Scout Moves

This is the week when Small Town turns itself inside out for the sake of football. Tonight is the big game between Small Town and Small Town Next Door who have had a rivalry for over 100 years. I understand hometown pride, but seriously, when I drive from place to place, I can't tell the difference between the two towns—the borders are so blurred, and I'm not always sure where those borders are in some areas. But still, it's Spirit Week, and Small Town held it's big bonfire last night. I didn't attend. I've written about it before—people build a huge structure out of scrap wood and cardboard that is at least two stories tall, and the football players light the thing. It blazes with heat so intense, you have to stand half a block away to keep from being singed. The fire itself is fascinating, but what I find disturbing is how these teenage football players are treated like soldiers or at least as if they're doing something more important than playing a game.

I had another lovely day in the country for the sake of Small Town Newspaper. I've had great assignments in the past—touring wineries in the countryside, talking to a Christmas tree farmer about his deer-damaged crops, walking through the woods with tree conservationists. Yesterday, I spent some time with a couple who raise sheep for their wool. I met the woman at the local farm market last week. She was sitting at her booth where she sold knitted goods, and she was spinning yarn on a spinning wheel. She and her husband allowed me to drive out to see their enterprise and to talk to them about what they do. This place is way out in what is known as Amish Country. With each turn, I found myself on a narrower and narrower road, and when I was behind an Amish buggy like this one trotting along on a curvy and hilly road, I had no choice but to wait patiently for a chance to pass. Notice the 55 MPH sign—we were going 10 at best. Here is a group of Amish school children walking home from

I don't have the flu anymore, but I have had a lingering cough. A week or so ago, in the midst of the coughing, I pulled something like a muscle. Or I broke something like a rib. Whatever happened, it hurts. It hurts when my cat Tiger puts a paw on my sternum. It hurts when I clear my throat. It hurts if I cough even slightly. It hurts if I hiccup or get in and out of a car or pick up something heavier than a cup of coffee. And God help me, it hurts if I sneeze. Like anybody who doesn't like going to doctors, I turned to the Internet for a diagnosis, and I found all sorts of people asking for help from cough injuries. Apparently it's common to hurt yourself while coughing, which makes me wonder if we're all just doing it wrong. Maybe there is correct posture and incorrect posture for it, and those of us in the wrong position break our bones or pull a tendon. The consensus online is that you're screwed. Once you break a rib or pull a muscle or damage the connective t

Last week, I had lunch with a friend I haven't seen in a long time, and we talked about being nostalgic for Halloween. We miss helping our kids make their costumes (or making them all by ourselves) and trick-or-treating with them. We miss carving pumpkins and making a big mess, although some years my kids painted their pumpkins instead of carving them. The most memorable Halloween in this neighbor, for me at least, was the year a big truck ran off the road and brought down a power line about half a mile from here. The entire neighborhood lost electricity late afternoon, and we remained in the dark until 9:00 or 10:00 that night. Some of us set up lanterns and flashlights so visiting kids could find our front doors, and some people opened the trunks of their cars and let the car lights light the way to the candy, and some set up candlelit candy tables in their driveways. We took the kids door to door in groups so all their little flashlights worked like one big one. It was like a bi

I didn't go to English class on Tuesday because there wasn't going to be anything for me to do that day. Plus, I think I pulled a muscle while doubled over in a coughing fit—that, or I cracked a rib. Probably just a muscle. I did go to class yesterday, though, because I'm feeling much more comfortable now, and I knew there would be a full two hours of work going on. I never know what my tasks will be each day because I just go with the flow and do whatever the teacher asks of me. Yesterday, she asked me to work with a woman who has been studying for her citizenship test. Yes, immigrants really can be here legally and really do want to join the team and become citizens. This particular immigrant moved here from Mexico years ago with her family. Her husband has already become a citizen, which means her children can become citizens after they complete a stack of forms. No tests are required for them, but the mother has to take the test. It's nearly 100 questions long and c

Eustacia's best friend since middle school at least has been dating the same young man since her 9th grade. Those things usually don't last, but this relationship has, and the guy, Brad, proposed to the girl, Lisa, just the other day. They both play Super Mario quite a bit, so Brad used some sort of auxiliary software to modify the game and insert a message in the coin configuration, and then he set up a video camera where Lisa wouldn't notice. While Lisa was playing the game, the coins spelled out "Will you marry me," and her reaction and her acceptance of the proposal as he kneeled beside her with a ring was caught on tape. It's cute. Brad put the video on youtube, and the story started getting around. The Telegraph caught wind of it and posted the video on their site, and The Huffington Post wrote about it, linking to the Telegraph article. If you google this thing, you'll find all sorts of stories about it from here to the U.K. Isn't it a weird w

Have you ever seen a meteor shower like this one? Me neither. Actually, up until last night, I'd never seen one of any kind, although I have done my best to. For several years when my girls were living at home, we tried and tried. Someone would hear news of an upcoming meteor shower, and we would set our clocks to get up in the middle of the night for the show. We'd go downstairs and look out the window, and without fail, the clouds would be too dense to see through. We'd curse the weather and go back to bed, and I would mumble something about how once before I die, I'd like to see a meteor shower. One time, we missed the thing because of clouds, and the next day people talked about what a great view they had from a hillside just on the other side of town. This is a small town, you know, so they couldn't have been more than a mile away. How is that possible, that you can barely see the trees on the west side but can see an entire meteor shower on the east? Well, las

Actually, I cook every week, but sometimes I do it in a disorganized fashion. This week, I'm back to my OCD routine of choosing a cookbook, developing a menu from it, writing a grocery list based on the menu and shopping to buy from the list. The system works, and I swear by it even on weeks when I abandon it. This week, the cookbook is Simple to Spectacular , an interesting book that takes a basic recipe and then offers three recipes that vary it to higher and higher levels of sophistication. For example, one recipe is for butternut squash soup with squash, broth and salt and pepper. The next is for the soup with some extras like garlic and thyme and red pepper flakes. The next adds chestnuts, butter and créme fraîche. And the next goes a completely different direction with yellow curry paste, coconut milk, fish sauce and shrimp. I usually don't choose the most involved recipe, so here is the middle-of-the-road menu for the week: Slow-cooked salmon with mussels and coriander f

Today's editorial for Small Town Newspaper is online this time around. It's not funny on its own, unless you like Groucho Marx, but it's about humor—you can read it here . I had decided not to read the online comments for my editorials because they only serve to make me angry. Clearly, there are people out there who sit in front of their computers looking for a fight, and the subject of the article never gets in their way. But today, I slipped a bit on my personal rule and read them. Already, there are two who don't care what I say but want to pick on TSJ. TSJ is short for Third Street Jim, somebody around here who comments on newspaper stories regularly from a left-of-center point of view. He backs up his statements with history and links that defend his views. And then his remarks are met with statements like, "TSJ, you're nothing but a commie." Or "TSJ, why don't you just shut up." People love this guy or they hate him, whoever he is. But

You know that scene in "Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?" The one with the cow standing on the roof of a barn after the place has been flooded. I saw something as unusual yesterday, although my vision wasn't foretold by a blind seer. I was sent to the fairgrounds in Small Town to see what I could see on behalf of the newspaper—there is a forestry heritage festival going on there this weekend on account of Ohio's thriving timber industry. The festival is all about respecting our natural resources and understanding how to use them wisely, but it's also about fun stuff like beef jerky, chainsaw wood carvers, and comic lumberjacks holding canoe jousts in a giant water tank. I was walking through the fairgrounds with my notebook in hand, jotting down things of interest and making note of people to talk to—like the guy with the chainsaw who carves bears into big chunks of cottonwood—when I saw a horse walking on a treadmill. A horse. Walking on a treadmill. It was a big hors

I'm so happy to be back helping with English class, although I continue to wonder how much I actually help. Yesterday, I administered a spelling test to three women in the more advanced book—we all stumbled on the word "environment." It's got that tricky "n" in the middle and is so cumbersome to pronounce, most people don't bother and just sort of slur through it. I was also reminded of how confusing the "b" sound can be when switching from Spanish to English. When I asked them to spell the word "globe," one of them wrote out "glove" even though I was careful to enunciate the "b" to the point of sounding ridiculous. Interesting. I also sat in a quieter room with the same advanced students to read through a newspaper written for people speaking English as a second language. We read about the giant carp named Benson who was found floating dead in his home lake in England. Benson was 25 years old and weighed 52 pounds

In Dive's absence, I am calling attention to the players in this week's 500-Word game. There are only two so far, but I'll check back later and add any late-comers. I've posted my own story here, but it's not a particularly good one. It's just that I've been out of the game for a while and wanted to add at least something. This week's sentence was taken from Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master And Margarita — "Witchcraft once started, as we all know, is virtually unstoppable." ••• First up is Vanda's Bartender's Guide to Bewitching Brews . A seemingly innocent purchase made on a whim proves a surprise for poor Georgina, but is it unstoppable? Then, read Dive's previously posted story titled Rules . A young and overly eager witch breaks all the rules in her youthful exuberance. And she equates murder and rape and bigotry with Celine Dion and Fox News and Belgium. hee hee And then, go read Shazza's story about a beleaguered of

I have had a broad range of assignments for Small Town Newspaper lately. I wrote a story about the H1N1 vaccine, a story about the federal tax credit for making energy efficient improvements to your house, and a story about how a Christian college is opening a satellite campus at a local church. For that one, I had to call the pastor who tried to get away with giving me one-word answers. I hate that. Why do people do that when they know you need a story? Especially in this case when you're basically doing the guy a favor by plugging his church? And then tonight, I covered a speech at the local branch of Kent State given by Kim Dozier, a CBS reporter who was severely injured in a car bombing in Baghdad. I thought she would be talking about her book about the experience, so I read what excerpts I could get my hands on (couldn't get the actual book), and I read reviews and articles and watched clips of interviews. I knew the story and had some questions of my own to ask. I went to

Normally on Monday's I'd link to the editorial in Small Town Newspaper, but today's piece isn't online for some reason. At first I was concerned until I picked up the actual paper and saw that I that my little story had been published right where I thought it should be. Yay. I had an agreement with the old editor that allowed me to copy my editorials onto my blog, but we've got a new guy now, and he and I haven't had that conversation. Let's just assume he could care less, and I can copy it here today. So, like it or not, it's Columbus Day, and here's what I have to say about that: In fourteen hundred ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. He had three ships and left from Spain; He sailed through sunshine, wind and rain. Columbus Day used to be appreciated with just such a childlike acceptance with kids reciting rhymes and building the Pinta, the Niña and the Santa Maria out of old cardboard boxes. Columbus was simply the hero who discovered Ame

Last night, I went to the local branch of Kent State University to cover a story for Small Town Newspaper. The local hospital was hosting what they called "a get-together for cancer survivors," and they brought in a comedian/juggler, Scott Burton, who was also a cancer survivor. I was allowed to speak to him before his show, and the man, someone my age who had a form of cancer about 15 years ago that is typically found in children, was a wise soul. He didn't want to make light of cancer or suggest it's something that can be laughed away, but he recognized that humor is a natural human response and cannot be left out of something even as bad as a scary disease. It's healing and humanity, he said. During his routine, he was clearly talking to the survivors in the room, and he drew plenty of laughs. I am not part of this club of sorts, and I found that when he talked about laughing at bad times, I wanted to cry. When he said the word "cancer' is frightening,

This little guy, Mike, may look sweet and harmless, but apparently he is really a big, scary monster. Or at least that's what he becomes when he feels his territory is being invaded. As an inside cat, his territory is anything within the walls of this house, a house I thought was ours but evidently belongs to the cat. Over the weekend, Husband and I went to the lake house for an evening. I packed up supplies for dinner, fed the cats, and told my dear friend and neighbor that, yes, she could use my ovens while I was away. She has a house key, so we drove off and let her have the kitchen. Here's what happened when this dear friend and neighbor, lover of animals, kind soul, came into my kitchen to bake. Mike went insane. Mike took her as an intruder in his divinely appointed space and set out to remove her. As he does when he sees a wondering cat through the window, he started screaming in that terrible cat scream that says, "If you don't heed this warning, I'll lunge

Well, it's one of those days—it's overcast and chilly, and the wind is gusting upwards of 30 miles per hour. It's October outside, but inside it's cozy and warm, and the coffee is hot. I'd like to sit here all day and work on news pieces and relax and maybe even try playing the horn now that my lungs have cleared a bit. I'd like to make another batch of bread to replace what has been eaten, and I'd like to make a big pot of stew with some veggies from today's farm market. Eustacia came home on Monday with early signs of the flu, and she is snug in bed upstairs. If today were like yesterday, she could curl up in the big chair with a blanket and a cat, and we could eat soup and cookies for lunch and watch an episode of Gilmore Girls. But she isn't feeling as bad as she expected to feel and thinks she should go back to school this afternoon. So, instead of doing all the things I want to do today, I will be driving for three hours out in the wind where t

I am no gardener, and I make no apologies for that. I don't perform surgery, drive a semi, put out fires or fly to the moon, either. We've all got our roles to play. I did plant some herbs this summer, though. I planted sage, oregano, flat-leaf parsley, curly-leaf parsley, rosemary and lavender—one each—and then I walked away. I can dig the hole and stick in the herb, but I've never been good about tending the thing as it grows. You should see the oregano I planted a few years ago. It has become so unruly and completely choked out the chives, and the sprawling thyme right next to it is big enough to be home to a family of opossums. A few weeks ago, I went out in the yard to snip some parsley for dinner and was stunned by the size of the things I had planted. And then I found an intruder—this thing: At first I thought I had your typical weed. We've got plenty of weeds all over the place. But then I lifted up one of the long vines extending from the root and discovered I

My mother will be 84 next month, and she's feeling fine. I spoke to her last week just after she'd been to see the doctor for a checkup, and her heart and blood pressure are A-OK. The doctor was impressed that she lives alone and keeps her own house. She's still picking okra from her garden and is looking forward to having the old Linoleum in her house replaced with tile. She even offered to strip the wallpaper in her bathroom before a sister convinced her that was a job best suited for professionals. I'm feeling pretty old today, though. I'm tired and tired of being unwell. So, here is today's editorial—I'd be honored if you'd read it, and then tell me how old you feel regardless of your calendar age. Additional note: never underestimate the potential for my town's people to be mean spirited.

So, what do you do when you can't leave the house, don't feel like reading or writing the 500-Word story of the week and can't play your horn without blowing germs through the pipes? You play FarmVille on Facebook. My farm is full of interesting animals and a diverse orchard. Just this morning, I harvested rice and soybeans and then planted wheat, squash and strawberries. I plucked down from a duck, milked the cows and collected truffles the pigs had rooted out. I haven't accumulated enough "cash" to expand my farm, so it's packed to the borders, and all those elephants the farm neighbors have been sending as gifts don't help. Keep that in mind the next time you send me a farm gift—bunnies take up much less space. I know it's a waste of time, and I could get more out of watching Regis and Kelly, but I can't do that because The Marx brothers are on—first A Day At the Races, and later Go West followed by A Night in Casablanca. After you fritter a

JJill used to sell a shirt they called the Artisan Shirt. It's made of light denim and is styled sort of like a nehru jacket with that kind of collar and covered buttons. It's full and comfortable, though, instead of being fitted, and the best part is, you don't have to hold your stomach in when you wear it. I'm wearing that shirt today, although I'm calling it the Convalescing Shirt. With the sleeves rolled up, it's like I'm getting down to business, but I'm really just fighting this traveling flu. I'm calling it the traveling flu because it moves from body part to body part—throat, lungs, sinuses. First a fever, then not a fever, then a fever again. Last night I could barely breathe because every breath sounded like a rain stick with rattling and wheezing, and my nose was stopped up, and I felt like I needed a sauna. So, I moved into the guest room, which is the smallest room in the house apart from the laundry room, and I set up the vaporizer. I s