Undue Diligence

I made Grape Jelly.

It took two days.

My feet hurt. 

Mack the Dog A Locked Room Mystery

 

The setting-an 8X10X6' high chain link dog run with a concrete floor.

Cast of characters: Mack the Dog, Jack Russell Terrier extraordinaire. The thief or thieves.

The missing object-a stainless steel dog dish used to give him his kibble breakfast each morning out there in the dark, where I deposit him each morning in summer and from whence he is extracted at eventide to come into the house to continue his marauding ways.

The puzzle-about three days ago, even though the kennel is closed and the gate solidly latched at night so the deer don't go in and drink all Mack's water, said dish vanished. 

There has been an extensive search, but so far no sign has been found.

Did a night prowling owl take a liking to it, thinking to use it as a mirror in her tree hollow abode?

Did a bevvy of errant raccoons climb the fence and take it home to employ it as a wash basin in their humble hollow tree?

Was it Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick? 

Or...dum da dum dum....did Mack bury it so deep in the straw in his Dogloo that no one can find it?

Only the Shadow knows. 

Remember

 

This was written in 2006, but I have not forgotten

Since September 11, 2001, when one of the planes that flew into the World Trade Center turned south just east of here over Amsterdam, it is hard not to notice the rattle of the kitchen windows when a jet passes by. I still stop to listen every single time I hear a plane. In the first days after the attacks it was estimated that more than five thousand people died in the assault. As bodies were counted and some of the missing found, authorities finally decided that only 2996 people actually died.

Only.

As if any single one of the souls who were lost that day, heroes and homebodies, doctors and stockbrokers, firemen, policemen, cooks and secretaries, could be encompassed by a word like only.

They were not only.

They were not some incomprehensible count of the dead and missing.

They were our friends and neighbors. People loved them. People wake still wake up today missing them and mourning them and go to bed each night bereft because they are gone.

One of those 2996 friends, neighbors and loved ones was 27 year-old Carl DiFranco.


This is to honor Carl on the fifth anniversary of the nightmare that took him from his loved ones. Raised in Huguenot, NY and a lifelong resident, Carl was assistant vice president of Marsh & McLennan Cos. Inc., located in the World Trade Center. He graduated from Monsignor Farrell High School and cum laude from St. Johns University. He liked to bowl, play tennis and jog. Married a short time before the attacks he was widowed within months, when heart problems while awaiting a transplant took his longtime sweetheart, Loren Bosso.

Carl must have been a wonderful person. He supported his sister through the birth of his niece, then helped through the difficult weeks that followed. The day he died his mother’s car had a flat tire, so like the decent son he was, he offered her the use of his truck. This made him a little later than usual, but not late enough to be saved. He also took his mother on “dates” and surprise trips. He pitched in willingly to help her with projects around the house and yard. In a New York Times article she said, “I keep thinking I hear him coming in the door, that I'll have a chance to help him get through it," (referring to the loss of his beloved wife.)

From what I read in many tributes from people who knew him, his kindness and caring for his mom reflected the way he always was. Friends remember him as someone who was brave and confident, kind, generous and quick with a joke. There are many poignant references to him by the people who knew him to be found all over the Internet. They make hard reading, but they put a face on what our nation lost that terrible day.

I hope this small tribute will help to remind us of Carl and the many other special people who were taken from us on September 11. I will try to think of him and the good life he lived when I hear planes overhead, instead of reflecting on the terror of those days.

Coats on Coats off

 

Tis the season.

You wake up to a brisk fifties morning. The rising sun glints gently off fog rising off the river and drifting up toward the sky. The grass is thick with dew. The mosquitoes are still sleeping (if you're lucky and it's in the low fifties. Any warmer than that and they just plain love you.)

You could probably survive without a sweatshirt, or a flannel, or a hoodie, but it's a heckin' lot more comfy with one.

Then the sun muscles its orange way on up over the horizon, dragging a short return to summer in its wake.

Gradually your warm snuggly thing becomes cumbersome and de trop.

So you take it off.

If you are a certain farmer I could mention you dump it wherever you are.

BITD when we were farming and those warm-ups found us on a tractor or nailing up fence, that is where the shirt or coat came to rest. Many of them are probably still out there, fading away on a fencepost or tucked behind the seat of some tractor we sold years ago.

Nowadays they are dumped behind the seat of the car or the pickup, gathering there until there is no room in the backseat and someone drags them in for me to wash. 

Oh, well....

I love this time of year, the delightful mornings and the not-too-hot-but-just-cozy days.

Alas, I don't love what's to come, when you don't even want to take your coat off indoors!

It won't be long now. 

Happy Heavenly Anniversary

 

Mom and Dad