacy of prohibitions against plastic bags in grocery stores where everything you’re buying is already wrapped in plastic, and on any number of well-intentioned programs, initiatives, vernacular about which the liberal dogmatists are emotionally unwilling to engage.

Progressives have perfected that dark art of condescension. What happens when mere skepticism or disagreement is met with allegations of misogyny, racism, or ignorance? The country learned the answer to that question last Nov. 5. 

Likewise, perhaps you’ve heard of “the Sheriff of Lark Street,” an avenging and incendiary alter ego constructed atop bombast to focus attention on the incidences of vandalism, illicit drug use, aggressive panhandling, and gun violence along our capital city’s most crucial commercial corridor.

One unanticipated consequence of those stunts is that the Sheriff — shown here referencing himself in the third person — has become acquainted with closeted Trump voters who reach out in seeming search of kinship. They’re the tattoo artist in Albany, the developer in Latham, the firefighter in Coeymans, the nurse in Cohoes, the dentist in Colonie, the teacher in Clifton Park, and the farmer who won’t permit me to reference in this column the municipality in which he lives for fear of social ostracization.

Although these folks are all admittedly white, they otherwise differ in age, gender, sexual orientation, and socioeconomic status. The only other commonality they share is the sense that they haven’t changed, but their (in some cases “former”) party has.  (The teacher’s support for Trump illustrated the biggest shift, and was precipitated by her shock/distaste for what she described as sexually graphic material made freely available to students in deference to “a politicized curriculum”.) 

If you’ve ever been to a barber shop, or you run with a crew that occasionally finds a time and place for that rip-roarious offensive joke, or you’ve caught yourself nodding along to social media clips of Bill Maher, then you’ve no doubt heard the exact same sentiments I routinely receive in my Direct Messages.

My intent with this column is not to demoralize progressives, indict liberals, or discourage those committed to working on behalf of the oppressed, disenfranchised, and underprivileged. My point is that Democrats must search their souls to find better ways of explaining why, for example, it’s so vital we say “unhoused” instead of “homeless.” To borrow a phrase or two: The microaggressions are piling up, and the left ain’t a safe space for everyone anymore.

If Donald Trump’s second inauguration feels unfair — as if there’s no accountability for a privileged white dude who philandered and pillaged his way through life and escaped prison only by getting reelected to an office which the Supreme Court has rendered immune from consequence — well, yeah, player; he’s the blow torch with which half the country is burning it all to the ground. 

It’s now on liberals to articulate a vision that convinces the nation to build it back up. It’s not a matter of compromising your causes or conforming to ensure the comfort of the privileged. It’s about winning hearts and minds by extending the same empathy you expect in return.  

Because you will not open eyes by covering your ears. And you will not forge the future by driving natural allies into the waiting arms of the devil we know.

Jesse Sommer is a lifelong resident of Albany County. 
Reach him at .

An 1880 engraving shows Sulla taking Rome by force.

In a speech given to the House of Commons in 1948, Winston Churchill issued — the hot breath of war still blowing on the neck of Europe — a warning to the world: “Those who fail to learn from history are condemned to repeat it.”

The phrase was not his; he borrowed it from the great Spanish-American philosopher and poet George Santayana who in his “The Life of Reason: The Phases of Human Progress” proclaimed: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”  

 “Progress,” Santayana said, “far from consisting in change, depends on retentiveness,” that is, on a society having an accumulated body of knowledge derived from capturing the truth of what appears before the eyes. 

He added that, when a society fails to retain the lessons of the past, “infancy is perpetual” and making no “improvement,” it moves a step closer to its demise, certainly to a disfigurement beyond recognition.

In my own way, I say the same thing in my most recent work “Veni, Vidi, Trucidavi: Caesar the Killer; A Man Who Destroyed Nations So He Might Be King.”

The title is a play on Caesar’s famous “Veni, Vidi, Vici”: “I Came I Saw I Conquered.” 

Mine says, “I Came I Saw I Slaughtered,” referring to the pall of death caused by the vast military machine Caesar produced to mow down the native tribes of Gaul during his nine years as governor there.

The premise of “Veni, Vidi, Trucidavi” is that a grand jury is convened to determine whether Caesar committed genocide, crimes against humanity, or war crimes or maybe them all, to satisfy an innate drive to become the king of Rome.

Every reader of the book is asked to be a member of the grand jury and — after listening to the evidence the prosecutor presents — moi — to determine what crimes Caesar should be convicted of.

The blurb on the back was offered by the esteemed classicist James O’Donnell, who wrote: “Caesar was stabbed twenty-three times in the most dramatic and spectacular assassination in all recorded history. Dennis Sullivan makes it twenty-four, with a compelling account of the man and his many crimes. He brings Caesar to life as his fans and apologists have never been able to do. Learning to do justice to the great villains of history can help us cast a cooler eye on the malevolent leaders who have swarmed onto the world stage in our time.”

Modern historians have called attention to the many similarities between the Republic of Rome and the Republic of the United States, often intimating that the history of Rome toward the end of the Republic’s life, has lessons for the United States if it wishes to keep its democratic boat afloat.  

Caesar hammered the last nail in the coffin of Rome’s republican government by putting his own needs above the city’s collective identity — a way of life Roman citizens cherished since 509 B.C. when it ousted its last king.

Many writers and historians have called attention to the desire of the current president of the United States to be a king as he keeps hammering nails into the coffin of American democracy.  

In her Jan. 9, 2025 article in The New Yorker called “King Donald and the Presidents at the National Cathedral,” Susan Glasser refers to the five former chief executives of the United States who were present at the funeral service of President Jimmy Carter, four of whom she calls “president,” the other a king.   

How amazing she says that, “at a pre-inaugural press conference as if … he had been elected not President but Emperor, [he spoke about] how he wanted to annex Canada, take over the Panama Canal, and force the sale of Greenland to the U.S. — and he would not rule out the use of coercion against the U.S.’s allies in order to do so.”

Such goals are achievable today because a lobotomized America has lost her memory “spread out against the sky,” to give a nod to T. S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” “like a patient etherized upon a table.”

The republican Rome of Caesar was similarly anesthetized having forgotten the lessons Lucius Cornelius Sulla sent, the man who started Rome’s first civil war, who set himself up as dictator for life, and the first citizen to seize the presidency of the republic by force.

What is worrisome to many Americans now is that nominees for upcoming federal cabinet jobs admit there is an “enemies list” while the man nominated to head the FBI, Kash Patel, says he will “come after” journalists and all enemies like them.

Outgoing president, Joe Biden, took the retribution threats seriously, so that on Monday, Jan. 20 — his last day in office — he issued preemptive pardons to those threatened with social extinction: Dr. Anthony Fauci, retired Gen. Mark Milley, and the lawmakers who served on the January 6th Committee.

On Nov. 2, in 82 B.C., the day after Sulla took full control of Rome (Italy) by force, he went to the Senate and asked the lawmakers to sanction his proscription list, which entailed killing or banishing citizens who disagreed with the way he exercised power.

When the Senate rejected his proposal, the dictator went to Rome’s popular assembly — essentially our House of Representatives — and there got the OK to proceed with the slaughter.

Sulla began by publicizing a list of 80 of the highest-ranking public officials — the Liz Cheneys, Adam Schiffs, and Adam Kinzingers of the day — whom he wanted dead and, a day or two later, came out with a second list of 440 more names.

The streets of Rome were already damp with blood because right after he took over, Sulla ordered the slaughter of 6,000 Samnite prisoners, the cries of their bodies being hacked apart within earshot of the gathered Senate, terrifying everyone. Sulla said the hub-bub was “nothing more than the screaming of a few criminals paying the just penalty for their crimes.”  

The property of anyone proscribed was confiscated and put up for sale, the same for his descendants who lost their civil rights and were then banished from the country.

Every Roman knew who was on the death list because the names had been prominently displayed in the Forum. It signaled the beginning of a bounty hunter’s paradise. 

That is: Everyone who killed one of the proscribed received a large monetary reward and was immune from prosecution; those who informed on a black-lister also received a gift, and slaves who “took out” someone were freed. Monies to pay for the bloodbath came from the aerarium, the public treasury, thereby making every Roman citizen an accessory to the fact.

In order for a “hit man” to receive compensation, he had to produce the head of the demised; indeed, Sulla had groups of heads paraded through the streets raised high on pikes, the artifacts later put on display at the communal speakers’ platform, the Rostrum; there was to be no burial for the traitors and no public mourning was allowed; heads and bodies were left for the birds of the air.

The French historian François Hinard remarks, in his classic work on the subject “Les proscriptions de la Rome républicaine” (1985 )— the detail he offers is chilling — that the monies changing hands with all the killing exceeded two million sesterces.

The insatiate pig in the crowd, Marcus Licinius Crassus, bought so many of the confiscated properties that he was on his way to becoming the richest man in Rome, worth, in today’s market, well over two-hundred-million dollars.   

Sulla said the extermination was his response to what the other party had done to him and his: the Republican and Democratic factions of ancient Rome having been reduced to dealing with ideological differences through extermination. 

In his monologue on the television program “Saturday Night Live” for Jan. 18, stand-up comedian Dave Chappelle said he hoped the incoming president would “do better [than he did the last] time” and asked all avowed Sulla-like retributivists in his camp to “not forget your humanity … please have empathy for displaced people, whether they're in the Palisades or Palestine” or must every American be looking over his shoulder like Satchel Paige?  

Quo vadis, America? Quo vadis?

MIDDLEBURGH — The OMOTM traveled to the Middleburgh Diner on Jan. 14 and I enjoyed my waffle with one egg over easy and two link sausages and plenty of good hot coffee. I waited a whole week for that waffle, and it did not disappoint. Ordering the waffle did start another conversation about “real” maple syrup and the “other” maple syrup.

That conversation started me thinking about asking one of the proprietors of one of the several establishments here in the Hilltown area that make, or rather, produce “real” maple syrup to join the OMOTM for a free breakfast and give us a short talk on how the process works.

Just for my own information, I asked my old friend, Mr. Google, what do you call a place that makes maple syrup. To quote Mr. Google, “A place that makes maple syrup is called a sugar house, sugar shack, or sugar cabin. The process of making maple syrup is called sugaring.”

I know that early each spring, this industry gets its act together and goes to work and that several of them are open to the public for tours or at least encourage the public to visit to learn about the maple-syrup-making process and by the way, they will even sell you some new maple syrup fresh from their own “sugar shack.”

I even thought I might revive an old OMOTM custom of an occasional field trip, and visit the sugar shack of our speaker when it is in operation this spring. We shall see.

 

The Beer Fridge

A topic of refrigerators came up at one of the tables. Not new ones. Old ones that still work but are no longer able to handle the requirements of a growing family or maybe it is just time for a model that has an ice maker.

I don’t mean just four or five ice cube trays that don’t even match, I mean a real ice-cube maker, or how about a cold-water dispenser, or maybe you are tired of looking at that 25-year-old avocado-colored refrigerator that just keeps working and will not die.

Maybe you would just settle for a new frost-free refrigerator, painted in a new modern color, that you don’t have to manually defrost anymore.

Whatever the reason, you now have an old refrigerator that still runs and you just can’t bring yourself to throw it out. What to do with it?

Give it to the kids? That's a good idea. But sometimes they are not too excited about your 25-year-old avocado refrigerator that once held baby pictures of them, held on the door with magnets. Don’t get mad or upset with your daughter or daughter-in-law when you find out that they are not bashful about expressing their negative opinion, in a polite way, of course.

So, in the meantime, the old fridge has been relegated to the garage and somehow, some way, magically and thoroughly mysteriously, a six-pack of beer has appeared inside, and it is cold! Soon after, a couple six-packs of soda and three more six-packs of beer are in there to replace the original six-pack that didn’t last long.

Thus, The Beer Refrigerator is born! Soon that extra milk is there. Leftover turkey from Thanksgiving finds its way to the Beer Fridge in the garage. Some frozen food also arrives in the top freezer.

When you can't find it, or any food item for that matter, someone is going to use the new household phrase, “Did you check the beer fridge in the garage?”

Now, some beer refrigerators are found in the basement next to the workshop or washer and drier, where, if you are exceptionally lucky, the colors match! 

Now that old refrigerator you couldn’t give away, has once again risen in stature to the prominence it once held, albeit, it is now in the basement or garage. It is indispensable! You can’t live without the old beer fridge. Then, the inevitable happens, it dies. Finally.

It is now a crisis! You are not going to buy another new refrigerator. The new one is still new. But you have to act promptly. Maybe someone, who doesn’t know the value of a beer refrigerator, has an old, perfectly good refrigerator they want to get rid of fast.

Just give them a couple of bucks and go take it off their hands and put it right where your old beer fridge was. Who cares if the door opens the other way? You can fix that. Yeah, I know, the color is wrong, but nobody cares! It’s a beer refrigerator! We are back in business. Life is good.

I did a quick survey of the OFs present at the Middleburgh Diner on Tuesday morning to see how many had a beer refrigerator. I was surprised to find the ratio was around 60 percent to 40 percent against having a beer refrigerator.

I was expecting a ratio of about 80 percent to 20 percent in favor of having a beer refrigerator. Could this be a phenomenon that we age out of? Could be. Food for thought. Another column, another time. I'll ask my friend, Mr. Google; he knows everything. I'll let you know.

All this talk about beer has made me thirsty. I think I’ll go out to the garage and open the beer fridge and see if I can find a beer behind the extra milk, lettuce, potatoes, soda, etc. Those OMOTM joining in this discussion Tuesday morning were: Harold Guest, Wally Guest, Ed Goff, Hon Albert Raymond, Roland Tozer, Frank A. Fuss, Marty Herzog, Jamey Darrah, Wm Lichliter, George Washburn, Russ Pokorny, Frank Burns, Jack Norray, Herb Bahrmann, Gerry Cross, John Jazz, Dick Dexter, Lou Schenck, and me.

— Photo from the Madrid Town Historian

Geo. S. Vroman’s livery stable, and all other livery stables, would soon be artifacts of the past when the automobile, at first a quaint and expensive novelty, quickly became the most common form of transportation, especially as they became more affordable. 

In the Town Historian’s mail recently was a photograph of G. S. Vroman’s Altamont Livery Stable, sent by the Madrid, New York Town Historian. She had come into possession of what was obviously a professional photograph mounted on embossed cardboard as part of a donation of Madrid area photographs.

Madrid is northwest of Potsdam and is not far from the St. Lawrence River. How an Altamont photograph ended up in Madrid has been a mystery.

The date 1900 is visible on a hanging sign high on the front of the stable. Posed below is a pair of two horse teams, each harnessed to a rig designed to carry passengers, each with a smart looking driver. The man standing between the two was most likely G. S. Vroman himself.

This photograph brought to mind that 1900 was still part of the horse-drawn age, a time when many local men were employed at various occupations relating to horses. Although most men were engaged in farming, a sizable employment group would have been horse-related, men who were blacksmiths, harness makers, wheelwrights, wagon and carriage makers, and even carriage painters. Some also farmed part-time, while others worked full-time at their trade.

In 1958, the late Town Historian Arthur Gregg had the opportunity to review a ledger kept in the 1840s by John H. Gardner whose farm was outside Altamont on the outer edge of Meadowdale. He eventually became one of Guilderland’s most affluent farmers and businessmen. But, in the early 1840s, he began by doing blacksmith work, not only shoeing horses, but at that earlier time shoeing the oxen that were still to be found on Guilderland’s farms.

Oxen would have been a common work animal during the town’s very early years. Oxen were inexpensive, castrated bull calves that became docile beasts of burden trained in pairs. Sturdy and capable of laboring long hours at heavy work, they were not prone to disease and, after their work years were over, they could be roasted and eaten.

Oxen were superior to horses when working in recently cleared fields with snags and stumps and were less likely to get injured. At work, they were bound together with a wooden yoke, attached by a curved bow that went under their necks to keep the yoke over their shoulders. Also requiring shoes, because their hooves were different from those of horses, oxen required two separate metal pieces for each hoof.

That oxen continued to be used on area farms in Guilderland in the 1840s was illustrated by entries in Gardner’s ledger. He sold Adam Blessing a neck yoke for $2, repaired John O. Truax’s team’s neck yoke for 25 cents, and sold ox bows to James Westfall for 50 cents.

A very few oxen were still around town in the late 19th century. In an 1889 Enterprise ad, an Altamont man offered a 3,000-pound pair for sale or would trade for a horse, while at the 1892 Walter Church auction at the Kushaqua, a pair was on offer.

 

Horse-related occupations

An 1870 directory of Guilderland residents listed not only individual names of male residents but also their occupations. At that time, farming was the activity of almost all men in Guilderland, but 17 men with horse-related occupations were identified.

Six were blacksmiths with one who was listed as a farrier, a man who only dealt with the care and shoeing of horses’ hooves. On the other hand, blacksmiths spent most of their time shoeing horses, but were also capable of repairing or fabricating iron products.

Henry Burden of Troy, beginning in the 1840s, developed a method to manufacture horse shoes by machine, making the lives of blacksmiths much easier because they no longer had to fabricate each horse shoe before shoeing the horse.

Also in Guilderland in 1870, one man made harnesses, while six were described as wagon makers, and a few of these did blacksmithing in addition. Rather surprisingly, three men claimed they were carriage painters, but may have done other types of painting in addition.

One Guilderland Center man was listed as “mail and stage proprietor from Guilderland Center to Albany.”

Once The Enterprise began publishing in 1884, blacksmiths occasionally advertised either their services or their shops for sale if they wished to move on.

In 1885, G.A. Lauer of Guilderland Station (renamed Meadowdale) let the public know he could provide the services of a blacksmith, wheelwright, and repairs. In addition, he informed folks of his “particular attention paid to interfering, overreaching and lame horses.” 

One blacksmith who wanted to move on advertised in1884: “To Rent: A blacksmith shop at Fullers Station. Possession given April 1st. For particulars enquire Leroy Main, Fullers Station, NY.”

That a blacksmith was important to a community at that time was the comment in a later 1890 Fullers column: “A good blacksmith is wanted in this place.” Guilderland Center was more fortunate having Charles Brust’s blacksmith shop in business for decades, already listed in the 1870 directory.

A horse couldn’t pull a wagon, carriage, or plow unless harnessed. A few men made and repaired harnesses. In 1888, two local harness makers were in operation, one in Altamont and the other in Guilderland Center.

C.V. Beebe was in a fixture in Altamont for many years. In 1900, he advertised that he was a “manufacturer and dealer in harness, blankets, robes, whips and a general line of horse furnishing goods.”

“Laborer” was a category not mentioned in the 1870 directory, but in the listings of an 1888 directory, there were many of them. Quite a number seemed to have been helpers in various horse-related occupations in Guilderland. “In 1890 Walter Stocker is employed by Mr. James Keenholts to look after the management of his livery stable,” as would have been the men driving G.O. Vroman’s rigs.

 

1900’s Uber

Livery stables came later to Guilderland’s horse-drawn scene. The taxi service or Uber of its day, a livery stable needed enough customers demanding the service to pay for the investment in horses and rigs.

Once Altamont had a railroad depot where regularly scheduled local and long-distance D&H trains stopped and the village with its growing population had become a summer destination with its hotels and summer cottages, a livery stable could be a profitable operation.

No one was listed as operating a livery stable in the 1870 Guilderland directory, but the town had grown so that by the time Howell & Tenney’s History of Albany County was published in 1886, Ira Fairlee was mentioned as Altamont’s livery stable proprietor. His name also appeared in the 1888 directory.

By 1900, Altamont had multiple livery stables, the earliest one located on Prospect Terrace in the area of today’s Altamont County Values Store, possibly the same building as listed for Ira Fairlee.

The owner preceding G.O. Vroman was Dayton Whipple who was in business as early as 1892.  His livery operation was once described in The Enterprise as “well appointed” with “fashionable carriages, buggies, two, three and four seated rigs.” In addition, he employed “careful, reliant, intelligent drivers.”

These men would meet trains or would have a scheduled run to a tourist destination such as the Thompson’s Lake hotels. Another regular run was to meet the D&H train on weekends when it stopped at Meadowdale to see if there might be possible passengers who wanted to be taken to the top of the Helderberg escarpment.

Change came quickly with the coming of the automobile. At first, livery owners added one or two autos to their offerings. In 1913, John Becker added a five-passenger touring car to his livery service and others had to follow his example.

Once ownership of an automobile became common, the days of the livery stable came to an end.  The horse-drawn occupation that hung on the longest was that of blacksmith because many people continued to own horses even after they finally got their own automobile.

To this day, some Guilderland residents own horses, but it is the farrier who now comes to them with a specially equipped truck.

 

Mystery solved

In attempting to find additional information in The Enterprise regarding Dayton Whipple, your Town Historian stumbled on this bit of news in the May 9, 1913 Village and Town column: “The following, clipped from the Madrid Herald of April, 1913 will  be read with interest by many Altamont friends.

“Undertaker Fay G. Mann has purchased a beautiful new eight column (I suspect this was meant to be eight seater) Moscow top funeral car which gives him equipment second to none in this section. The car is fitted with inch and one-eighth inch hard rubber tires and white and black interchangeable curtains, the outfit complete costing $ 1,000.”

Mr. Mann was formerly a resident of this village and is a brother-in-law of Mr. Geo. S. Vroman. Mystery solved!

Dorothy Bremer Kohler had this portrait taken on the occasion of her high school graduation.

I thought it might be worthwhile for our readers to know that this past Saturday, Jan. 12, a 95th birthday party was held for beloved New Scotland citizen Dorothy Kohler at the social hall of the New Scotland Presbyterian Church. 

More than 100 folks came from far and wide to celebrate their mother, grandmother, and dear friend, which included a fine luncheon, scintillating conversation, and a beautifully decorated cake. The ongoing esprit de corps was palpable.

Dorothy’s daughter, Wendy, said a few words about the close-knit family that Dorothy and her late husband, Lewis, fostered, calling attention to the retired nurse’s preference that Christmas presents be wrapped with the tightness of “hospital corners” on a bed. 

The pastor of the church, Holly Cameron, also spoke, noting Dorothy’s long-time contribution to the vitality of the church community as an esteemed and valued elder. 

On more than one occasion, attendees broke out into impromptu applause in honor of the fêtée.

Readers of The Enterprise know Dorothy from, among other places, an interview our editor, Melissa Hale-Spencer, conducted for the paper’s podcast when Dorothy’s book of memoir stories appeared in the summer of 2019. It is available online.

Dorothy has been part of the Voorheesville Public Library’s memoir-writing group since it began about a dozen years ago. As a colleague of hers in that group from the start, I felt compelled to say something about her work and offered the remarks that follow in honor of my friend and the friend of every writer in our group:

If I had to describe Dorothy Kohler in a word or two, I would say “simplicity of character.” 

There is an uncomplicatedness to, or in, the woman that is disarming but be aware that she is always taking stock, quietly assessing the world that presents itself before her eyes — and that includes you and me. Thus, she’s nobody’s fool.

And as far as being a person of character, well, the person on the street might call it “having a backbone” a considerable part of which comes from the Christian faith Dorothy observes. She might reject hearing her name put in the same sentence with Mother Teresa but she might accept being referred to as Mother Teresa’s long-lost aunt from Gilboa, New York.

I have been in a memoir-writing group with Dorothy for a dozen years — a group I direct — we’ve met a zillion times. And I am never surprised to see, when report cards come out — and every one of our colleagues would agree — that Dorothy gets A-plusses across the board, in large part because her stories get to the heart of matters.

I think it is accurate to say that everyone in our group is involved in excavating and writing about his/her/their life and, in doing so, is a truth-teller, certainly at the very least a truth-seeker trying to set straight, for the world, “the record” by getting to the hearts of matters.

Being in such a group is most intimate in a certain way. That is, we all listen to the inner voice of each other, its quality and intonation as it reveals the dimensions of the person’s inner life. And, if I were asked to describe Dorothy’s voice I would say “dry martini,” no twist, no olives, no toothpicks, no frills at all.

Dorothy has written about her early life in Astoria, New York and then about the family moving up to Gilboa where a familial community existed that was a picturesque life on the German side of the Alps — a Teutonic blend of “Sound of Music” and “Little House on the Prairie.” 

One of the tricks of the memoir-writing trade is telling one’s story about difficult situations and people with a distance so the tone is not accusatory, degrading, filled with anger or regret thereby allowing the reader, the listener, to enter the picture safely.

That’s why my favorite story of Dorothy’s “Our Family Menopause” brings forth joyous smiles from everybody, a story about her mother, Emma, who was struggling to find a way to deal with a change in her identity.

After someone reads a story during our sessions at the Voorheesville Library, the assembled are invited to make any comment they like; in every instance, after Dorothy reads, the jury says: “We want more!”

And this includes her telling of her journey from “the sticks” to the heart of the city of Albany to become a nurse, and later, when on the job, her efforts to give patients sponge baths from their feet up to the “possible” and from their head down to the “possible.” The “impossible” was out of bounds.

Her published book of stories “Stories of a Life: Remembering Friends and Family” is a treasure. Each reflects the simplicity of character I mentioned.

How happy I am that I have to come to know our friend a bit — and every writer in our group says the same thing: We are all richer for knowing her, being with her, listening to her wit and wisdom for maybe a 10th of her 95 years on earth.

That’s what a dry martini does for the soul.

Feliz cumpleaños, Dorotea. ¡Te deseamos que cumplas muchos años más!

DUANESBURG — Tuesday morning was just what we would expect for a Jan. 7 morning in the Hilltowns outside of Albany. It was dark and cold (single digits) with snow flurries.

What we didn’t expect was the wind. It howled all day right through the night into an equally dark, and cold rest of the week. Except for the wind, welcome to a January winter in the mountains and Hilltowns in upstate New York. 

The OMOTM gathered at Chris’s Chuck Wagon Diner at the appointed hour for our usual good fellowship, good hot coffee, and great food. I was all set to order a waffle, with an egg and link sausage when Chris announced that the waffle-maker machine was under the weather and therefore there would be no waffles today. So I settled for my usual order of a cheese-and-sausage omelette with an English muffin.

Now for an OMOTM love story.

The room had quieted down, as it always does, while we attacked our breakfasts. All except one table. They were rather noisy the whole time with much laughter.

This particular table held some pretty important OMOTM in the form of our Scribe Emeritus John Williams, two other long-time OFs present were Pastor Jay Francis and Harold Guest and the fourth member at the table was Wally Guest.

This love story is about how Harold met and wooed Arline, his wife of 65 years.

Harold was 17 years old and Arline was 16 years old. They both went to Middleburgh High School and were in the same class.

Arline’s family lived in the town of Broome in Schoharie County while John also lived in a small town also in Schoharie County, Huntersville I think. As fate would have it, Arline’s family home was destroyed in a fire that fall and the family subsequently ended up moving much closer to where Harold lived. So now they were in the same class in the same school and lived pretty close to each other.

Not only did Harold think Arline was pretty nice, but so did his older brother. So Harold had to fend him off while he pursued Arline. He was successful in discouraging his brother.

Exceeding six feet, Harold is a substantial man today and I am sure that very few boys would want to be on his wrong side back in those days, even a brother!

As the holiday season approached, Harold wanted to give Arline a Christmas present she would never forget and would never forget who gave it to her. Keep in mind, this was a 17-year-old boy trying to buy a special gift for his 16-year-old girlfriend while they were in high school. 

There was a department store in Middleburgh at that time called Strongs. Harold, having made his decision as to what he wanted his gift to be, went to the store and talked to a lady (the owner?) about what he wanted.

She said she had exactly what he wanted and off they went up to the ladies’ department on the third floor. Sure enough, they picked out the perfect gift and the lady even gift-wrapped it for him! Good thing she did because, if Harold had wrapped it, it probably would have looked like a small version of a Charlie Brown Christmas tree wrapped with two miles of scotch tape!

Arline’s family included a married older sister whose husband was a bit of, in Harold’s words, “a live wire,” sort of a fun guy to be around with a great sense of humor. In fact, I think that knowing Harold and his son Wally today, both the families were blessed with a fine sense of humor. Good thing.

The gift.

It is now Christmas morning and everyone is opening their presents. The moment of truth has arrived. With all eyes upon her, Arline opened Harold’s special gift.

It was — wait for it — a very large pair of panties! Way too big for a 16-year-old girl!

So the “live wire” future brother-in-law put them on himself over his own clothes (I told you they were rather large!) and to the delight and laughter of everyone, spent most of the rest of the day walking around wearing Arline’s Christmas present!

I remind everyone again, this was a 17-year-old’s present to his 16-year-old girl friend!

So what happened? It worked! She never forgot the present and more importantly, never forgot who gave it to her.

They dated throughout high school. Got married, and for the next 65 years loved each other as they raised a family of six kids, and had a few laughs along the way. In fact, when Harold told that story at the OMOTM breakfast on Tuesday, we all laughed one more time and shared the moment right along with him.

Those enjoying breakfast at Chris’s Chuck Wagon Diner, with or without panties, were the man of the hour himself, Harold Guest and his son, Wally Guest, Ted Feurer, Jake Lederman, Jake Herzog, Michael Kruzinski, Wm Lichliter, Frank A. Fuss, Hon Albert E. Raymond, Jamey Darrah, John Williams, Lou Schenck, Jack Norray, Gerry Cross, Dick Dexter, John Jaz, Bill Bremmer (visiting from Kansas City), Henry Whipple, Herb Bahrmann, Russ Pokorny, Jim Gardner, Warren Willsey, Frank Dees, Roland Tozer, Glen Patterson, Mark Traver, Joe Rack, Bob Donnelly, Dave Hodgetts, John Dab, Paul Guiton, Pastor Jay Francis, and me.

DUANESBURG — On this last day of the year, with the weather still holding on to temperatures in the mid to low 40s, the OMOTM arrived at Gibby’s Diner on time as usual. I noticed as I walked in to take my regular seat, so did everyone else.

Pretty much all the OMOTM not only sit at the same table at the diner we are at, but we sit in the same chair! I bet you could blindfold us and just tell us which diner we were at, and that we were standing in the doorway, and we could walk to our chair at our table without hitting anyone or any other table!

We OMOTM are a very special and talented bunch of nice guys, except when someone sits in our chair at our table! Talk about instant grumpiness!

 

Party memories

New Year’s Eve. Brings back memories for all of us. Mostly party memories.

Parties are at the top of that list of memories regarding New Year’s Eve. Parties in high school at someone’s house when we were not old enough to drive. Then we got a little older, not a lot older, just a year or two and the world of where we gathered to have a good time and have a party changed considerably.

We had some really good times. Some good memories. Life goes on and then we have our own families and the responsibilities that go along with those families.

The parties became a little less enthusiastic, not much, but a little. The locations changed as well, maybe a live band and perhaps a little more dancing, a little less drinking.

 

Evolving resolutions

The idea of making New Year’s resolutions has been a constant part of the new year as much as the parties. These resolutions seldom stood the test of time.

I'm going to lose weight, I'm going to be an “A” student, sort of morphs into resolving to be a better boss, or employee, or stopping smoking (still going to lose weight), gotta save money for college for the kids, save money for retirement.

Now we are part of the OMOTM and our resolutions are very few in number. Staying healthy is right at the top of all of our lists.

The most popular resolution of losing a few pounds has given way to staying healthy, which is expressed most commonly as, “I just want to see what 2026 will bring,” or “I want to put this *!#% COVID in the rearview mirror!” (My older sister and her husband both had to deal with mild cases of COVID this Christmas, which really messed up their holidays.)

 

Midnight

A few of us still stay up and watch the ball come down. Then we will kiss our better half, and in honor of all those parties past, we pop the cork on a bottle of champagne and drink a toast to each other and all of our friends, past and present.

Then we put the cork back in the bottle and go to bed.

In the morning, we will make mimosas. A good way to kick off the new year.

Not one of us will resolve to lose weight, and we have all stopped smoking a long time ago, so we will look forward to next Tuesday morning and seeing our OMOTM friends at one of the five great diners we meet at for breakfast.

 

Ice fishing

The last couple of days of this year’s January thaw in December have arrived. The snow is all gone. The lakes are still covered with ice (about an inch thick at most) but no ice fisherman’s shanties are to be found on any of the lakes yet. Ice fishermen are many things; stupid is not one of them. 

These men are a hardy bunch of individuals. It takes a special breed of men to stand around a hole in the ice, stamping their feet, drinking hot coffee, hot chocolate, sometimes even a cold beer, waiting for a small flag (I think they are called tip-ups) to spring to life, signaling a fish is down there, waiting to be brought up. A hardy breed indeed.

There are fake ice fishermen however. If I were to indulge in this ice-fishing endeavor, that would be my classification.

I wouldn’t be hard to find. Just look for a pickup truck towing a large shanty out on the ice. The pickup would have a small quiet generator in the bed with enough capacity to provide enough power to heat and light the lights in the shanty, with enough power left over to handle the small TV and laptop.

I would have a couple of comfortable chairs and a small table for the snacks and the beverage of our choice. I may even have a small camping propane stove so I could warm up some chicken-noodle soup or brew a fresh cup of coffee.

I would not go outside to drill a hole in the ice. The shanty would be big enough so I could drill the hole inside the shanty (located under the table so no one would accidentally step in the hole) and I would have windows so I could watch the real ice fishermen out there stamping their feet, trying to stay warm.

I would be smart enough not to ask them to move further away while stamping so as to not scare the fish away from me. Like I said, ice fishermen are not stupid, not even fake ones.

New Year’s Eve found the following OMOTM enjoying breakfast at Gibby’s Diner: Harold Guest, Wally Guest, George Washburn, Wm Lichliter, Michael Kruzinski, Jamey Darrah, Frank A. Fuss, Albert Raymond, Marty Herzog, Warren Willsey, Russ Pokorny, Jim Gardner, Frank Dees, Jake Herzog, Mark Traver, Glenn Patterson, Roger Shafer, Joe Rack, Pastor Jay Francis, Scribe Emeritus John R. Williams, Lou Schenck, Jack Norray, Dick Dexter, John Jaz, Gerry Cross, John Dab, Paul Guiton, Bob Donnelly, Elwood Vanderbilt, Dave Hodgetts, Alan Defazio, and me

The Old Men Of The Mountain wish each other and all of you who read about us in The Altamont Enterprise, Happy New Year!