I have memories of two types of rituals for this holiday. The first revolves around football; the second revolves around food. In this issue of The News I’ll tell you about how in Green Bay, Wisconsin, football rules the roost on Thanksgiving. I will get into food next time.
When I was little, my father (a big reader) had a collection of Uncle Wiggily books. They were books he’d owned as a child. We probably had 20 of these books, each containing three stories and amazing drawings.
I’ve been driving by the old dairy barn on Mount Philo Road for 22 years—you know the one, a couple of miles north of Charlotte Central School. When I lived east of Route 7, I sometimes drove by it in upwards of six times a day. I was always fascinated by it—such a beautiful curiosity, imposing, impressive, a relic of Charlotte’s strong agricultural past.
One of my earliest food memories is of eating fresh lobster at my home in Charlotte and also in West Chop on Martha’s Vineyard. I can still remember being a little bit scared of lobsters, with their weird-looking eyes and big claws, but after eating lobster for the first time, it was kind of life changing. It’s so delicious, I can still hear myself say. Not only did the lobster meat taste good, especially dipped in warm butter, but the memories of the times when I had lobster with my family stick with me.
Memories. How do we catalog them, hold on to them, use them? Last week, I found myself wishing I had taken my 10th grade English teacher’s advice and kept a journal every day, jotting down moments that seemed as though they’d be forever embedded in my brain. Of course, we lose those moments, and now, in my mid-50s, I can look at photographs and think, “Wow, I don’t remember that.”
It’s been a long time since I was editor of The Charlotte News and wrote for these pages. My…
On the morning of March 2, Helena Spear warmly welcomed me into her home to talk about her life in Charlotte, their family businesses and her husband, William Spear, or Bid, who died at home on February 19.
When I was nine years old I spent my first two weeks away from home. Eagerly, I arrived at horsemanship camp, where I would enjoy the peak of summer. Naturally, I was afraid to be separated from my parents and my life at home. What I discovered was the deep bonds of friendships, a second home, a place of peace and a new sense of independence.
My husband, John, and I paused on Park Avenue in front of Mr. Saitys’ store with its enticing American Indian and Tibetan jewelry. I pressed the buzzer and Mr. Saity unlocked the door. He welcomed us as if we were former friends, although we’d never met, and began sharing the history of his jewelry. He took a prominent piece from a case.
We have let Noah out of the giant play pen we once called a living room, which consists of…