After I complete my morning ablutions, the first thing I do is turn on the TV to see if there have been any new mass shootings, COVID outbreaks, or freak storms since I went to bed. Then, if I’m lucky and the delivery guy shows up on time, I read the newspaper.
Often, I’ll be reading in depth about what they only have seconds to talk about on TV. The juxtaposition of the fleeting images on the screen with the deeper coverage in print has served me ably over the years. Like wine and cheese, they go together very well.
On the TV, they take many breaks for commercials. In fact, the all-news channels I often watch seem to have the most commercials. There are of course advertisements in the newspaper as well. Not as many as there used to be, unfortunately, but they are still there.
Now I’m in the truck, driving to work. You expect commercials on for-profit radio stations. Yet, even on my beloved National Public Radio, I have to hear them as well.
If you think public radio is funded by the government, you would be only partly right. Public radio in fact mostly depends upon our donations and advertising, although they call it underwriting.
No matter: By the time I get to work each day, I’ve already seen, read, and heard plenty of commercials. There is just no way to escape it, it seems, aside from hiding in a cave (wouldn’t it be ironic if some ancient cave wall hieroglyphics were actually advertisements, haha).
During the day, I check social media on occasion. You never know when the grandkids will do something cute.
Of course, for this privilege, you have to look at endless ads for everything and anything. Sigh. At least, because I’m not consumed by cats like everyone else, I can scroll right past those endless cat videos, thank goodness.
On the way home, between all the yelling and screaming on the sports talk-radio shows, are more commercials. Then of course there are more on the TV at night.
The only time during the entire day when I know I won’t be subjected to advertising is when I finally get to sit down with a good book before bedtime. Good old paper books, without advertising: You just can’t beat them.
I remember in a business course in college the professor tried to justify the need for advertising. From a strictly business point of view, you can’t buy a product if you don’t even know it exists, so there is that.
But the main reason for suffering through the endless barrage of advertising we all deal with, he said, was that it provides jobs. Who can argue with that?
We need our friends and neighbors to have good paying jobs so they can provide for themselves and, by paying taxes, provide for all of us. So, if you look at it that way, you have to agree that advertising is good in at least that one respect.
Of course, there are all kinds of advertising. For many years, I stood shoulder to shoulder on jam-packed subway cars with nothing to look at except the advertising, which was often quite creative (looking anyone in the eye on the subway is just asking for trouble). Hey, in a captive situation like that, even a lousy Verizon ad can take your mind to a better place.
Sometimes newspaper print ads can be really great. I’d even say they are in a renaissance right about now.
Recently, there was a full page ad for the Fender Telecaster guitar, the first really successful solid-body, amplified guitar, in The Times that was stunning. Had they listed a price to get a framed color copy I would have jumped on it, because it was that good.
Same thing with the new BMW car ads: “You don’t want to rent a car. You want to rent THE car.” Great stuff.
One place where advertising is a big fail is on social media. Maybe you’ve experienced the following: You search for some product or service online, and then get relentlessly bombarded for ads for those products for weeks after.
It literally makes you stop and think, do I really need to search for this? What a royal pain that is.
Another social-media advertising failure is when you see a fantastic video for something that looks really neat. Then you order it, wait a month (probably because it’s coming from China); then, when it arrives, it’s either nowhere near as good as they made it seem, or it’s something completely different.
I’ve been burned twice by this, such that I will never order anything directly from a social-media post ever again. There are just too many scams out there to trust any of the ads.
I’m the kind of person who just doesn’t like anything to do with doctors, medicine, hospitals, etc. That’s one reason I workout six days a week.
The healthier I can keep myself, the less of the medical profession I’ll have to deal with. At least that’s what I hope.
But, if you just want to watch the national news, you are forced, over and over, to learn about “hormone receptor-positive, HER2-node negative metastatic breast cancer, with an aromatase inhibitor,” whatever all that means.
Then they list so many side effects — some of which include death — that, if you weren’t sick before hearing all this, you probably are now. So then you click the mute button.
No relief, because on the screen it then says “the perineum is the space between the anus and genitals.” Jeez, I just ate dinner; give me a break!
Look, I’m married to a breast-cancer survivor, so I know this stuff is important, but that’s why you work hard to get a good job, so you can get health care and then talk to your doctor about it.
It’s like the endless Good Feet Store commercials, where people are in tears over how great their arch supports are. But what about those of us who don’t have flat feet, thank goodness?
After seeing these commercials a thousand times, I really hope I never have to step into a Good Feet Store. I’m sure they are very nice people, but enough is enough.
There is one bit of advertising that is truly annoying, and that is the endless phone calls for various offers. For example, I’ve received so many calls offering to help me extend my vehicle warranty, that it’s to the point where I know I’ll never be truly alone in life, no matter how long I live.
That’s because, I’m sure, there will always be someone calling me to help me extend my vehicle warranty. You hate to be a negative person, but you just about have to screen all your calls at this point.
The timeshare phase seems to be dying out lately, but there was a time when we’d get offers of free dinners, giveaways, lodging, and cash just to sit through a 90-minute timeshare presentation.
Think about it: How bad must something be if they have to spend all that money just to get you to sit through their spiel?
I know some folks get good use out of timeshares, but the maintenance fees just keep going higher and higher, and they don’t stop when you can’t use the timeshare because of other events or responsibilities.
I haven’t been to a timeshare presentation for several years now, what a relief. So high pressure. Never again if I can help it.
Advertising isn’t all bad, of course. Every year around the holidays they have those World’s Greatest Commercials shows. Think about that, a show full of commercials, with commercials between the commercials.
Sounds awful, but some commercials, especially those from other countries, are really unique and very funny.
Then there are the classic commercials we all know and love from back in the day: “Where’s the Beef?,” “I’m not gonna pay a lot for this muffler!,” “Momma mia, that’s a spicy meata-ball!”
In fact, I’ve never been to a Williams Lumber store, but they used to feature their kids and grandkids in their commercials, and the kids stole the show. So well written, charming, and funny, I actually miss them.
If I ever get to a Williams Lumber store, I’ll be sure to tell them how much I miss their commercials, and ask them how the kids are doing.
I just really, really hope I never need arch supports.
We got to spend a weekend in Buffalo with one of my wife’s high school classmates. It was the weekend right before Buffalo got hit with four feet of snow, so we lucked out for once.
In case you haven’t been to Buffalo, you should try it. It’s big enough to have everything you need — great sports, culture, restaurants, etc. — but small enough to feel cozy and friendly. I like it a lot and hope to return soon.
At one point during the weekend, we were outside our lovely friends’ warm and comfortable home when the mail lady walked up. At that point, our friend yelled out, “Hey, you got any love letters for me?” I found that to be very telling. Let me explain.
Clearly, in her mind, a good day is when the mail person brings you a love letter. I will say I’ve gotten one or two of them myself, but that was long ago, when I had a narrow waist and thick, dark hair.
These days, I get excited only if the mailman brings me motorcycle parts or magazines. Anything else goes to my lovely wife to deal with.
But I couldn’t get the thought of receiving a love letter out of my mind. With that said, I’d like to make this column a love letter to you, my faithful readers.
Every now and then, I’ll be at the market, gas station, or library, and one of you will come right up to me and tell me how much you love my column. Wow, what a rush.
The fact that my writing gives anyone any kind of comfort or joy is so wonderful and amazing to me. So let me say right here that I love you very much for that. Thanks so much, and thank you yet again. I really do appreciate it.
Some of you even take the time to write me letters. Yes, believe it or not, some of you are so moved by my writing that you take the time to send me handwritten thanks and encouragement.
I love all of you who have written to me over the years. It’s really a treat to get a letter like that, but don’t expect an answer from me in the mail.
Here’s why: I once tried to sell Girl Scout cookies for my daughter in the office where I work. I did sell a few boxes, but I had one very good friend there who would not buy them.
“Frank,” he said, “there are 500 people on this floor, and if I buy cookies from you, I have to buy from them as well, and I just can’t eat that many cookies!”
So that’s why I don’t personally answer my “fan mail.” Anyone who mails me personally deserves a thoughtful, handwritten response.
The only way I can do that, because of my chicken-scratch penmanship, is to write very, very slowly. So slowly, in fact, that to answer my letters I would have to lose some of my beauty sleep to complete even one.
Trust me, if you saw me these days, you’d know I need all the beauty sleep I can get, haha. So no personal thank-yous from me any time soon, but thanks so much for writing. I really love that you took the time to let me know you like my writing, yes I do.
Here’s the main reason I want to use this column to say how much I love each and every one of you who reads it: By reading my column in The Altamont Enterprise, you are supporting local, independent journalism. That is fantastic.
I don’t know if you are aware, but newspapers in general are having a hard go of it in the Internet Age. The only way many can make it is to cut staff to the bone and then work the remaining staff crazy hours on a shoestring budget. This is not how it should be, of course, but unfortunately how it is.
So every time you pick up a copy of The Enterprise, you are using your hard-earned dollars to say how much you support local independent journalism. I truly, really, love you for that!
Think about how much less our lives would be if we didn’t have this paper. Because of The Enterprise, we get to see how local government (mostly) works; what our friends and neighbors are up to; and the overall feel of what life in the Capital District and surrounding areas is like.
Truly, I feel enriched when I read The Enterprise, from the award-winning editorials by our wonderful editor, Ms. Melissa Hale-Spencer, to the latest ramblings of the Old Men of the Mountain, and everything in between. Where else can you find unique and interesting content like this?
I’m just waiting for a Recipe of the Month to start appearing, yes I am. I like to cook but I need all the help I can get, so start sending in your best recipes now.
Fun Fact: During the Buffalo weekend, my wife’s friend said this: “A bra can cost $40, if you buy a good brand.” As someone who has never purchased a bra in his entire life, I would have guessed they were $10, maybe $20 max.
I mean, I can buy a three-pack of T-shirts or a six-pack of socks every day for 10 bucks, so what do I know? The fact that something so ordinary and common, and that 51 percent of the population uses every day, costs so much is truly eye-opening, at least for me.
Hey, if you’re lucky you learn something new every day, so there’s that at least. I guess the TV show “The Price is Right” is not in my future any time soon, too bad for me.
So thanks for reading my column over the years. I really appreciate it and love you all. Especially, let’s all give a big thanks for local independent journalism like The Altamont Enterprise, the beating heart of this most special part of the planet that we all so fondly call home.
Thanks to everyone at The Enterprise for keeping this most excellent and appreciated publication fresh, alive, and vibrant. And for all of my lady readers, keep an eye out for when those bras go on sale. Who knows, you might find a good one, and then maybe you’ll get some love letters in the mail.
Postscript: the above was written before the devastating Christmas blizzard in Buffalo that has, as I write this, taken 27 lives and counting. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say our thoughts and prayers go out to the entire city of Buffalo.
Rod Serling’s classic sixties supernatural/horror/science fiction TV series “The Twilight Zone” is one of my favorite programs of all time. This show was so well written and performed that it still holds up well today.
It was filmed in glorious black and white, and the iconic theme song has become a cultural icon, often played or hummed when anything strange is about to happen. I watch the show whenever I can, even though I’ve seen them all many times.
In fact, the episode “Room for One More, Honey” is so chilling and frightening that I still get goosebumps every time I see it. Why am I mentioning all this? Well, the other night I found myself in The Twilight Zone. Really. Here’s what happened.
It was the weekend of my 45th high school reunion, so we had to drive to Queens. For many years, when my parents lived in Brooklyn, we made this trip six or more times a year. Well, they have not lived there for a long time. Plus, with COVID, we have just not gone to “the city” in several years. So this trip was my first time heading downstate in a long while. I thought I knew what to expect. Not.
When you live in the same area, you notice things changing. A new Starbucks, a change of ownership at a car dealership, a resurfaced road, etc. Conversely, when you haven’t been to a place in a long time, you may be surprised by all that has changed when you go back.
Driving down the Thruway, everything was fine until we went over the Tappan Zee — oh sorry, I mean the Governor Mario M. Cuomo — bridge. Once we crossed, it was readily apparent that things were not the same.
The ramps were different, the lanes you needed to be in for the various exits were different, and it was confusing. I had insisted I didn’t need GPS to drive to my old high school, but I admit I had to take some of its advice.
Overall, the changes are for the better. Lot’s of fresh new roadway, many new building facades, etc. I’m sure, once I get used to it, I’ll like it. Good excuse to go down again soon (though my lovely wife is not as crazy about going down there as I am, unfortunately).
The reunion itself was fine. They had our 1977 yearbook photos on the wall. It’s amazing looking at the photo of the person from back then, and then looking at them now, myself included, haha.
Where did all my thick black hair go? Why is my waist so big now?
But it’s all good, getting older and more mature. I actually like not being in a hurry anymore, and not caring anymore what anyone thinks of me. I can relax for once. Feels great.
Originally, we were going to stay in the city overnight and then do some fun things the next day. Turns out that next day was the day of the New York City Marathon.
If you think it’s congested and full of traffic in the city normally, it’s just exponentially worse when they have major roadways and bridges closed off for the big race.
I read “The Power Broker,” Robert Caro’s excellent Pulitzer Prize-winning biography of Robert Moses, the guy who designed and built virtually all the roads, tunnels, and bridges in New York City, so I have some idea about the whys behind many of the city’s gnarly traffic problems.
That’s why we decided to drive back late that same night instead of staying over. The marathon won this bout for sure.
So now we’re driving home on the Thruway. I always like to drop in at Stew Leonard’s in Yonkers whenever I’m down there. It’s just a great combination mega-grocery store and an interesting destination in its own right.
In my mind, I can remember the big red letters on their huge silo that said OPEN UNTIL 10 PM EVERY DAY. However, things really do change, as when we passed there around 9:30 p.m., they were closed. Rats.
Had I known that, I would have driven home through New Jersey, which is actually 10 miles shorter. Just goes to show, if you haven’t been somewhere for a number of years, don’t assume things are going to be the same as they were.
As my wife and I were, ahem, contemplating my decision to go to Stew Leonard’s, I flew right by the rest area with the gas station I needed. I had been meaning to stop, since we were down to one bar on the gas gauge.
It indicated we had about 30 miles of range left. When my wife realized I’d screwed this up too, let’s just say I heard about it. In detail.
The thing is, I hadn’t found a convenient time to get gas, counting on the fact that I could always find some on the Thruway on the way home. But, after missing the rest area, I was in no way sure another rest area with gas would be there in 30 miles.
So I decided to get off at the next exit. My wife used the phone to find gas stations. There was one west. It was closed. We turned around because the GPS said there was another one east. It was also closed.
Rats, again. The tension, as they say, could be cut with a knife.
Now, let me say right here I have no problem with getting lost. Why? Because sooner or later you always find the right way and, especially when it’s a nice day and you’re on the motorcycle, you can discover some really nice roads and places you never would have found otherwise.
But this was well after 10 p.m. on a dark Saturday night, where we still had quite a ways to go and possibly not even enough gas to get to an open gas station. Yikes. No fun at all.
So I took charge. Disregarding the GPS, I found a main road and just decided to head west. My reasoning was we were only a little bit north of the city, so by going west I knew we’d hit some kind of town at some point.
Yes, by this point, that town had to be within about 20 miles, so I was taking a chance, but you need a little excitement every so often, right?
If you watched any episodes of “The Twilight Zone,” you know that a frequent plot device was some kind of isolated place, like a bus station, restaurant, or saloon, with no one around.
So one minute we are on the always busy Thruway, in the midst of bright lights and lots of traffic. The next minute, we are barreling down this pitch black road into murky darkness, heading to who knows where.
Then, out of nowhere, a convenience store with two gas pumps. Whew, that was close.
The minute we pulled in, I knew it was strange. You know how gas stations have those huge iron manhole covers that hide the filler necks for the gas tanks? Normally, they are far away from the pumps.
At this place, they were right beside the pumps. So we had to absorb clanky bump-bumps as we drove up to, and then around the pumps.
Why around? Because two were obviously non-working, with bags taped over the nozzles. The other two looked OK, so I got out. This is when I knew I was in The Twilight Zone.
First of all, it was eerily quiet. You could hear a pin drop, I’m not kidding. In fact, I thought I could hear my wife’s teeth chattering, from the shock of the tank covers and the overall stress of everything.
Then there was the air, or lack of it. The air was so still you had to breathe hard to get some in. Everything is different at night, I know, but this was really taking it to the next level.
Then I looked over at the store itself. There was a blinking neon sign that said “Wally World.” Err, OK.
The door was open, the counter was visible, but there was no one there. The neon sign and the dim lights over the gas pumps provided the only light in the area.
Other than that, it was pitch black, the blackest night I’ve seen in a long, long time. Yikes, again.
I fed in my credit card and, thankfully, the pump was working. As I pumped I imagined:
— Someone walking out of the shadows, with a dusty cap and a flintlock rifle, who somehow got transferred in time from the Civil War;
— The store being full of people who were waiting for a bus to pick them up, after being assured the bridge was not out. Or was it still out?;
— Getting back into the car and seeing a completely different woman there, going into shock when I tell her I don’t know who she is.
Yes, it really was The Twilight Zone at that strange, isolated gas station in the middle of nowhere in the dark of night with the crazy name. Perhaps, if I’d gone into the store to pay with cash, I’d have discovered that Wally World was actually a portal to another dimension.
Being that I had to go to church the next day, I’m sure glad I had the credit card to pay at the pump and keep me in this dimension, haha.
After gassing up, the rest of the trip home was uneventful. I’ve never been so thankful for a tank of gas as I was then, let me tell you.
I promised my wife I’d make sure to gas up before any long trips in the future. Since then, I’ve always stopped for gas when she asks, I mean orders, me to fill up, and I’ve not complained.
We’re not spring chickens anymore and running out of gas always sucks, no matter how old you are, whether you wind up in The Twilight Zone or not. I like long walks as much as anyone, but I don’t like being forced to do them.
In one “Twilight Zone” episode, all the people on earth are slowly being replaced by their exact duplicates from another dimension. Imagine if when Frank — err, sorry, I mean I — got back in the car, it was really his, oops, I mean my, exact double? How weird would that be? I’m sure glad that didn’t happen.
I call them the suburban cowboys. These are the young men who stand on the rear bumper of the Town of Guilderland Highway Department trucks, looking for all the world like cowboys, riding a horse sidesaddle.
They come by every now and then and take your tied and bound sticks and branches, as well as your bagged leaves, twigs, and weeds. We are very lucky to have these guys coming around on a regular basis. Many other towns don’t have anything like this, and I really do appreciate it.
Normally, I put yard waste in my little utility trailer. Then, when it’s filled, I tow it to the landfill and empty it there.
However, this year I had many other events and responsibilities that required me to keep the trailer available for other uses at a moment’s notice, like moving and hauling. I had to keep it empty at all times.
So that’s how I became a fan of the suburban cowboys, by putting out bag after bag of yard waste for them to gladly take. They really helped me out when I needed them.
Imagine being a young guy with a free summer, needing a job between college semesters. Then the opportunity to become a suburban cowboy pops up. What a great deal that is.
Think about it: You’re outside all day, waving to the girls when you see them, enjoying the best weather of the year. How much better is that than updating overdue spreadsheets with a boss breathing down your neck, or slinging burgers behind a hot, greasy grill.
I wish I could have been a suburban cowboy when I was that age. That would have been the bees knees, as they used to say.
Now promise me that, if you know any of the suburban cowboys, you won’t tell them about the next part of this story. Just keep this between you and me.
Why ruin it for these kids? Let them go on thinking they have the greatest summer job in the world. Deal? Good. I knew I could trust you.
I’ve been working from home on a part-time basis for a while now. I have my computer set up on a desk facing a window. This means I can watch the world go by as I toil with keeping all those recalcitrant bits and bytes in order.
So, when I put out lawn bags for pickup, I get to stare at them for the entire eight to 10 days it takes for the suburban cowboys to come by and pick them up. So far so good, but “aye, there’s the rub” (thank you, Bill Shakespeare).
My lovely neighborhood is uber dog friendly. I mean, really, really dog friendly, such that I see dog walkers pass by my house all day long. Being conservative, let’s say eight dog walkers pass my house every day.
Again, being conservative, just to make sure I get this right, let’s say half the dogs that pass by “mark” my lawn bags. By mark, I mean they make their human stop, as if they’ve never seen a lawn bag before.
Then they sniff all around the bag profusely, sopping up whatever nasty smells are there. Then, for good measure, they lift a hind leg and happily pee right on the lawn bag. What fun to be so unencumbered by normal constraints of decorum, hahaha.
So, over 10 days, which is about how often the suburban cowboys visit, my lawn bags are marked by the neighborhood dogs, conservatively, 40 times (do the math). That means that, when these strapping young men hop off the truck and bear hug those huge, overstuffed bags to shove them in the hopper, they are actually grabbing giant pee-soaked sponges.
Yuck! Let’s hope they get a good shower at the end of the day.
Listen, every job has its perks and quirks. Some things are good; some things are not so good.
Truly, being a suburban cowboy has a huge upside. I wish I’d had that kind of summertime job when I was going to school.
What fun to be outside all day, getting paid to hang off the side of a truck, watching the world fly by. So what if the leaf bags you have to pick up all day are covered in dog pee?
At least that’s a natural substance. It’s not like breathing in asbestos or some other toxic chemical. And look at the bright side: At the end of the day, before you shower, every dog you meet will take special interest in you for sure.
The suburban cowboys of Guilderland are truly local heroes, in my opinion. I’m very glad we have them. Rock on, boys, and, if you stop by to say hello, please shower first.
I love meeting new people because all people are interesting in one way or another. Truly, meeting new people adds spice to life, just like hot sauce on chili.
The best is when I get to meet an Interesting Person. That’s like winning the game for me. But what makes for an Interesting Person? Fair question.
Let’s start with what makes a person not interesting. Imagine it’s blistering hot and sweltering humid. You know, like a typical day in Florida. If someone comes up to you and says “Hot enough for ya?,” you can be sure that is not an Interesting Person.
An Interesting Person knows it is indeed hot enough, and that there is no reason to ask such an obvious question. Trust me: If it’s hot enough for you, it’s hot enough for me.
If you are a teacher of any kind, you are automatically an Interesting Person. You know in your heart that children are the future, and you know in that regard that you have great responsibility.
However, when you see kids who are obviously having problems at home, or kids with ridiculously demanding parents, or school districts with no funding, it just breaks your heart. If all that doesn’t make you interesting, nothing will.
Any kind of musician or singer is an Interesting Person. While we all love music, it’s the ones who put in the endless hours of practice to do it well that make it possible for us to enjoy it in the first place. Since I’ve started to play a little, I have a newfound respect for anyone who plays anything.
In the same vein, the confidence of a singer who goes out there and bleeds from the heart is truly awe-inspiring. Musicians are by default Interesting Persons.
A lot of us have hobbies. Some common ones are gardening, woodworking, and model railroading. Having a hobby is pretty ordinary, but some people take their hobbies to the next level.
I had a friend who had a large, tiered garden that was so fantastic he could have charged admission. I have other friends who build fantastic woodworking projects, and others who create intricate and detailed model railroads. To spend so much time and money on your hobby like that, where you are really devoted to it, makes you an Interesting Person in my mind.
If you are lucky, you have some friends who really get into cooking and entertaining. I know a couple who just “whip together” gourmet meals and baked goods like it was nothing. They make it look so easy, I wonder why we don’t do it in my house (probably because it’s not that easy).
These people do it up right: the proper place settings and serving ware, elegantly simple yet tasteful recipes, pairing the wine, etc. Plus their house looks like it could be in a magazine. When you can cook, clean, and entertain like that — and make it look so easy — you are interesting for sure.
If you’ve been reading my column for any length of time you know that I love to read. I’ve been averaging a book a week for many years, and I wish I had time to read even more. If you love to read as well, you are automatically an Interesting Person.
Why? Because, by reading and getting others’ perspectives on anything and everything, you will be better able to consider and hopefully understand the many nuances that are part of life. You’re the kind of person who knows that it’s not all black and white, but infinite shades of gray. Yes you, the voracious reader, are the very definition of an Interesting Person, and I heartily salute you.
I love this quote from H. Jackson Brown Jr., the author of “Life’s Little Instruction Book”: “Never make fun of someone who speaks broken English. It means they know another language.”
Being multilingual makes for a very interesting person indeed. Because different languages use different thought constructs and word patterns, people who speak another language literally think differently.
Don’t even get me started on tonal languages like Mandarin. Imagine what thinking in that language must be like. If you can speak more than one language, or translate, you are not only interesting but in high demand. Good for you.
Motorcycle riders are very interesting. I’ve met a ton of them and I can say without doubt that every motorcycle rider out there is just a friend I haven’t met yet.
If I go to a party and meet another motorcycle rider, I’m good for the rest of the evening. Everyone has their own reasons for riding, and I never get tired of talking about it.
If you’ve gotten soaked or crashed or broken down somewhere, or just felt like you were flying through the air with the sun at your back and the wind in your face, you have my undivided attention, always.
Artists, I don’t care what the medium is, are interesting. That someone can be so creative is just amazing. The enjoyment of art, prose, music, sculpting, photography, etc., is what makes life worth living.
It’s not always easy for creative people to be creative, because they simultaneously have to come up with some way to pay the bills while doing it. I find creative people to be very interesting, and I’m glad to share the world with them.
I don’t believe in war and prefer diplomacy first, always. Having said that, I do find our dedicated military personnel to be interesting by default, and I heartily thank them for their service. I can’t imagine what being in combat must be like.
Same goes for police, fire, rescue, etc. It’s dangerous, stressful work but someone has to do it. I’m sure they all have their stories, many of which we’d have a hard time even imagining. Those are surely interesting people.
I avoid any medical TV shows or stories, and I try to stay out of doctors’ offices as much as I can. That’s the main reason I try to exercise every day.
Still, I know health care professionals have it tough, which makes them interesting people. My daughter is a nurse, and what she goes through on a daily basis is just unreal.
Any time you’re dealing with life and death is, at the very least, interesting in many ways. My hat is off to all the overworked medical professionals out there, especially in this awful COVID period that never seems to end.
If you are a small-business owner, you know all about struggling through ups and downs, trying to pay all your bills, endless regulations, theft (both internal and external), and so many other things that come with the territory.
I’m so inspired when small-business owners put their heart and soul into it, for our benefit. That is interesting and worthy of our admiration, certainly. Thanks to you all.
I grew up in the city, so I don’t have firsthand knowledge of farming. I know that farming now is done by big corporations, yet some family farms still survive.
If you are a farmer, you know you are totally dependent on the weather, and that there is no such thing as a day off because the work never stops. Truly, farming families that work so hard and strive to keep it going are interesting in many ways. They are the heart and soul of the country. My hat is off to them.
Finally, let me end with some very interesting people, judges. I don’t know about you, but many times both sides of the story make sense to me, making it very difficult choosing which way to go.
Like, is it OK to eat the last endangered animal if you’re starving? Judges train to make these decisions in as fair a manner as possible, keeping the law in mind and yet trying to have a heart at the same time.
I admire judges very, very much. That kind of work can’t be easy, and it certainly makes them very interesting people.
In looking over this list, it seems most of the people I find interesting are people who work. How interesting, pardon the pun.
Maybe because I’ve been in the workforce for 50 years and am finally approaching retirement has something to do with it. In any case, I just know that people who get up every day to support themselves and their families are the lifeblood of this country, and will always have my utmost admiration and respect.
Hot enough for ya?
We got to spend a weekend in Buffalo with one of my wife’s high school classmates. It was the weekend right before Buffalo got hit with four feet of snow, so we lucked out for once.
In case you haven’t been to Buffalo, you should try it. It’s big enough to have everything you need — great sports, culture, restaurants, etc. — but small enough to feel cozy and friendly. I like it a lot and hope to return soon.
At one point during the weekend, we were outside our lovely friends’ warm and comfortable home when the mail lady walked up. At that point, our friend yelled out, “Hey, you got any love letters for me?” I found that to be very telling. Let me explain.
Clearly, in her mind, a good day is when the mail person brings you a love letter. I will say I’ve gotten one or two of them myself, but that was long ago, when I had a narrow waist and thick, dark hair.
These days, I get excited only if the mailman brings me motorcycle parts or magazines. Anything else goes to my lovely wife to deal with.
But I couldn’t get the thought of receiving a love letter out of my mind. With that said, I’d like to make this column a love letter to you, my faithful readers.
Every now and then, I’ll be at the market, gas station, or library, and one of you will come right up to me and tell me how much you love my column. Wow, what a rush.
The fact that my writing gives anyone any kind of comfort or joy is so wonderful and amazing to me. So let me say right here that I love you very much for that. Thanks so much, and thank you yet again. I really do appreciate it.
Some of you even take the time to write me letters. Yes, believe it or not, some of you are so moved by my writing that you take the time to send me handwritten thanks and encouragement.
I love all of you who have written to me over the years. It’s really a treat to get a letter like that, but don’t expect an answer from me in the mail.
Here’s why: I once tried to sell Girl Scout cookies for my daughter in the office where I work. I did sell a few boxes, but I had one very good friend there who would not buy them.
“Frank,” he said, “there are 500 people on this floor, and if I buy cookies from you, I have to buy from them as well, and I just can’t eat that many cookies!”
So that’s why I don’t personally answer my “fan mail.” Anyone who mails me personally deserves a thoughtful, handwritten response.
The only way I can do that, because of my chicken-scratch penmanship, is to write very, very slowly. So slowly, in fact, that to answer my letters I would have to lose some of my beauty sleep to complete even one.
Trust me, if you saw me these days, you’d know I need all the beauty sleep I can get, haha. So no personal thank-yous from me any time soon, but thanks so much for writing. I really love that you took the time to let me know you like my writing, yes I do.
Here’s the main reason I want to use this column to say how much I love each and every one of you who reads it: By reading my column in The Altamont Enterprise, you are supporting local, independent journalism. That is fantastic.
I don’t know if you are aware, but newspapers in general are having a hard go of it in the Internet Age. The only way many can make it is to cut staff to the bone and then work the remaining staff crazy hours on a shoestring budget. This is not how it should be, of course, but unfortunately how it is.
So every time you pick up a copy of The Enterprise, you are using your hard-earned dollars to say how much you support local independent journalism. I truly, really, love you for that!
Think about how much less our lives would be if we didn’t have this paper. Because of The Enterprise, we get to see how local government (mostly) works; what our friends and neighbors are up to; and the overall feel of what life in the Capital District and surrounding areas is like.
Truly, I feel enriched when I read The Enterprise, from the award-winning editorials by our wonderful editor, Ms. Melissa Hale-Spencer, to the latest ramblings of the Old Men of the Mountain, and everything in between. Where else can you find unique and interesting content like this?
I’m just waiting for a Recipe of the Month to start appearing, yes I am. I like to cook but I need all the help I can get, so start sending in your best recipes now.
Fun Fact: During the Buffalo weekend, my wife’s friend said this: “A bra can cost $40, if you buy a good brand.” As someone who has never purchased a bra in his entire life, I would have guessed they were $10, maybe $20 max.
I mean, I can buy a three-pack of T-shirts or a six-pack of socks every day for 10 bucks, so what do I know? The fact that something so ordinary and common, and that 51 percent of the population uses every day, costs so much is truly eye-opening, at least for me.
Hey, if you’re lucky you learn something new every day, so there’s that at least. I guess the TV show “The Price is Right” is not in my future any time soon, too bad for me.
So thanks for reading my column over the years. I really appreciate it and love you all. Especially, let’s all give a big thanks for local independent journalism like The Altamont Enterprise, the beating heart of this most special part of the planet that we all so fondly call home.
Thanks to everyone at The Enterprise for keeping this most excellent and appreciated publication fresh, alive, and vibrant. And for all of my lady readers, keep an eye out for when those bras go on sale. Who knows, you might find a good one, and then maybe you’ll get some love letters in the mail.
Postscript: the above was written before the devastating Christmas blizzard in Buffalo that has, as I write this, taken 27 lives and counting. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say our thoughts and prayers go out to the entire city of Buffalo.
A zebra walks into a bar:
“Hey, can I get beer, please?” says the zebra.
“Are you joking, mate? We don’t serve animals in here!” brays the clearly perturbed bartender.
“But the name of this bar is The Wild Bunch. Says so right on the sign,” retorts the zebra.
“Yes, the name of the bar is indeed The Wild Bunch, but that doesn’t mean we serve animals. It’s just a clever, fun kind of name, something to make the customers feel good when they come in here.”
“Oh, I understand now,” says the zebra. “I was taking the name The Wild Bunch literally. I thought it meant this was a place where wild animals would be welcome. You see, I needed a place to tell my friend the antelope to meet me today. So I thought this would be a great place.”
“Sorry for the confusion, mate” says the genuinely apologetic bartender.
“No, it’s totally my fault,” says the zebra. “Clearly, the name of your bar — The Wild Bunch — is allegorical in nature. I should never have taken it literally. Obviously, a nice place like this wouldn’t be this nice if you allowed wild animals in here. The symbolism in the name — the fun and playfulness, in fact — is just to make your hard-working customers feel better about paying vastly marked-up prices for quite ordinary food and drink.”
“Now you just wait a minute!” shouts the bartender.
“No, I was wrong,” says the zebra, “and I want to make it up to you.”
“Oh yeah?” says the bartender, throwing his towel over his shoulder and folding his arms defiantly. “How are you, a zebra, going to make anything up to me?”
“I have an idea. Come outside with me and let me give you a ride around the block.”
“A ride around the block!” snorts the bartender. “Why in the name of all that is good and green on this fine rock would I ever want to ride around the block on a zebra?”
“It’s like this,” replies the zebra, confidently. “It’s generally understood that zebras are not tamable, correct?”
“Well, not that I’ve given it much thought, but now that you mention it, I’ve never seen a cowboy in a movie riding a zebra.”
“Of course not. So when I’m riding you around the block, folks will take pictures and videos on their phones.”
“So?” says the bartender.
“Then those folks will post those pictures on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and the like.”
“You’re wasting my time. Now get outta here, for Pete’s sake!”
“No, wait. Once they post those pictures and videos of me giving you a ride, their friends will quickly share them. Think about it — a picture of a bartender riding around on a zebra in the middle of downtown is a pretty rare thing.”
“Again, why should I care about any of this?”
“Because then their friends will share those posts, and then those friends will share, and then bang, it will go viral!”
“Go viral?”
“Yeah, just like that, you and The Wild Bunch will be all over the news.”
“We will?”
“Sure. You’ll be known as The Zebra Whisperer, and The Wild Bunch will become the new trendy place to go. Then you’ll get interview requests from all the news shows.”
“Come on!”
“I’m not kidding. The news shows love content, the crazier the better.”
“You’ve got a point there.”
“Then you’ll get a book deal, go on a speaking tour, and retire from this job so you can make being The Zebra Whisperer your new fun and exciting career.”
“Look mate, stop blowing smoke up my butt. How likely is all that to really happen?”
“Does a bear do his business in the woods, as they say?”
“Yes, of course, but —”
“Listen, people don’t want to deal with serious issues like climate change, overpopulation, and impending nuclear doom. They just want to scroll on their phones and tablets to get their dopamine fix by sharing odd or funny pictures and videos with their friends.”
“Dopamine fix? How do you know about dopamine, of all things?”
“I read it in The New York Times.”
“Ha, The New York Times! I knew you were a lousy leftist liberal loser the minute you walked in here!” bellowed the bartender.
“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” says the zebra, in his most sarcastic and flippant voice.
“Still, you may have a point about these pictures and videos going viral.”
“Of course I do. That’s the way the world works these days. It’s not about facts any more; it’s about content, and the crazier and stupider the content, the hotter it is.”
“To tell you the truth, I pretty much thought I’d have to slop suds behind this damn bar until I’m pushing up daisies. So if there’s any chance of what you say might happen could be true —”
“Look, would I lie to you?” says the zebra, with a clearly discernible wink-wink.
A regular customer, Mr. Osaka, who happened to be a corporate lawyer, was sitting at the bar while all this was going on.
“Mr. Osaka, what do you think about all this drivel from the zebra here?” asks the bartender.
“Zebra-san very wise,” says Mr. Osaka. “Zebra-san show great insight into realities of new youth-driven business environment. Clearly, zebra-san know which side of the bread is buttered.”
“Hmm. OK, then. Nancy?” yells the bartender to the quite fetching waitress, who’s been listening to all this while wiping down tables the entire time.
“What is it, luv?” she replies.
“Cover the bar, I have to go outside for a few minutes.”
“Riiiight,” says Nancy, in her best what-could-possibly-go-wrong-with-this-idea voice.
The zebra and the bartender go outside, and the zebra crouches down until his belly hits the ground. The bartender carefully gets on. Then the zebra rears up on his hind legs and flips over backwards, crushing the bartender, who winds up unconscious on the sidewalk, with a broken nose and several broken ribs. The zebra then rubs his back on a lamp post to get rid of the blood, and goes back into the bar.
“Hey, Nancy,” says the zebra, “now can I get a damn beer, please?”
Nancy serves the zebra, and then shares the video of the zebra tossing the bartender to her social media feeds. The video goes viral, and Nancy uses her newfound fame to become a social-media influencer, allowing her to quit the bar and buy a huge house on the water. The bartender goes on disability and is forced to close The Wild Bunch.
And the zebra? Mr. Osaka convinces him and the antelope to open a chain of pubs where animals are allowed in called The White Stripes. This works out great at first, until they get sued for copyright infringement by the band of the same name, bankrupting them, and forcing them to live out their remaining years on a farm for abandoned endangered animals.
The moral of the story? You might think zebras can’t talk or walk into bars and order beers, but in the world we now live in, which is the world of “alternative facts,” they most certainly can, for better or worse. So if a zebra happens to come into your bar, just grab him a nice, cold beer. He’ll appreciate it very much.
I call them the suburban cowboys. These are the young men who stand on the rear bumper of the Town of Guilderland Highway Department trucks, looking for all the world like cowboys, riding a horse sidesaddle.
They come by every now and then and take your tied and bound sticks and branches, as well as your bagged leaves, twigs, and weeds. We are very lucky to have these guys coming around on a regular basis. Many other towns don’t have anything like this, and I really do appreciate it.
Normally, I put yard waste in my little utility trailer. Then, when it’s filled, I tow it to the landfill and empty it there.
However, this year I had many other events and responsibilities that required me to keep the trailer available for other uses at a moment’s notice, like moving and hauling. I had to keep it empty at all times.
So that’s how I became a fan of the suburban cowboys, by putting out bag after bag of yard waste for them to gladly take. They really helped me out when I needed them.
Imagine being a young guy with a free summer, needing a job between college semesters. Then the opportunity to become a suburban cowboy pops up. What a great deal that is.
Think about it: You’re outside all day, waving to the girls when you see them, enjoying the best weather of the year. How much better is that than updating overdue spreadsheets with a boss breathing down your neck, or slinging burgers behind a hot, greasy grill.
I wish I could have been a suburban cowboy when I was that age. That would have been the bees knees, as they used to say.
Now promise me that, if you know any of the suburban cowboys, you won’t tell them about the next part of this story. Just keep this between you and me.
Why ruin it for these kids? Let them go on thinking they have the greatest summer job in the world. Deal? Good. I knew I could trust you.
I’ve been working from home on a part-time basis for a while now. I have my computer set up on a desk facing a window. This means I can watch the world go by as I toil with keeping all those recalcitrant bits and bytes in order.
So, when I put out lawn bags for pickup, I get to stare at them for the entire eight to 10 days it takes for the suburban cowboys to come by and pick them up. So far so good, but “aye, there’s the rub” (thank you, Bill Shakespeare).
My lovely neighborhood is uber dog friendly. I mean, really, really dog friendly, such that I see dog walkers pass by my house all day long. Being conservative, let’s say eight dog walkers pass my house every day.
Again, being conservative, just to make sure I get this right, let’s say half the dogs that pass by “mark” my lawn bags. By mark, I mean they make their human stop, as if they’ve never seen a lawn bag before.
Then they sniff all around the bag profusely, sopping up whatever nasty smells are there. Then, for good measure, they lift a hind leg and happily pee right on the lawn bag. What fun to be so unencumbered by normal constraints of decorum, hahaha.
So, over 10 days, which is about how often the suburban cowboys visit, my lawn bags are marked by the neighborhood dogs, conservatively, 40 times (do the math). That means that, when these strapping young men hop off the truck and bear hug those huge, overstuffed bags to shove them in the hopper, they are actually grabbing giant pee-soaked sponges.
Yuck! Let’s hope they get a good shower at the end of the day.
Listen, every job has its perks and quirks. Some things are good; some things are not so good.
Truly, being a suburban cowboy has a huge upside. I wish I’d had that kind of summertime job when I was going to school.
What fun to be outside all day, getting paid to hang off the side of a truck, watching the world fly by. So what if the leaf bags you have to pick up all day are covered in dog pee?
At least that’s a natural substance. It’s not like breathing in asbestos or some other toxic chemical. And look at the bright side: At the end of the day, before you shower, every dog you meet will take special interest in you for sure.
The suburban cowboys of Guilderland are truly local heroes, in my opinion. I’m very glad we have them. Rock on, boys, and, if you stop by to say hello, please shower first.
Well, after two years of due diligence, I finally got COVID-19. If you’ve had it, believe me, I feel your pain. If you’ve managed to somehow avoid getting it, keep up the great work. Trust me, it truly sucks.
Here is what COVID-19 did to me, over the course of two very rough days:
— Intense headache requiring copious amounts of Tylenol;
— Legs that felt like they were made of lead;
— A shallowness in my chest when breathing; and
— Being freezing cold yet sweating profusely while trying to sleep.
Fortunately, after two days of this misery, I slowly got better. I think being in fairly good health overall was something I had going for me. I can easily see how, if someone is weak or frail, this kind of thing could be devastating for them.
If you ever needed a good reason to exercise, put COVID-19 defense right up there at the top of the list. I’m over age 50, which is the group who really had it rough with COVID-19. I think exercising six days a week helped me beat it.
If you want to be safe, and feel good in general, find some kind of exercise, anything that gets you moving, and then stick to it. You’ll never regret it, and it might just save your life.
So how did I finally get COVID-19 despite doing everything right — being triple vaccinated, not going anywhere, wearing a mask all the time — for over two years?
A couple of weeks ago, my wife had her 50th high school class reunion. She was on the planning committee, and this was a truly marvelous event that went on for five hours.
I lasted for two hours, but she stayed the whole time. This was on a Saturday. By the next Wednesday, my wife tested positive for COVID-19. That same night, I started to show symptoms. So there you go.
This reunion turned into a “super spreader” event. At last count, a dozen attendees have come down with COVID-19. What a bummer.
As I said, my wife was on the planning committee, and they really did a great job. They even took the time to remember classmates who are no longer with us. What a nice touch. It’s so sad that this insidious, invisible, horrible virus had to go and ruin it for so many of us.
And yet, getting COVID-19 myself isn’t the worst thing about the COVID-19 for me. The worst thing was, at the height of the pandemic, having to keep six feet away from my grandson. He was just a toddler then, and I played it off by making up games of tag and the like so we could just run around and around outside.
But he knew, young as he was back then, that something was wrong.
“Mom,” he’d say, “I want Grandma and Grandpa to come inside and play with me.”
That really sucked but, knock on wood, my daughter has kept her family COVID-19 free throughout all this. Good on her.
The Tuesday night after the Saturday-night reunion, my wife and I had dinner at a nice Italian restaurant with my brother, who was visiting all the way from Florida, and a dear old friend of mine. Somehow, my brother did not get COVID-19, but my friend did.
What makes it worse is she’s smack dab in the middle of a complete kitchen makeover. She now has to quarantine, so that project is on hold for at least 10 days. Can you imagine having to live with that upheaval for so long? I’m just sick that she apparently got COVID-19 from one of us. What a total drag.
It’s not all bad news, though. I’m lucky to have the kind of job that can be done mostly remotely, so I have not had to miss any time from work. I had been scheduled to get my second booster the very next week after the reunion, but now I’m going to wait three months.
Supposedly, if you survive COVID-19, your body makes its own antibodies so you are protected for a while. Let’s hope.
As I write this, I’m well past my 10-day quarantine, yet I’m still testing positive when I use a rapid test. According to my doctor, it’s possible to test positive for up to three months after you’ve had COVID-19.
According to rules from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, I’m now allowed to be out in public without a mask. Still, I’ll be masking until I get two negative tests in a row. That’s just the right thing to do.
Now let’s talk about vaccines. I consider them a miracle of modern science, and I can’t wait until I get my next booster.
Frankly, no pun intended, I have no ability to understand people who refuse to get vaccinated. I understand there is a tiny minority who have systemic health issues that may preclude them from getting any kind of vaccine, but the skeptics?
Come on. I wouldn’t wish what I had to go through for two miserable days on anybody; it was that bad.
The protection is there, just get it, for your family’s sake if not your own. Had I not been triple vaccinated, my outcome, bad as it was, could have been a lot worse.
It’s like that old joke that goes like this: A guy’s house starts to flood. Some folks come by in a big truck.
“Come with us!” they say.
“No thanks,” he answers. “The Lord will save me.”
Then the water gets higher. Some guys come by in a boat.
“Come on, we’ll save you!”
“No thanks, the Lord will save me.”
Finally the water is so high, the guy is on the peak of the roof. A helicopter lowers a rope.
“Grab onto the rope!”
“No thanks, the Lord will save me.”
Of course the guy drowns. When he gets to Heaven, he says to God, “Why didn’t you save me, Lord?”
God says “I sent a truck, a boat, and a helicopter; what more was I supposed to do?”
COVID-19 is no fun at all. Trust me on this. Do whatever you have to do to avoid getting it.
At any given time, there are about 20 people, men and women both, riding solo around the world on a motorcycle. These intrepid travelers sell all their possessions, try hard to get corporate sponsorship, and then set out on the adventure of a lifetime.
Most of these trips take several years to complete and include all kinds of weather, corruption at borders, illness, and sometimes even kidnapping or violence. To offset these downsides, there is universal compassion for the weary traveler, where the kindness of strangers can build renewed confidence in the overall goodness of humanity.
When they get back home, they often write books and go on speaking tours. It’s nice work if you can: A, get it, and B, survive it.
I’ve read several books by ’round-the-world motorcycle travelers (Glen Heggstad, Ted Simon, and Helge Pedersen are some famous authors in this genre, and there are many more). In one book, the rider found himself in a village deep in Africa. There, an older woman begged him for a book, any book, because she wanted to learn to read and speak English.
He gestured to her as best he could that he didn’t have any books. She persisted, begging him for anything just so she could see some written English. He wound up giving her the instruction manual that came with his helmet. She reacted as if she had won the lottery. That, my friends, is the power of the written word on actual, hold-in-your-hand paper.
To me, the written word is what separates us from all the other animals. Reading and writing let us do all the great things that come only when we work together. Having access to so many great minds from the past truly has been a boon for society.
Thanks to the internet, much of this “content” is now available at the click of a button. While that in and of itself is truly amazing, good old hard copy is not dead yet.
These days, many people start their days by going to a website for the latest news. Not me. I use the web as much as anybody, but I still want an actual newspaper, like this one, in my hot little hands when I really want to understand what’s going on.
Pixels on a screen are too ephemeral for me; I need ink on paper when I’m serious about understanding the big picture. Libraries, one of the greatest inventions of humanity, are a big part of this.
Let’s put it this way: When I have a day off and the weather is decent, I can ride on my motorcycle to the Guilderland Public Library and take out a book. Then I can ride one hundred miles up Route 30, where I’ll find the perfect tree in the beautiful Adirondack Park and sit by the water.
At that point, I don’t need wi-fi or a login and password, or a good battery charge. I can just open the book and be transported to whatever place or time the author chooses to take me. If I were to win the lottery tomorrow — not that I even play very often, but still — I’d do exactly this same trip, as often as I could. There is nothing better.
There are three services the Guilderland library offers to support the sharing of the written word that you might not be aware of. Check with your library; it probably has them as well.
These are all great things that anyone who loves to read and think and share ideas would love. These three things are used book donations, the used magazine exchange, and the Little Free Library. Let’s go through them one at a time.
Most libraries are not accepting donations at this time due to COVID restrictions. However, they often provide third-party donation boxes. In Guilderland, we have boxes from bulkbookwarehouse.com, a company out of Rotterdam, New York, that tries to find good homes for old books.
If you are a baby boomer like me, you might be downsizing your own or your parents;’ houses. There will no doubt be tons of old books lying around. Dropping your books into these bins is much, much better than throwing them out. Think of the old lady in Africa; if they even re-purpose one book for someone like her, the whole program is worth it.
Then there is the magazine exchange. I love magazines and always will, but it gets to a point where you simply don’t have the time, money, and storage space to get all the ones you’d like. Enter the magazine exchange, which is a totally terrific idea.
I read my copy of The New Yorker, drop it off at the magazine exchange at the library, and then pick up a different magazine, like The Economist. How great is that? Again, much better than throwing them out.
Speaking of The Economist, which is a fantastic magazine: When I get lucky and find a used copy of it at the magazine exchange at the Guilderland library, there are always key passages underlined in many of the articles.
The thing is, whoever is doing it has a different idea of what passages I would have considered to be the key passages. So it’s like I’m playing a mental game with a stranger every time I score a copy of The Economist. Great fun.
Finally, there is the Little Free Library. The one at Guilderland can be hard to find at times. Due to all the construction there, like the game whack-a-mole, it pops up in different places. But keeping an eye out for the Little Free Library is worth it.
It’s just a little box on a pole where random books are dropped off and taken out by the general public. When the library was closed for months due to both construction and COVID, the Little free Library was my lifeline. I read at least one book a week, and I discovered many new authors.
What’s very interesting about the Little Free Library is this: It’s never completely full or completely empty. Like a “closed system” in science, it just seems to maintain its equilibrium all year long. That’s just great.
The written word on actual paper is not dead yet. Far from it. Rather, it’s alive and well in this and other great newspapers and good old books and magazines that are still prized and desired all over the world.
Long live the written word that can actually be held in your own hands, an old but still tremendously valuable technology. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to catch up on my reading.