For many who’ve tuned into the news, it seems our world and culture is unraveling. Change is everywhere, and much of it is not good.  My daughter and I got to talking about the word “bad” versus “badly.”  I told her I read somewhere that one easy way to remember the difference between “bad” and “badly” is to think of “badly” as being able to feel some object or item with one’s hands.  If deep in one’s heart, someone senses sorrow, grief, or guilt, he feels “bad.” Bad is an adjective, meaning inferior or poor such as a bad check, a bad cold, bad news. Badly is an adverb, denoting “very much.”  If a person feels bad, he is not well.  If a person feels badly, that means he is not smoothly touching something.
               Of course I had some help from a columnist in our newspaper who writes about words, grammar, and usage and by checking an old handbook I  found stashed on my shelf. The Plain English HAND BOOK by Walsh was revised and published in 1959.  It states previous issues were in 1951, 1946, and 1939.  That’s WW II times!  The handbook went on to become a reliable reference throughout the sixties, seventies, and eighties, and now, here for me in 2023. Amazing! 
                I found it interesting that the opening line of the Preface reads as follows:  “This is the complete handbook containing all rules, definitions, and illustrations necessary to the mastery of functional grammar and usage.”   Those editors would never recognize words we use today.  I remember when words such as ‘cyber,” “modem,” and “nerd” were new. The dictionary recently added more than 300 words found in our daily usage, pop-culture, and politics. SCRABBLE players can vouch for many of them. Consider a few added in 2023: “rage farming,” “nearlywed,” “hellscape,” and “liminal space.”
                When I was in the 9th grade, I certainly didn’t know the difference between bad or badly, but I did know when something was “good.”  Children were taught to be “good.”  Bad was something nobody wanted to be.  When I look at the world today I ask, is our world and culture good or bad?  Is it unraveling? If so, what WAS it previously?  I’m sure it was bad back then and even before then.   Evil has existed since the beginning of time, otherwise, why would there be a need for a Redeemer?  But that’s another subject.  Evil is rampant, yes, as witnessed by headlines in newspapers about murders, pedophiles, and such. But that also is another subject.
                  “Blood leads” is a term for journalists.  It makes headlines. Think of the line at the grocery store and the magazines that feature scandals, mayhem, and blood. Today it may be the Murdaugh trial, some celebrity, or tragedy, but tomorrow there will be other deeds to cover.  In spite of all that happens, there is much good in this world, more than we can fathom.  People are basically good-hearted, sympathetic, helpful, and generous.  The definition of good is “having positive or desirable qualities” such as beneficial, helpful, excellent.  There is good news and bad news. I guarantee, if you look for what is good, you will find and experience it.  Really good books dwell on good, bad, and evil themes and characters.  They often become classics. And what makes a classic a classic?  That also is another subject.  

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Recently Peter Funk (of “Candid Camera”) had a piece in the Wall Street Journal bemoaning how companies building electric cars are no longer putting AM radio in their systems.  He reflected how in his youth youngsters couldn’t live without their transistor radios and how people listened to their favorite programs on AM radio.  How difficult it must be for youngsters today to realize there was a time when people didn’t have the computer, internet, or mobile phones.  Remember when a long-distance telephone call caused a person to almost quake with fear because getting a “long distance” call meant some sort of family emergency or death. 

When I was much younger, I sat for several dental students to take their final dental exams at the University of Pennsylvania (I was teaching in a Philadelphia suburb at the time).  In appreciation, the students got together and gave me a transistor radio.    I’ve still got it somewhere.     It is fun to watch old TV programs and note how characters answer or speak on the phone. The really old TV programs show the black square rotary phone. More modern ones show characters using wall phones, then wireless ones, and now the small ubiquitous “smart phones.”  Seems now that everyone has a cell phone and communicates, communicates, and communicates. Fact is, researchers from The U. of California, Irvine, and Microsoft Research, found that people on average check their inboxes 77 times a day. Some things go out of style as innovations occur. Graham Bell and Thomas Edison would not recognize this world. 

 Sometimes when I don’t sleep, I’ll turn on the radio in the middle of the night and listen to Coast to Coast with George Noory.  The other night, I listened to a noted astronomer who has a career making predictions based on his knowledge of astrology.  He explained the various alignments of the planets and predicted a stormy, difficult 2023 and 2024.  In fact, he said that in two years, America might not even exist or it might be a star rising like a phoenix from the ashes.  The predictions were dire.  It all came over AM radio, and I loved listening until I fell asleep.
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When waiting for some appointment, people often flip through magazine pages, appalled at some of the stories.  Others put the magazine down and watch people go by.  I recall someone telling another, “Let’s go to the Mall and watch people.”  That was long ago, when going to the Mall was an occasion. Writers are observant. They have to be in order to develop stories that interest or fascinate.   Truth is stranger than fiction, as the old saw goes.  To be honest, that is so. Truth is, we will have six more weeks of winter. Punxsutawney Phil told us so…. Whether we talk and tell stories via the modern phones, listen to them over Sirius Radio or AM stations, or make up tales about characters we see or imagine, there is a story to be told.  

     Confessions are good for the soul. Here’s one I will make.  Sheepishly, I’ll admit, I got hooked.  I got hooked watching the History Channel’s series, “The Curse of Oak Island.” Of course there is treasure buried on Oak Island, otherwise why would the Laguna brothers—Rick and Marty—and their team spend millions of dollars and dig through muck and stone searching for the money pit?   They have built a dam; they have bored holes; they have researched bits of wood; they have dynamited areas; they have used technology and heavy machinery; they have drained the swamp; and they have captivated millions of viewers who hope they will find buried treasure.  Actually I laugh thinking surely I cannot possibly be hooked, can I, watching people dig holes? 

     In teaching and critiquing manuscripts and writings, I tell students they must have a good hook at the beginning of their stories. In the Oak Island saga, the hook can be termed “the search,” which for some two hundred years has driven people to study the landscape and terrain of that small island off the shores of Nova Scotia. Will it be the Holy Grail? A chest full of gold?  Perhaps the lost manuscripts of Shakespeare’s works?  What I know is the search, the hook as it were, is the story, and in this case, it isn’t fiction.

     Speaking of adventures and holes.   Years ago the librarian in our town (now deceased) told me of an adventure I should take with my children. “Visit the Blue Hole,” she said. “It’s a wonderful short trip from here, and you’ll have a good time.”   So, on a summer day, the family packed up and we traveled east to Castalia, Ohio, where we were informed the “Blue Hole” was located. 

     When we arrived and asked where we should go to see the Blue Hole, the woman in the restaurant –I think it was a Dairy Queen, said she’d never heard of it. Another person, overhearing our conversation, said she knew about it, but that it was “nothing special.”  Off we went, not knowing what to expect. Truly, it was nothing special.  Except it is. From 1920 until it closed in 1990, the Blue Hole was a tourist spot, and some 165,000 visitors came annually to see it.  Alas, we never did see the Blue Hole. What we did see was a little park area, a couple of benches, and a hand pump. It wasn’t the Blue Hole. Later we learned the real Blue Hole, a fresh water pond fed by an artesian spring, had closed, and it was in the private domain of the Castalia Trout Club. We later also learned there are several blue holes in the area.

     Oak Island’s treasure, I understand, has been discovered. I’m still hooked. Like a good story, like a good book, there is intrigue, mystery, good characters, and a plot. Every writer should get hooked on his or her own story. Interestingly enough the Blue Hole is still the subject of articles and questions about its history.   When I talk about watching the digging on Oak Island, my husband likes to say, “Well, well, well --three holes in the ground and it rained.”  I note, however, he seems intrigued. 

I am late writing this blog. I try to get one written each month, but December has almost slipped away , and here I am trying to corral a couple of days left before the end of the year.  My wish for everyone who reads this is summed up in a line or so written by a former U. of Richmond (VA)  alumni who said:
             “My wish is simple: 
             Peace in every nation,
             Joy in every heart
              A mitten on every hand.”

I am going to try to find out her name, as she deserves the credit for putting so much into four lines.

This wish rests on a foundation of hope.  I’ll leave it there even though there are doubts that such successes can ever occur.  Even so, we can hope.  And so the year of 2022 ends.

     November came as a surprise.  I wasn’t ready for it. Because of a hospitalization situation, the month slipped up for me from what I thought would have been sweet late October weather with  bright leaves, blue skies, and cigarette cream- colored fields, freshly harvested.  But, instead, I was “up a tree,” metaphorically speaking.  From a hospital window I watched russet leaves silently fall to the ground.  All now is well, but I have one thing to say:  Nurses are angels. They are. Every one of them.   It occurred to me many times over, how to be nurse calls for a certain type of person: one who can be patient, one who can be efficient, and one who can convince a person that all will be well. 
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           They have good training too. I checked this from the Internet: The minimal qualifications needed to become  a practicing registered nurse  ( RN) are an associate degree or a Bachelor of Science in Nursing, and passing the National Council Licensure Examination for Registered Nurse.  To be accepted in a nursing school a person must have “a high GPA and good scores in math, chemistry, biology, psychology, and other subjects. The profession is rewarding, challenging, and always exciting.”

       I was not the hospitalized person. I was, instead, an observer. As nurses assisted, performed tests, and calmed nerves, I watched, amazed to think that in this world of chaos and trouble, there are individuals who deserve every dollar and more for what they perform. Let me tell you of one little example that has nothing to do with medicine.  The patient was impatient.  TV wasn’t captivating. Reading was not possible. What to do?  Ah yes, music, but not any music. Soft piano jazz –a lá Oscar Peterson type jazz--would work. So, one young male nurse/ assistant found a way to bring in the music. All night long, the soft piano jazz music played and so the restless patient found peace.

       So, it seems appropriate to me that as we move to join Thanksgiving gatherings –and get busy during the holiday season beyond--, to express thanks for nurses, nurses’ assistants, and all those who work in hospitals, nursing homes, and emergency wards. They are the angels who bring help and messages of assurance. Bless them all. Whether it’s an emergency, a broken bone or two  from falling out of a tree—as two different men from my church have recently experienced--What WAS EACH ONE  DOING UP A TREE AT THEIR AGE?????- it is good to know there are those who work even on holidays and weekends to bring help and healing to afflicted.  Perhaps one of two men was putting up Christmas lights; the other probably was working on his deer blind. December is coming.  As you put up your tree, be careful. Don’t fall. 

​        Ever read a book and find yourself not wanting it to end?  That’s the way it was for me with DIRT by Bill Buford.  When I got near the last chapters, I started reading it bit by bit, day by day, making it last. Truth to say, I didn’t understand lots that he had to say about French chefs, restaurants, or dishes, but I enjoyed the adventure he had while spending 6 years in Lyon, France. Actually the apartment he and his family rented was directly across the way from where Lyon’s history is commemorated in murals, something my family saw years ago when we vacationed in Europe. That was a long, -- a very long time--, ago. Even so, his book about the French cuisine brought back memories.  
      After I read the review of DIRT in the Wall Street Journal, I decided I had to read it. The library didn’t have a copy, so I ordered a copy.  I had it sent to one of my daughters as a present, telling her she might enjoy it.  She also was ordered to share it with her other sister when she finished.  After she received the copy, she laughed and told me she “got through it. I read it all the way through.”  She passed it along to her other sister, whose comment was “I tried, but finally gave up.”  They gave the book back to me.  So, there it was, DIRT, waiting for me finally to read.
        I found it enjoyable, but quickly realized it is not a book for everyone. It’s difficult. It’s full of French names, dishes, and recipes.  The idea of the title, I decided, is that the “dirt” from a certain locale in France is the reason for the wonderful flour that makes French bread so memorable.  Given this experience in reading and remembering, I sought out another book about the French.
        One hint the author of FRENCH TOAST wrote is that everyone should memorize the recipe for good Vinaigrette.  I decided one afternoon that my husband, now retired, needed something to do. I gave him the recipe and asked him to make the Vinaigrette.  I also told him the ”customary” meal there was in five courses:  the hors d’oeuvre’, the salad, the main entre, the cheese plate, and the dessert.  I informed him as well that he would be lucky if his meal would consist of only ONE or maybe TWO of those five and his “Vinaigrette” would be the star of the salad.  The book did not tell me this, but I read somewhere, that if a person makes a salad consisting of five items, it will be successful.  Okay, so I looked in the vegetable in. I have cabbage, lettuce, carrots, sweet peppers, and must find something else. Whatever I find will be served with his Vinaigrette.
       This blog isn’t about writing or the craft of writing, but perhaps it will remind the reader that books teach us about people, places, and customs, and if a person can’t travel to experience them, a book can do wonders.   A basic vinaigrette recipe?  1 tsp. of mustard, 1 tbsp. vinegar, 3 tbsp. oil, salt, pepper, and optional: tarragon.  Ah, but, there are questions?  Should it be “prepared” mustard or “ground” mustard?  Should the oil be lighter than what I used?  Should the vinegar be red wine or apple cider?  How much salt? How much pepper?  This little recipe is enough for only two salads. It can be doubled and tripled.   Oh well, there are cookbooks I can check to get me on the right tract, and I have a shelf of cookbooks. The internet also can give me answers. “Happy cooking, “as Jacques Pépin always said at the end of his show.   

     The Scribbler’s Pub is made up of a few individuals interested in improving their writing skills. They meet once a month at a local library. They read and critique each other’s works. From time to time, they invite an established or professional writer to speak about the craft of writing and publishing.  Recently I attended one of their meetings to hear playwright and published author Ruth Tyndall Baker tell about her work.  To begin the workshop, she led the group in a Q & A game. Winners were rewarded.  

     One point made as the group discussed their efforts was that a beginning writer has a hard time accepting and dealing with the idea that he or she actually is a writer. Most professions require training and then a certificate, license, or diploma is granted. A writer or poet or play writer has to determine that he or she is actually, yes, a writer, poet, or playwright even though he or she may not be published.

      When I talk with students who want to be writers, I tell them to practice saying aloud,  “I am a writer”;  “I am a poet” ; I am a playwright.”  It shouldn’t be as hard as saying “I am a teacher, lawyer, homemaker, or merchant,”   but it is. Imagine saying, “I am a minister” or “I am a plumber.”   Such a declaration implies the person has a profession, a calling, gets paid for he does, and/or has some success. In the case of a writer, a writer works alone, isolated, writing,  thinking, revising, polishing, and then submitting work. There are rejection letters, one after the other. Sometimes there is no response at all. Baker, the speaker at the Scribbler’s Pub, reminded the group she queried nearly one hundred agents and publishing companies regarding her play and only received three responses, and each response was a rejection. In spite of such a dismal situation, writers keep at it. People who think Grisham, Patterson, or Stephen King must remember that for each one, there are thousands who haven’t had one piece of work published. 

     I have been fortunate. I’ve had some success, but success isn’t a matter of money, certainly in my case. Writers do have, however, a need to be affirmed, and for that we do attempt to publish or see ourselves in print.  Even so, writing is in the process more than the result.  Most writers I know despise the process of marketing…which is difficult indeed but necessary.  Most writers I know say they can spend hours and hours writing and re-writing their work.  Whereas a painter uses oils and brushes, writers use words, and words have shadings and meanings. It becomes an artistic process. Marketing, however, is a business. It’s tough.

     I believe some people are born with the need to express themselves through the written word. My Hungarian friend,  Janos Shoemyen, now deceased, knew and used several languages. He told me English is the language best suited for the written word. English words have subtleties and shades of meanings, and it is a delight—and creative-- to select the very best word for some expression or emotion.
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     The problems most writers have, however, is to be succinct. Think bullets.  Too much rambling, and the writer loses the reader. Short declarative sentences were Hemingway’s technique. It’s something journalists learn early on. State the facts. I tend to be wordy with my writing because my thoughts keep coming.  Even though I’m a seasoned writer, I still have to cut, prune, revise, and cut words. Sometimes I have to throw away perfectly lovely sentences. Ouch. 

     My mother-in-law, now more than twenty years deceased, brought it to me from one of her trips, --Odense, Pure Almond Paste. It was a 7 oz. package in a lovely little box that explained Odense was a company formed in 1909.  My mother-in-law was born in 1901, so maybe there was some connection.  Anyway, it could have been in Europe, India, China, or the Scandinavian countries where she bought it, but I like to think she found it in a patisserie in France or some confectionery cafe in Austria. At any rate, it came to me from one of her travels, and it stayed in my pantry for more than a quarter of a century. While straightening some canned goods, I found it. The box had come apart, but still inside was the silver tube with the paste.
     Naturally I had to look up the history of the Odense Company.  I learned it was established in Italy, and its product, marzipan, is exported to twenty-five countries, with big markets in Germany, England, France, Italy, and Austria. They also export to Australia, USA, and China.  In America, it is imported by Andre Prost, Inc. | Fine Foods and Confections Since 1923.
     Having read the history of marzipan, I now feel that I must use this, but how can I, when my tube of pure almond paste is as hard as a rock. Perhaps I can nuke it in the microwave or unwrap it and hope it’ll soften. Giving this a bit of thought, however, I think it best to toss it. This tube is at least thirty years old. Now, you ask, why do I discuss a subject as unremarkable as this?
     My answer may be reflective of a more common behavior.   I tend to keep some particular object or item because “someday” I might need it, or “someday” I can use it in a special way.  This happens about bits of ribbon, fabric, clothing, or a tool, and then time passes and that “someday” doesn’t come… or if it does, I’ve forgotten about the item or where I put it.  I’m not the only person who does this. This applies to a number of friends I know.  So, I have decided I must use “my good stuff” now, but this tube of pure almond paste that I should “bake with the best” doesn’t qualify. Not anymore.
     By the way, I found that Odense has come into the modern world.  It even has a Facebook page with over 37,000 followers.  They have a website where people can look up recipes for marzipan, decorations, and baked goods.  If they can move into the present century, I will try to follow suit, which leads me to the main message of this blog:  don’t keep pure almond paste for future use. Be impulsive and daring. Throw it in the next batch of cookies or pie you make. As a writer, you see, I cannot write a blog without referencing the craft of writing. Sometimes the first idea you have is your best story or plot, and the one I had today was to write about my Odense pure almond paste. 

     Some have asked why I haven’t written anything this month. I have been taking a break. Even so, I wish to thank those who asked and told me they missed me.  It means a lot to know a writer has a reader, a performer has an audience, a speaker has a crowd.  When someone tells me he or she has read something I’ve written, I know that person has come upon my words from a perspective far different than mine and so I am intrigued. I wonder how did my work resonate.  So I often ask, what did you think?  Sometimes it is shocking to learn that the reaction was one of indifference, but generally the person says, “I found it interesting,” or “amusing” or even “thought provoking.”  What is affirming is to be told that what I wrote led that person to think. The pen indeed is mightier than the sword. Let me explain from my point of view.

     Years ago, I wrote a weekly column for a four-county newspaper. That in turn led me to submit some features and articles to national newspapers, and sometimes I was fortunate to have something printed in them.  I developed quite a following, and when my column didn’t appear in the paper, I would get phone calls asking why.  I began to realize that some people relied on what I said about an issue to influence how they perceived about the issue. I began to realize that what I wrote had some influence. I came to the conclusion that I could influence votes on a local level.  It almost scared me. Actually, it did scare me.  I began to feel timid about what I wrote. I found myself shifting away from taking a stand. On one occasion there was brouhaha about a certain person’s candidacy for a school board position.   I knew I could sway the electorate if I said such and such about that person. I did some serious thinking.  Then I did some serious research.  I realized I was prejudiced against that person for personal reasons. I did some more serious thinking and decided to say nothing about the situation.  When people asked what I thought, I answered that I wanted the electorate to decide.  I now know why I am so skeptical about journalists and reporters.  They are human and have their own opinions.  They are supposed to be objective, but are they? 
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     The media runs its news on a twenty-four hour reporting cycle. Over and over, listeners and viewers are told how bad things are or how awful certain politicians are or how disastrous life has become. True enough, our culture and government is undergoing changes that are unsettling and need serious thinking. But let me say, for all that is bad and criminal and terrible, there is good still to be found. I use “good” here as a noun.  Look for it, and you will find it. You will find it in friendships, neighbors, families, agencies, churches and synagogues, and sometimes across the counter in stores and pharmacies. Little acts of virtue, honesty, help, and generosity can change the world.  Let such a gesture be your act, your commission, your happiness. Sometimes we need a break from the horrendous happenings of the day.

     ​It was, after all, an old tree. In spite of rain and wind pounding the house, we heard a noise that made us run to see what had fallen.  A portion of the tall, black cherry tree in our yard had broken from its trunk and crashed into the floodplain.  Years ago, the trunk developed a front and a back part. The front part leans out toward our deck, and from these low limbs, birds fly in and out of their houses.  The back side of the tree was one that reached the sky.  A black cherry tree can grow to heights of 50 to 80 feet and in optimum conditions, may reach 100 feet.   
     At any rate, during late summer, when cherries are dark, round, and purple, raccoons can be heard thrashing around in the leaves.  When my now adult son was young, sometimes he’d say, “I couldn’t get a bit of sleep last night because of all the racket those raccoons were making.”  In addition to raccoons, birds—sparrows, thrushes, tanagers, and dozens of other species -- nibble the ripe black cherries. For them, it is a veritable paradise buffet.  Some years, my good husband used to pick enough for me to make a pie. Alas, these were wild cherries, and so as I prepared them, every single cherry had to be inspected. Cutting into them, produced a juice that left hands and sink purple.  
     A wild cherry tree can live 30 to 40 years, and according to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, some species live up to 250 years.  I have no idea how old our cherry tree is, but over the years, the tree lost some of its mojo. It got hit by lightning; the bark split; we knew the life of the tree was limited. We called “the tree guy,” who pruned off parts of the tree but left the lower section for the birdhouses.  He assured us when the back part fell, it would fall “the other way –away from – the house.”  Last night amid the storm, the back part, the tall part, indeed did fall away from the house because the storm came pounding in from the east, not the west—a double blessing, I suppose.  The tree crashed into the bushes and saplings in the ravine below. 
     In the morning it was shocking for us to see the broken jagged trunk standing some seven feet with a bright orange-red gash running down to the base. The lower part of the tree is there, the birdhouses are there, the leaves are out and fluttering, but the gashed trunk stands behind all of it. This tree has witnessed history and every season.  In summer the tree is messy, dropping twigs and black cherries on the ground, but in spring, the white flowers are a delight. When I see them, I think of E.A. Houseman (1859-1936), the English poet’s “Loveliest of Trees.”  He said, “…the cherry now/Is hung with bloom along the bough/…and now of my three score years and ten/Twenty will not come again/And take from seventy spring a score, /It only leaves me fifty more/ And since to look at things in bloom/Fifty springs are little room, /About the woodlands I will go/To see the cherry hung with snow.”
     Looking at the gash, I think about the ferocity of nature, the ragged beauty of the broken trunk, and how that which is tall and mighty in life someday will be bought down.  In the newspaper, some man wrote about trees in his neighborhood being cut down.  He said, “These trees provided shade, absorbed water, increased the property value of neighboring houses, gave refuge to numerous animal populations, and provided the best carbon sink possible to help fight climate change. “  He went on to say the loss of his trees is “a loss of animal life and a loss of aesthetic beautify…a decline in the quality of life.”  Losing a portion of our wild black-cherry tree isn’t that momentous, but I will be sorry to see the remainder of this old tree go. Before long, I suppose, I will have to call the “tree-guy.”