Author: Mary McEwen

Mary Sincell McEwen is a writer, editor, and proofreader. She is a graduate of West Virginia University, where she earned a bachelor of fine arts degree in theatre (playwriting). She and her husband John have three grown sons.

Column Redux 3

Welcome to my third installation of columns written over the past year. Come celebrate coffee, make apple butter, and grab fast onto some family ties. Thanks for being here, and thanks for reading.

Java Jive
Sept. 28, 2017
Sometimes in the quiet of a solitary day, I might surf TV channels to see just what I can waste time watching. Years ago I remember coming upon an old sci-fi thriller. I don’t know what it was, or who was in it, or even how things turned out. But what I found fascinating, and what made me stop changing channels, was that 1.) The world was apparently going to end, and 2.) There was a lady in a pillbox hat serving coffee to everyone.

The characters were all in some underground bunker, all aware that the world had but a few hours left to spin. And this woman — in her tidy blue skirt and matching jacket and hat — had a tray of coffee cups, which she carried from man to man. And each man took one, as if it were any other day, having their coffee before being obliterated. That image has stuck with me for years. And I always thought — I should write about that someday. Apparently the day has arrived.

What impressed me was that coffee was still relevant, even as the planet was circling the drain. Handing it out gave the lady a task. Maybe it kept her mind off her approaching demise. And the guys grabbing it off her tray — perhaps they were satisfied for a moment, too, and able to redirect their panic. Yeah, it was just a movie. But coffee … it’s life.

The fragrance of coffee never disappoints. The rich, soul-touching scent is like no other. I can be distracted by that scent like a cat following a mackerel. Coffee is home to me. My mother is a coffee hound, with her own coffee bean grinder and her theories of how best to do it and how best to store the beans. My sister has roasted her own raw beans, and she uses a coffee press to create an intense, dark cup, with frothed milk on top. My three brothers all drink it — rich, dark, and daily. Like my mother, I have loved the flavor my whole life. She remembers well how her mom would allow her to have half a cup, with the other half milk. Used to be that little kids weren’t supposed to have that, but her mother loved it, too, and empathized enough to give her 10-year-old a little java now and again.

I begged for it early on, usually asking my dad for a sip of his, since he used milk and sugar. When I was really little, I insisted that he wait to add the milk until I could get in a good position to watch the white ribbon swirl into the black. I loved how it turned it to such a creamy color. In college, I would get coffee from a machine at the WVU Creative Arts Center. It was its own kind of horrible, but grabbing a cup before sitting through theater history (four semesters’ worth) was simply vital nonetheless. In my apartment there, I actually used Folger’s instant coffee, which today would make me scoff but then was quite sufficient. I looked forward to opening a new jar, as I think the scent would release a whole pile of endorphins for me, somehow.

Yes, coffee has always been good, except in two situations. One was when I was an antsy kid, ready to vamoose from a restaurant after a meal but then hearing my parents order two cups of coffee to mull over and talk more! Ugh! A prison of pure boredom. The second was when I was with child, and coffee was suddenly disgusting. How I could have such a falling out with my lifelong friend, I didn’t know, but it flat-out made me retch for a few months. Tea was a sad stand-in during that time. I was always relieved when we made up, a few months in. Since then, I have preferred coffee without any additives at all. Black is the best.

Two of my three sons drink it, often to the extreme, and my husband, too. If we are all home, and the fragrance wafts up from the kitchen, the comfort is real. All my life it has meant family, home, and a new day. I hope those poor people in the thriller got to have a new day, too. With more coffee.

Apples and Flames
Oct. 12, 2017
This past weekend I was transported back to years past through an activity that has been part of my life, and my family’s, for decades. Maybe a century. The event lasts about 30 hours from start to finish, and we end up with something to share and have for quite some time. But the having is not as key as the making.

We started with 14 bushels of apples — Jonagold and Golden Delicious — and we ended with about 35 gallons of apple butter. Seems simple enough, doesn’t it? But the process is arduous and such great fun at the same time, and a tradition, which as always has its own charm. From start to finish, we had 62 people lend their help.

We gather to peel and core the apples first, although my mom and I missed that part, as we made our trek to Romney, W.Va. — the home of my cousins where the event took place — a little too late Saturday to make the coring party. I was a little disappointed, honestly, but if I had made it and started in on the 14 bushels from the beginning, chances are high I’d soon be wishing I had missed it. The apples make your fingers turn brown, but only after you wash them. And the brown stays for few days.

Everyone gathers, bringing food and stories. Sometimes we bring friends to experience our tradition with us. And then we commence to arguing, which is a vital part of the process. When should we put the kettles on? Who is staying up? Who is getting up for the next shift? On and on it goes, as it did Saturday, when we finally arrived at starting the kettles around 12:30 a.m., and the crews would shift around 3 or 4 or so.

Making apple butter is fairly common here on the mountaintop. Lots of families and churches do it, and everyone has their own rules and stipulations. Our family certainly does. There are so many regulations to be followed and/or shouted out during the 30-hour process. “Don’t leave any toenails in the apples!” Translated: Get the seeds and hulls out. “Don’t let the wood touch the kettle!” Indeed, a hot ember can melt through a copper kettle, or so we have all imagined with great trepidation. “Keep stirring!” Good heavens, yes, don’t ever stop, even for a second. “Figure eight is best,” says one brother. “Nah, you gotta go back and forth along the whole bottom, and then back,” says the other. “You’re dumb,” says the third.

So we add apples and some water and we keep stirring, with the fires built to the exact height necessary to keep the stuff hot, but not so hot it boils over. Stir, stir, stir; and chat, joke, laugh, and reminisce. As a kid, the act of being up in the middle of the night, outside, with the fires burning and the smoke swirling, is nothing short of magical. The stars were bright, and the air was warmer than usual. My great-niece Lydia, who is 10, was a trooper, up at 2 a.m. and learning how to stir. She loves it now, too.

My brother Ben is at left, and brother Don is at right, I’m sure arguing about how to stir properly. Lydia is there, too. This was in the wee hours of the morning, probably around 2.

As the day woke up and wore on, we stirred and stirred, and then we had to add sugar, and at the end, cloves and cinnamon. Those acts are always tense, as we don’t want to ruin the stuff we’ve stirred all night. There is tasting, contemplating, opining, arguing, and more of the same, until some satisfaction is reached, and only one or two are left shaking their heads a little and grumbling “too much cinnamon….” or “not enough sugar….” Stories of past mishaps are always shared, like when my cousin Gene was little and dropped the entire bottle of cloves into the kettle. Yikes!

Since nostalgia is my constant companion, I drifted back so many times to the days with my dad, who taught me how to stir by standing behind me and guiding my hands, and my Aunt Susan Williams, at whose house we usually gathered for the event, who would make fresh rolls for us to use in wiping out the empty kettle late in the day. So many more dreams of days past; so much love for those no longer here. But the present was kind, too, and the apple butter is delicious. Every taste of the sweet and smoky flavor takes me back to my reunion with my siblings and cousins last weekend, and it will always do so. Until next time, everyone.

An Enduring Cord
Oct. 29, 2017
Members of my dad’s side of the family met over the weekend to say a final goodbye to a beloved married-in, Tom Brown, the late husband of my dear cousin Jane Hanst Brown. Tom was diagnosed with cancer in the early spring of 2015 and was gone by that summer. It was a devastating loss, and it took Jane some time to finally bury his ashes. She and Tom were so happy together, having married later in life and jumped into love with all four feet. They had 16 contented years together, and then it seemed that he just disappeared. Life is so very unpredictable. We think we know what’s around the bend, but we sure don’t.

So having been forced into one of those gatherings that was never predicted, we cousins stood solemnly in the Kingwood Cemetery on Saturday as words were spoken of Tom’s kindness, sense of humor, and love of family. We stood on ground where we have stood before to say goodbye. Jane’s parents, George and Polly (Johnson) Hanst — my grand-uncle and grand-aunt — are buried there, too. Uncle George was the editor of The Republican newspaper for decades, from the 1940s until the 1970s. Aunt Polly wrote columns for the paper, too. So there we stood, with all that family around us, both under the earth and on it. I know many people don’t know where their families are. They have lost track, or have never even been on any track, with connections lost in hazy memories. But I was standing there with mine all around. And then some of us walked through that cemetery, finding the headstones of our great-great-grandparents (David Young Morris and Mary Eleanore Morris), and then our great-great-great-grandfather Charles Byrne (I think), all buried there. There is a spire for one beloved woman, Addie, the sister of my great-grandmother, who died at the age of 26 and shattered so many hearts. We have letters written by “Tay,” my great-grandmother, to B.H. (Sincell), great-grandfather, in which she tells him of how her sister is “very ill again.” So Addie wasn’t well most of her life, apparently, and only lasted until her 27th year. Her tombstone is tall, with what looks like a blanket carved into the stone, and a branch of strawberries. Born Aug. 9, 1869; Died Apr. 28, 1895.

Standing on that ground, I knew that my great-great-grandparents stood there, too, bereft, so long ago. And then their children said goodbye to them there, on that same spot. Strange traditions we human beings have. But somehow comforting all the same.

After we bade Tom farewell on Saturday, we gathered at a big Deep Creek area house my cousins had rented for the weekend. There we remembered how funny we are, and we laughed a lot. The place was abuzz with kids running around, the WVU football game blaring, people preparing food while shouting conversations over their shoulders, and so much laughing. The place was alive. Awake and breathing, heart beating. We looked again into those faces we have always known, and listened to those voices again, and the familiarity was a comfort and a saving grace. There was joy and such warmth. And so it goes.

I like to imagine that those of us who love one another, family or friends, are bound by an unseen fiber… a band of some sort… connecting us all, even as we fall through the cracks of the world, or take unwise turns, or when our footing is shaken by one of the countless outside forces of this random universe. That band stretches and twists, adjusts and holds — always tethering us together, no matter what the outside pressure may be. Even through death. And we come together again, and there is cheer, and there is peace.

Blessed be the ties that bind.

Column Redux 2

What follows are three columns I wrote for the Garrett County Republican at various times during 2017. For the love of a tree, the honor of my father, and the celebration of singing — read on.

Ode to an old friend
Aug. 31, 2017
A great tree grows in my mother’s yard in Mountain Lake Park. It’s a hemlock with long sweeping branches and thousands of plumb-bob-shaped pine cones the size of TicTacs. The pine looks tired, leaning slightly with limbs askew. A hole has opened in its trunk, about five feet up from the ground, and inside is a lively world of insects. Ants file in and out, bringing sawdust with them, or moving their offspring from one level to another. Smaller holes created by birds’ beaks encircle the larger opening. Great piles of sawdust lie around the base, and it’s obvious that the dear old tree is dying. But life is flourishing inside and around it, and its history is rich.

When I was a little kid, the tree was a destination. While it is really just about 25 feet from the back door of Mom’s house, the distance seemed much greater when I was three feet tall. The real draw was the playhouse that Dad had placed at the foot of the hemlock. A press was delivered to the newspaper office sometime in the early 1960s. Dad unpacked it and brought the crate home. He cut a door and a window, and then built a pitched roof and covered it with a rough reddish material to keep the rain out. He placed a flat, flagstone rock at the entrance. I like thinking about Dad doing that, when he was 30-something, seeing a simple crate and thinking, “I could make that into a playhouse for the kids.” And then actually doing it.

We played in that house so much. I remember using a toy broom to sweep hemlock needles out — a futile effort, as the half-inch spears were absolutely everywhere, creating a carpet on the ground and filling the air with that sap scent. For a long time, we had a little table and two chairs inside at the window, and a wooden box in the other corner. When I read the Boxcar Children series, I imagined living in the playhouse like those children in their train car — just one reverie that little house inspired.

Close to the playhouse was a rope swing. It hung down from what seemed an impossibly high branch of an oak. The seat was a board with notches cut out on either end. We would just slide it onto the looped rope, and then hop on. When it rained, the rope would shrink. That made the seat high, and I would have to jump to get onto it. And then my sister Kathryn or one of our many neighbors might spin me, twisting the rope all the way up to the branch, and then let me go. Around and around I would fly, faster and faster, my feet out, my hair wild. When it released from the twist, it would go the other way, and we liked to see just how far we could get it to twist itself back. I don’t know how we avoided nausea, but we did.

Being the youngest of the family, I ended up playing on my own after everyone else had outgrown the playhouse and swing. My cat, a Siamese that Dad miraculously produced from under his raincoat on my 7th birthday, was my pal then. Sahib. He loved the playhouse, and we often engaged in a game of “chase me around the corner.” He would lie in wait as I crept around, and then he would tear into a run, either away from me or straight to me, or right up the hemlock — whatever his cat brain told him at that split second. Such fun!

I walked around the hemlock last Friday, and I smelled the pine and gazed at the places where we played under those boughs in the always-muted sunlight. In my mind, I went inside the long-gone playhouse, and let my memories of it wake up and stretch. I love that tree, and all that went on in and around it. Here’s to you, old hemlock. Thanks for everything.

The dear old hemlock.

Bob Sincell
Nov. 9, 2017
My dad died in 2003. I really do think of him every day, as I am certain others do of their own parents who have gone on. There is a picture of him on the wall across from my desk at work. I can look up and see his face at any moment of the day, and I do it a lot. The passage of time does ease the immediate grip of grief, but, as we all know, there is no “getting over” a loss. We learn to live with the absence, and our ever-mending souls adapt. Life is full of joys and fun, and I’m positive that Dad wouldn’t want any of us to linger on the wistful longing that comes in waves sometimes. Then it recedes, like the surf.

Robert B. Sincell Sr. was a veteran of the United States Navy. He was sitting in his tree house Dec. 7, 1941, listening to a radio he had rigged up there. He heard the breaking news about a place called Pearl Harbor. From that moment, at age 15, he was determined to join the fight. He begged his parents to let him go at age 17, and, with great dread, they did. I cannot imagine what my grandparents felt. But they knew he was determined to go and would not rest until they signed on that line. As a mother of three boys, I’m not sure I could have done that.

But he went, willingly, offering himself up as an able, intelligent, patriotic young man. And his experiences, in the end, were mostly safe. He endured dreadfully boring stretches of time, punctuated here and there with heart-stopping moments, like when a bee stung his elbow as he walked along a trail on Tinian, a Pacific Island, and when he looked down, his foot was an inch from a bomb trip wire. Or when he heard or saw the occasional crash-landing of his friends’ planes at the airstrip. Or when he learned of his company’s near demise in the Philippines, which he missed because of a sudden onslaught of “cat fever,” a respiratory illness that rendered him deathly ill. He felt guilt about that, I think for the rest of his life. However, those of us who loved him felt gratitude. It seemed he was meant to survive. And I believe he knew that, too, as when he came home, he offered himself up as a hard-working, dedicated member of the Garrett County community.

Dad was one of the co-founders of the area’s rescue squads. He was the first National Ski Patrol instructor in Garrett County. He was the first Emergency Medical Technician instructor, too. He was a Sunday school teacher and an active singer in choir and in the Garrett Choral Society. He married my mother, one of his best acts, and they had us, my four siblings and me. They kept us safe, they fed us, they made us laugh, they showed us the world. They reared us with the understanding that we could always, always come home. The door stood open, no matter what. It still does.

My father was a gentle and kind human being. He trained squirrels to take crackers out of his hand, and he routinely saved little animals that had fallen in our pool. He adored slapstick comedy, and M.A.S.H. He taught us that if you can take a spider or a bat out of your house without killing it, for heaven’s sake, do it! You don’t have to kill something just because you can. Being the youngest, I think I might’ve been extra fortunate, as he had time to talk with me. We would watch the news together and then chat. And I learned so much. He was, I believe, a dove. A gentle, sensitive, deeply intelligent human being. He was shy about his service in WWII because he felt he had it easy for the most part, always saying that “other guys” were the real heros. I disagree. He was a hero to me, and still is.

As we commemorate our veterans this weekend, I will think of my dad. I believe that for him, and for millions of others, the very best thing we can do to remember and honor them would be to stop warring. War isn’t romantic. It’s horrible. We absolutely must evolve to the place where violence is no longer a recourse, so that all people have the chance to live life fully, without fear, without injury. That is what I wish for all vets, and for the world.

Robert Benjamin Sincell, pictured in Hawaii during World War II. He was 19 or 20 years old in this picture. I love him so. I wish I could hear his voice again. But in his face, I see my siblings, my sons, my nephews and nieces… all.

Let the harmony commence
Sept. 21, 2017
With the shifting of summer to fall comes another special interval for some of us — singing season! The Garrett Choral Society rehearsals have started, and our church, St. Mark’s Lutheran, has started choir practices, too. After a summer break, the singing always resumes around now, and being back at making music with friends is lovely.

Singing has been part of my life since before I was born. My parents first met as members of the Potomac State Singers. At a practice, Dad came through a back door a little late. A young woman named Shirley Grubb leaned over to my mom and said, “That bass Bob Sincell has the prettiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen,” with which my mom had to agree. (Altos are always leaning over to one another with intriguing news like that, by the way. That’s just what we do. Choir directors love it.) Soon my dad had noticed the pretty blue-eyed second-soprano from Springfield, W.Va., too, and asked her if she’d like a ride home. She declined, as she was perfectly able to walk. But eventually they did go out, and they did sing together for the rest of their union. Some of my earliest memories are of resting on my mom’s lap, my head against her chest, listening to her sing. My ear would be right against her, and the sound was close and muffled, familiar, and most comforting.

Singing was a thing we did in our house. Harmonizing and having fun with the piano was a fairly regular occurrence. My sister and I took piano lessons for years, so there was a lot of practicing (and fussing about practicing). That many years on the piano bench — plus another several playing saxophone — taught me how to be a pretty good sight-reader of music, which helps a lot in choral singing. When singing with others, sight-reading through a piece for the first time is a fun challenge. Well, sometimes it’s fun. Other times it’s annoying and/or daunting. But after going through a piece once, I’m always amazed at how much easier it is just the second time.

Rehearsals to me are much more fun than any performance. Working out the music with the four usual parts (soprano, alto, tenor, and bass) is similar to figuring out a crossword puzzle. “This goes here, this goes here…uh…. this goes here — Oh! Cool!” And that’s how a line of music comes together. On and on we go, working through a piece, discussing key changes, tempos, and how hard it is to sing fourths sometimes.

Those in the various sections tend to have similar characteristics. Sopranos behave and follow directions, altos already know the directions and are happy to repeat them drenched in sarcasm, tenors adamantly want to go over the directions again please, and basses… oh, basses. They ask, after the concert, “What directions?”

I jest. Sort of. In all, we have fun as we make music in this most unique fashion. I don’t think any other animal does what we do with vocal sounds. Throw in a great composer, some excellent directors, some regular rehearsal and you come out with a pleasing work of art.

After months of practice, singers form friendships, especially those who sit together. My decades-long church choir mate has been my sister-in-law, Suzie Sincell. We take breaths at exactly the same time now, no matter how hard we try to stagger our gulps. We rely on one another to help find the notes and learn the part together, and to keep our inside jokes alive and well. In choral society, my partners in chime (yeah, I did that) are Heather Roth and Karen Winkelvoss, without whom I simply can’t sing as well. Ah, I’m glad we’re back. Let’s sing some fourths, girls — with confidence!

Through all the tumult and the strife,

I hear that music ringing.

It finds an echo in my soul.

How can I keep from singing?

We Are They

I walked out of the nursing home the other day like I always do — with big strides, reveling a little in how my legs still work, how I can breathe and I can move, and I am free to walk away from that place when I feel I have spent enough time there. I can just make the choice, get up, put on my coat, and head out. I pass all the folks in the hallways… the attendants and caregivers in their coordinated smocks and white shoes; the other visitors sitting with their people making conversation or just sharing the space; and the residents, the patients, the inmates…. some walking along the hallways silently or mumbling, others in wheelchairs sleeping or maneuvering about. In those mobile chairs, inching out a doorway or listing toward the wall, creeping on with no discernible purpose or goal, sometimes the folks make me think of timid, indecisive June bugs.

I go to the nursing home regularly, several times a week, to see my uncle Dan Wagoner. He is 86. A retired modern dancer and New Yorker, he is certainly a fish out of water in his little room now decorated with his own paintings and antique straight-back chairs. Photographs of dancers are pinned to his personal bulletin board, along with miscellaneous “thank-you” items mentioning his military service. It’s odd to think of him being a veteran. To me, he is a dancer. A lithe, whimsical, incredibly talented artist and teacher. We all went to New York to see him dance on stages there, and to Washington, D.C., and Pittsburgh. His stage presence was undeniable and wonderful. Now my brothers, mother, and I take turns bringing him medicinal cannabis every day to help ease the effects of Parkinson’s Disease. He had a knee replacement a few years ago that left him nearly immobile for a long time, and the Parkinson’s invaded. My mom, who is now 90, tried so hard to keep him at her house, and she cared for him longer and more strenuously than she should’ve. It was too much. So we moved him to the home, and there he has remained for about two years. I didn’t visit him often in the beginning, I admit. It was easier to not go, especially since I was working so hard. But then I left my job, and there were no excuses. We discovered around that time that medicinal cannabis might help him, so he applied for and got his certification to use it, and I got my caregiver’s card to be able to go to the dispensary in Cumberland to get it for him. The next hurdle was getting it delivered to him every day, as we learned that the nursing home staff was disallowed by its policies to provide the stuff to him. So, with no other real choice, we divvied up the days of the week between my brothers Don and Ben, me, and Mom. He sees one of us every day. We take him an elixir to help with tremors, and we bring him a brownie to help with anxiety. Mom and I make the brownies… No time in my earlier life did I expect that someday I would stand in my mom’s kitchen figuring out a pot brownie recipe with her. “Okay, put the pot in now,” she’ll say. I had no idea that was in the cards, for sure.

The effort is paying off in a few ways. Firstly, the cannabis is obviously helping Dan. The tremor he had developed in his hands is gone. He can get up from a chair with ease now, and he moves fast with a walker. His cognitive processes seem to be clearer, too, and he is cheerier. Don’t get me wrong — he’s pretty depressed most of the time. His life is not his own anymore. His body, his instrument, does not obey him well. He sits in his room watching TV most of the day, and listening to the other residents in the hallway. He feels his life is finished, and that he should be allowed to go on. But the marijuana, as my mom always calls it, does seem to lift him a little bit. And, secondly, I’m pretty sure seeing one of us every day helps, too. It helps him, and it helps my brothers and me. We can talk about his childhood with him, recalling hilarious stories of our other aunts and uncles or our grandparents. We can talk politics or art. We can bust him out once in a while to go to a movie or out to dinner, too, which is always nice. The time we are all spending together is definitely a perk in all this.

Being in the presence of the elderly and infirm is also a surprising perk. I find myself fascinated sometimes by these folks. In their faces, I can see them as children, or young adults. I can see the remnants of a middle-aged, active human who didn’t know he or she would someday be in such a place. Sometimes I wince upon seeing a face that seems anguished. There are a few of those. In a room close to my uncle’s, a woman sits in a wheelchair next to her bed. Every time I pass her, she is holding a blanket against her face, hiding her eyes. Every time I see her, that is her position. What is on her mind? How does it help to shut everything out? She doesn’t seem upset. She just always has her face completely covered. And I should add that this is a good place, as nursing homes go. The staff members are kind. Today I went by a room where an aide was blow-drying a resident’s hair. It seemed a gentle and kind process. Sometimes a staffer will be standing in a room, her hand resting on her hip, chatting with a resident. Often the exchanges seem familiar and friendly. So I think in general this is a good place to be, if one has to be cared for in such a way.

I am bothered when I hear people talk to the residents as if they are children. They really aren’t children. They are the exact opposite. They have walked the Earth for decades. They have experienced work and family strife, love and sex, disappointments, heartache, joys, travel — all of it. When they look in the mirror, they are surely bewildered. We see that aged face today, but they don’t feel it. Age creeps up in a hurry and takes everyone a little by surprise, I think. And the naïveté of the younger set is ever-present. The young refer to the old as a separate use of the word “they.” “They” don’t sleep well at night. “They” can’t taste like they used to. “They” do better with a schedule. Always referring to the elderly as if they are in a category that is removed and not of the rest of us. But indeed, they are us, and we are them.

I saw a man as I was leaving. He was small and thin, and bent over. But he glanced up at me, and we looked at each other for a moment. His eyes were sunken and small, and his head was nearly bald. But I could see in the face what he once was. I could see the youth there. His DNA has failed to repeat itself completely over the years, but the visage of his younger self is visible. And I was struck, as I so often am, with the fact that he was indeed once young; he was a healthy, capable human with all his hair and bright eyes. And it was probably not all that long ago, in the whole scheme of things. Time marches on, with a relentless beat. Our bodies fight to stay alive, but barring an early exit, we all become “they” in the end. We need to remember that, and remember to treat the older crowd with the dignity and understanding that we will crave when we get there.

Mom and Dan on one of our escapades.

Column Redux

For a year and a half, I wrote regular columns for the Garrett County Republican, formerly known as just The Republican and formerly a company owned by my brother and me and our spouses. I thought it might be fun to post those columns over the next several days. They are more than a year old, so don’t get hung up in the events that I say are happening. They are past, of course. The first few are from summer days, and in this time of slush and cold and snow, maybe it will be fun to think of summer for a little bit. Or it will be annoying. Prolly that. Ha. Either way, I hope I can bring you some imagery. For whatever reason, that is always my goal.

Savor the here and now
July 7, 2017
In this grand journey we are all on — being alive on this particular planet in this particular universe at this particular time — we have but one path to carve for ourselves, one revolution to make. There are side roads, back tracks, main streets and some crazy paths. With every step, we create our destiny choosing this way and that, sending our trajectories in a new direction with every pace. We think we know where we are headed, but that is simply not true. None of us knows what lies just ahead, not one second into the future, not one step along our own unique trek.

I often consider the turns and side roads I have taken in order to be where I am on this day and the series of events has been, at times, logical and orderly and then jarring and seemingly wrong, followed again by smooth sailing for a bit. As I lay awake the other morning, with the windows open and daybreak doing its thing, the scent of dew-soaked, mossy earth wafted in. That fragrance of a July morning in Garrett County is distinctive. Wood, dirt, and water — mixed with moss, onion grass, and hemlock —with clay and summer roses mingled. That bouquet spawns a flood of memories — from the time I was small in Mountain Lake Park when my Julys were ever so long, with endless swimming, biking, and sleepovers in tents. The years when I was tired of mountaintop living and packed up to leave for a while (eventually to become homesick for that old scent), and on to when I returned and had my three little boys to follow and clean, feed and cuddle. And now, when July is entirely too brief, this glorious month when we — even we — have days of warm sun, blue skies, shorts, sandals, cookouts, and campfires.

July on the mountaintop is a dreamed-of time, as the year marches by with frigid January and February, March of ice and rain, utterly unpredictable April and May and even questionable June. July comes at last, appropriately launched by fireworks over Broadford and Deep Creek, ushered in with relief and high expectations. We cram our festivities in. We gather with friends for picnics and boat rides. We plan family get-togethers, we swim, bike and hike — all to take advantage of this month of warmth.

As that morning scent of rain-soaked dirt and summer leaves permeated my bedroom, I considered how fortunate I am to live in a place like this. I think human nature causes most to wonder if the steps taken have been right. Maybe some are secure in where they end up, but I’m certain that many of us consider, at times, just how different life would be if a left turn had been taken or a right turn had not. In this time, seeing others display their every move on social media, the tendency to compare grows, which causes more to fret over choices.

But I think the answer lies in what comfort one finds in the moment in the here and now. It’s July in Garrett County. Breathe in the scent of summer daybreak, where one can travel a few hours to reach several major cities or go just a mile or two to see the most stunning natural sights in the world, or go even fewer steps to find a kind face or an old friend. I am content that my steps led me to this lovely place, where July has arrived at long last. Happy summer, all.

August 3, 2017
The Reunion
The first weekend in August is upon us. The first Saturday and Sunday of this summer month have always been important in our clan on my mother’s side, as the Wagoner family reunion takes place over that weekend every year. Our kin will cook and bake, pack and plan, and travel in cars, trains, planes, and possibly even on horseback to a lovely tract of land near Fort Ashby, West Virginia. Those acres of rolling green hills, alive with cicadas and bees and scented with thriving mint, were granted to our Wagoner forebear in the 1700s in return for his service in the Revolutionary War. My grandfather’s first cousin, Mary Largent, after whom I am named, and her mother, Ella Wagoner Largent, started the reunion in 1922, and it has carried on since, always at the family farm.

For some people, a family reunion is a chore, only just tolerated. But we look forward to ours all year. There is such familiarity and comfort in it. Humans like for things to last, and our reunion has lasted through wars, droughts, the Depression, tragedies, and other strife. We have our bumpy years in between, with all the ills and all the good, and we return again to check in and gab with folks, with whom most we share DNA. More than that, though, we share our histories. We share the fabric of family, which in this hard life can sure provide some treasured peace.

We will come together Saturday for a noon meal, and there will be about 200 of us by the time the first plate is loaded with everything from fried chicken to crab cakes (we have lots of Marylanders), from fresh homemade rolls to my sister’s incredible peach pie. The food is always amazing. And we will sit around the picnic tables talking about how amazing it is, and we will all eat until we can’t anymore. We will have a business meeting, with motions and even a semblance of Robert’s rules, to make decisions about upgrades to the farm or improvements to the meeting place where we’ve all been coming for almost 100 years. We’ll see who the youngest member is, and point out the eldest, too. And who came the farthest, and who has the most kids present (my mom has won that more than once). The proceedings are usually punctuated with a lot of humor and ribbing that only family can give and take.

Then there will be games for the kids, who by this time are usually covered in sweaty dirt. The reunion turns tots into grime magnets. They roll around in the dust, making friends with their cousins. After a full day Saturday, we’ll go back on Sunday to keep it up a while longer. And the kids will find their friends from the day before, now remembering each other’s names. The relationships form early, and each year are revisited in this homecoming ritual. Even if there are few words exchanged some years, the mere presence of one another is nearly comfort enough. The familiarity is key. And the cost of that comfort comes in the losses we experience, looking around each year and assessing just who has finished his or her arc in this world. The absences are felt most keenly, and certainly come more quickly as we age. Life doesn’t really last that long in the whole scheme of things.

But while it does, we should make some music, which we will do this weekend, and we should tell stories, which we will do. At the reunion grounds, we’ll laugh and play games. And another day will be made sweet, to be remembered next year, and the year after that.

Changing leaves and katydids
Aug. 17, 2017
A maple tree along our street has started to turn. Its green is edged in orange, and I’m not happy about that. It’s too soon. Yet there is little I can do but watch the leaves go, listen to the katydids creak their evening end-of-summer song, and say goodbye to my sons as they stride off, again, on their own paths.

I join many other mothers and fathers whose hearts ache a little this time of the year. While those with young ones may rejoice for school to begin, giving their busy offspring a schedule and things to do, my peers with grown children may be more wistful about the slide into autumn. When our boys were little, we would stand with them at the bus stop for the first few days, and occasionally my throat would tighten as their little legs climbed those steep bus steps, lugging huge backpacks and the year’s new lunch boxes. But they always came home a mere seven hours later, and the house would come alive again.

Time certainly has a way of stealing by, though, and the years fly. That’s just how it works. Our sons were home together for a bit of precious time this summer, and I basked in the rare comfort of all three sleeping under the same roof. Rob left last week to return to his teaching job in Myrtle Beach. Back to his quiet apartment, without his brothers or girlfriend; back to meals for one. But he also returns to his little elementary school kids, who make him laugh, and whom he engages and inspires as their world music teacher.

Michael will head off for Towson in a few weeks to start his senior year in English education and theatre. He is a writer, and is beset with the same inner nagging all writers have — being inspired by his surroundings and wanting to take notes just about 100 percent of the time. I share that with him, as does his dad. Writing is our jam, and it’s fun to gab about it.

Alex, our middle one, has the newest adventure. Just last weekend, we traveled all the way to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with John and me in a bouncy U-Haul to deliver him and his furniture to his new home and his new life. He is a grad student now at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, getting ready to teach three physics labs to undergrads, and to further his pulsar research, ultimately to earn his doctorate in six years.

While unpacking the truck, I kept looking at the grown man who is embarking on this academic journey, and who is going to be leading about 75 other students in a few weeks. Every now and then, I caught a glimpse of the little boy I knew before. As an optimist, I try never to pine for the boys as children, but the occasional wistful pang still strikes in these brief moments. For just a second, I think how I so miss that little person, and how I haven’t held him or heard his small voice for such a long time. The pain is exquisite, but only for an instant. Time just smirks at me and keeps going, and there is my man-son, deciding where to put his printer and how to arrange his closet. And it’s all okay.

The tree down the street is turning, and the katydids are singing. Parents, I’m thinking of you.

Alex and John on the shore of Lake Michigan.

Addie’s Dance

By Mary Sincell McEwen

Mark opened his eyes and tried to focus, scrabbling to recall where he was. He trained his eyes on the wheel of Addie’s bed, and sensed the ever-present odor of rubbing alcohol, and in a short moment remembered he was lying on a cot next to his wife in her hospital room. He looked up with a fleeting hope that she might be awake, but her face was unchanged. The oxygen tube was still on her face, and her eyes were still shut. He sighed and sat up. Maybe today he would see her eyes. Maybe today she would come back.

A stroke was not something anyone expects, especially when the one is just 46. A stroke is what old people have, and it’s often merciful, ending their struggles, getting them out of here after a long and tiring life. It doesn’t happen to a woman who is watching Jeopardy and eating spaghetti with her husband and 17-year-old daughter. A woman who has stuff to do, who is involved and engaged, who has a dental appointment the next day and a literacy board meeting to attend. And the store, of course. Addie was the proprietor of a little coffee shop, a dream she had kept alive while toiling for ages as a hotel manager. Mark was proud of her, to have planned so well, and to have finally opened the doors of the little shop a few years ago. And her circle of friends was so wide that the place was often crowded. Not necessarily because all those folks wanted coffee. But because they liked her. Everyone liked Addie.

Mark felt the familiar guilt rise up, looking at his still wife. Of course they had strife. They had been married for 22 years. All couples have strife. If not, then there are most surely repressed frustrations, which can manifest into something terrible over the years. Mark told himself for the millionth time that they had done the best they could in keeping things together, in trying to keep loving each other, in working together to rear Michelle and Clay. And they were almost through that part. Clay was already off to college, and Michelle was about to follow. Now both were stopped in their tracks, too, and terrified. Addie was the glue. And now she someplace far away, and no one could find her. And once again, against his wishes, anger tried to find its way into Mark’s brain. Why did she push herself so hard? What was she trying to prove? Always busy, always involved, jumping into things and taking on everyone else’s issues. And now, here she lay, not even opening her eyes. Why did she sacrifice everything? Mark got out of bed and pulled on his jeans, forcing the anger down. But it lurked, and he knew it.

“Good morning,” said Sarah, the morning nurse. She walked with purpose to Addie’s bed, adjusted the oxygen, and checked the IV and all the other tubes and connections running in and out of the smallish form lying there. Then she smoothed Addie’s hair back from her face with a most gentle stroke. An unexpected surge of emotion rose in Mark’s chest. Sarah turned to him.

“I’ll bring you some coffee, Mark, ” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. He was shocked to feel his throat tighten. She was so kind. “Today might be the day, you know,” she said, her hand still on his arm. Her smock had little angels all over, and the fragrance she wore was so familiar, some pleasant scent he remembered from long ago. “You just have to be patient. The prognosis is good. She’s responding to things. Her vitals are good, she’s breathing on her own, and there are other good signs. I’ve seen way worse.” And her hand slid off. The warmth on his arm remained for a moment.

“Thanks, Sarah,” was all he could muster, even though he wanted to tell her that she was a wonderful nurse, and he wished he could reach out and hug her. She went out in her silent white shoes and in a few minutes reappeared with a tray. There was coffee and a plate with eggs, ham, and toast. “Now you eat some breakfast. You didn’t have much at all yesterday, you know.” He smiled.

“I’ll try,” he said. It was true, though. He had no appetite. After years of battling a middle-age spread, having trouble turning down any food, he now nearly gagged at the idea of putting that egg into his mouth. He was sure it would be like ashes. But he would try to please Sarah. She would be happy if he ate. So he forced it. And it wasn’t terrible.

The clock seemed to stand still at 7:45 a.m. Mark needed to call the office to check in, but no one would answer until 8:30. The ease and familiarity of work seemed a distant and suddenly enviable thing. To have coffee with Brad and talk about the basketball game, to check e-mail and the day’s agenda, to stop by Madeline’s office to see what she’s wearing, and to flirt with her a little. All so foreign now, in the span of four days. He had always heard of these things, of course — world-changing events in people’s lives that leave them reeling. But Mark had not experienced many in his 47 years. This was surely the most jarring and time-stopping thing that had ever happened to him. And he was treading water with his nose just breaking the surface. He didn’t want to know that Sarah had seen worse. He didn’t want to even be in a situation where he would be categorized like that. He would have preferred, most sincerely, that it had happened to someone else.

“Good morning!” came an overly cheerful voice from the doorway. Mark looked up to see Amelia Stone’s face. He almost said “ugh.” Instead he returned her good morning, but with far less fervor.

“And how are we doing this morning?” she asked like a kindergarten teacher, swooping toward the bed.

“We’re pretty much the same,” Mark said dryly.

“Oh, now, Mark,” Amelia said, already with the condescension. “Sarah just this minute told me that she is doing all right. You have to think positively! She’ll be back on her feet in no time. You know Addie!”

Mark wanted to say a lot. Amelia would be surprised at how often she was the topic of heated discussions in his household. Many a time Addie would come stomping into the house and slamming her notebook down. All he had to say was, “Amelia?” and Addie would be off on a stream of complaints. She was the president of the literacy board and Addie was the secretary. Mark knew, better than anyone, how Addie kept the board afloat while Amelia did next to nothing, yet managed to claim most of the accolades. Amelia had no outside job and had no children, but somehow was always far busier than Addie, unable to prepare things like agendas or luncheons, unable to return calls or follow up on anything, always texting Addie to remind her to handle it all. So many times Mark pleaded with Addie to resign, but she felt the board did good things, which it did, and didn’t want to give up “quite yet.” It had been “not quite yet” for years now. So Mark gave up the argument, but refused to engage Addie anymore when she was furious with Amelia, and that often caused chilly stand-offs between the couple. Seeing her now, perfumed and neat in a form-fitting jacket and pants, perfectly coiffed, smiling down at the motionless and pale Addie, made Mark want to throw up.

“She won’t be kept down by anything,” Amelia said, her shiny red lips breaking into a smile, uncovering her great enameled teeth. “And anyway, I need her! She can’t stay away from me!” And then she laughed. Her noise echoed in the room, shrill and wrong. When she reached her manicured hand out to touch his wife, Mark couldn’t help himself.

“Don’t!” he said, louder than he meant. She jumped back.

“Don’t what?” Amelia asked, stricken, her hand coiled back to her body like he had slapped it. He took a breath.

“Just don’t touch her, okay, Amelia? I don’t want you to touch her,” he said. She stared at him.

“Why in the world not?” she asked, her tone chilled.

“I just don’t. She’s asleep. She’s resting. I don’t want you to bother her. Anymore.”

There was silence. Amelia was lost for a moment, almost as if she had been exposed. At least that’s what Mark saw. Her eyes flitted around the room as she searched for words. Mark knew she was squirming, and before a few days ago, he would have come to her rescue. But not today. He let her squirm. And he liked it. After several silent moments, she finally made an effort.

“Well, I don’t want to ‘bother’ Addie, that’s for sure,” she said, not looking at Mark. “I’ll come back when she’s awake.” She stopped and waited. “If that’s all right with you.”

“We’ll see, Amelia. I don’t want anything to stress her, not here and not when we go home. I want things to be calmer. Less to do. Less to worry about. Do you know what I mean?” he stared at her.

“Well, sure, Mark. I can understand that,” she said.

“Good. I hope you can.”

Again there was silence, and then Amelia snapped back to herself.

“Well, I have to run. Always so much to do!” she said with the voice she usually used. She gathered herself and made for the door, her heels clicking, and she blew Mark a kiss. With enormous effort, he resisted the urge to duck. Mark felt a slight sense of victory. If Addie did get better, he wasn’t going to let that woman back into their lives, end of story.

Hours passed. There was little change in Addie. Mark called the kids to give them an update, bleak and hollow as it was. He read the newspaper to the motionless patient, and turned the TV up for one of her favorite shows. Sitting next to her bed, he put his head down next to her hand, and fell asleep.

He opened his eyes and jumped. Navigating the nap fog as fast as he could, he registered the fact that his neighbor, Bud, was sitting in the other chair. Mark sat up, swiping his hand across his face.

“Hey, Mark,” Bud said.

“Hi, Bud,” Mark answered. To be in the same room with Bud was odd. He was a recluse mostly, and only spoke with the family in passing. He was always nice, but not the kind of neighbor who shows up at cook-outs or calls to chat. He was in his 60s and a widower. A contracted worker who mostly tended his garden and talked to his dog. Not so much to anyone else.

“So I heard about Addie and thought I’d stop by,” he said.

“That’s nice, Bud. Thanks,” Mark replied.

In a halting, rather new-at-it manner, Bud made small talk, telling Mark about his dog Minnie and her antics, about the birds visiting the back yard this month, and other small things, all the while glancing at Addie. Mark nodded a lot and began to wish he would wrap it up. He just didn’t have the energy to keep a light breezy chat going with a neighbor he didn’t know well. When Bud began to show signs of leaving, Mark relaxed. Bud stood up and began to wring his hands. Mark could see he had more to say, but this seemed different.

“Mark, I wanted to tell you something, too,” he said. “I sometimes watch Addie…” Mark’s face must have changed, as Bud caught himself. “No, no! Not creepy or anything!” he said, waving his hand madly. “I watch her sometimes when she does the laundry.”

Mark wondered where this was going. There was clothesline in the back yard. Addie always said hanging clothes was a chore she liked.

“You know, Mark,” Bud began, earnestly, “She’s really good at that. Do you know she hangs up sheets so that they are already almost folded when they’re still wet?” No, Mark didn’t really know that.

“She folds them, you know, over on themselves,” Bud said, demonstrating with his hands in the air. “She puts them up folded over, and doesn’t put the over the line — she attaches them to the line, folded. Then when they’re dry, she does this thing… She unpins the one end, brings it around,” he said, still demonstrating, “and puts the ends together, and then unpins the middle. And they come off folded. It’s so perfect how she does that. It’s like a dance, Mark. It is.”

Mark had no words. But he had seen her do it. Now that Bud mentioned it.

“And you know, Mark, after my wife died, I was really sad for a long time. But somehow watching Addie, doing that thing with the sheets and clothes… Somehow it made me feel better.” He paused and Mark nodded, but not because he really understood.

“And watching her, I knew…” he continued, “I knew she did that for you, and for your kids. She did that thing so perfectly, like a dance, because she wanted you to have those sheets all warm and creased just right, and so your kids would put their heads down on pillowcases that smelled like summer. And just that… just that made me feel better. I don’t know why. But it did. Still does.”

Mark, overwhelmed, could only nod. Bud went to the bedside and looked down at Addie. He touched her arm. Mark did not stop him. He awkwardly shook Mark’s hand. “I really hope she gets better,” he said, and left.

Mark sat back down next to Addie and put his head down again, mulling over Bud’s words. Laundry. So simple. But something to Bud. And now to Mark. How odd, he thought.

And then he felt it. Her hand, touching his hair. He jerked his head up, and there she was. Her eyes were open. Just slivers of blue showed, but she was looking straight at him. He gasped.

“Addie!” he said. She attempted to speak, but couldn’t do it.

“Don’t worry,” Mark said. “It’ll come back. They said it would.” He worked to keep from shouting, and buzzed the nurses’ station. He didn’t know what to say or do. He stroked Addie’s face. She smiled, although her mouth was not quite right. He told himself it would get better, too. She pulled at his hand.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

Unable to speak, she simply pulled on her sheet, lifting one corner and folding it over. In a moment, Mark realized what she was doing.

“You heard Bud!”

She smiled slightly again, and nodded. And she put her hand on his, over the fold.

A January Swan Song

I sent an email to my editor last week. I told him that the January 31st issue of The Republican newspaper will be my last. How strange that is. My history with the newspaper has been long and arduous, and comes after my father’s experience, my mother’s, two brothers, my grandparents, my grand-uncle and aunt, and my great-grandparents. I am the last Sincell to add to the paper, after 129 years of at least one of us involved, if not several at any given time. And I don’t mean to imply that our family is all that special or anything. It just has been the lifework of several of us over the century-plus, and there has been a family member there since B.H. Sincell bought The Republican in 1890, when he was all of 21 years old. I imagine him sometimes, there in the office, working alone, making fairly meager money but enough, gathering county news and putting on the pages. He was so young. I’m nearly certain he never thought his newspaper would stay in his family for more than a century. He just needed a job, and he saw an opportunity. Through our family that thread has remained, until now.


But it’s okay because nothing in this life is really that important. At least, nothing like companies or materials or papers; offices or desks or pencils. In the entire scheme of things, a family business can be noble, but not indispensable. After wrangling it around in my brain for quite some time, I am sure now that it is okay to let it go. Traditions can be burdensome. Familiarity and ease of known surroundings and tasks can tuck a person firmly into a rut, which over time can become a cave, with little light or room to stretch. I am sure it is time for me to stretch. Life is indeed short, and there is a time to stay in familiar surroundings, and there is a time to leave them.

There are so many stories about the family biz, though. So many to tell. So I have created this subset of writings all about the family business, the newspaper, The Republican, so named in honor of Abraham Lincoln a mere 12 years after he was murdered. The paper began as a re-do of the Garrett Gazette, bought in 1877 by Captain James Hayden, a Civil War veteran who fought at Gettsyburg and who revered the late president. Hayden lived in Mountain Lake Park, at that time an up-and-coming vacation spot with a Chautauqua feel. City folks traveled by train to the little village during the summer months, escaping the heat and bustle of Baltimore and Washington, D.C., to spend a few months on the top of the mountain ridge. Classes were available throughout the cool summer weeks in art, archery, Bible studies, cooking, bicycle repair, and anything else one might dream up in the 1870s. The huge 5,000-seat Mountain Lake Park Amphitheater offered plays, acrobatics, all sorts of music, and rousing evangelistic preachers shouting their Good News to the rafters. So was life in Hayden’s little town.

After 13 years of publishing, the captain was ready to move on, and sold his little operation to Benjamin Sincell. The story is, Ben turned 21 on the day he published his first issue of The Republican. He was working out of a building located along Liberty Street at that time, but in a few years he and his brothers went together to build a structure along Second Street that would house a law office for Edward, a haberdashery for brother Harry, and the newspaper and print shop for Ben. Oakland was just a baby still, having been founded just in 1849. The streets were dirt, of course, and often traversed by livestock. Cows, chickens, and pigs were herded down the road in town, and of course horses were the mode of transportation. (When the Civic Club of Oakland was founded some years later, one of the women’s first orders of business was to lobby for an ordinance to keep the pigs off Second Street.)

The Sincell brothers built their homes a few blocks north, also along Second Street. The houses were huge, with plenty of room for families to come. I now live on a street perpendicular to Second. When I come out of my house and step onto Pennington Street, I can see B.H.’s house, my father’s childhood house which is just across the road, and Harry’s home. I can look southeast up on a hill to see the edge of the Oakland Cemetery, where all these folks are buried. I can even see a spire that marks one Sincell plot involving six little cousins of mine who were Richardson siblings — of my great-great-aunt and uncle, I think — who all died within the same year of some childhood illness like diphtheria or influenza. And all these deaths are reported in The Republican. Such a circular route I have traveled, following them here, being surrounded by them. I didn’t plan it. But there it is.

Many, many times I have walked down the alley between B.H.’s house and my dad’s on my way to work at the paper, and I have felt them there, or sensed their long-past energies. I worked in that same building that they built along Second Street for about 26 years. And I grew up going there, trudging up those steps (there are something like 24, I think), to be met by my grandparents and grand-aunt Tink (Adeline). They would gush over me and give me hugs. My grandfather Mose (Donald) Sincell would be standing in the back shop, running a printing machine. He would grin and wait for me to come stand by him. Then he would dig in his pocket for a minute and inevitably produce a quarter, which he would press into my hand. A quarter was a lot. I could go right downstairs to Proudfoot’s Pharmacy and buy candy or gum with that. Or I could keep it, rolling it around in my hand, feeling rich. My grandmother was pointier than Mose. She loved me, sure, but she was not as pillowy. She had sharp elbows and a sharp nose, and often a sharp demeanor. But she was kind and funny, too. Aunt Tink was extra soft, gushy to me, and forever just on the edge of sadness about her many miscarriages that kept her from mothering. She so wanted to mother. She called me “lamb” and thought everything I did was spectacular.

My mom was there, too, first operating the Linotype machine, which was a fascinating and complicated monster. It melted its own pigs of lead, which then were piped into molds right there in the thing’s innards, and then at the touch of Mom’s fingers on the keys — where were not laid out in the “QWERTY” style, by the way, but rather some higgeldy-piggeldy fashion long forgotten — lead column-width pieces would drop down, spelling words backward so as to be printed forward. I would stand for quite a long time watching the pigs (crudely cast bars of lead) sinking into the hot cauldron, slowing drowning into themselves, going from loaves of lead to molten silver it seemed. My dad could run it, and then at least two of my brothers learned. My great-grandfather had written a letter to his betrothed, my great-grandmother Tay (Lillian), back in 1893 after he attended the Chicago Exposition. He had seen this wonderful machine there, the Linotype, which intrigued and thrilled him, and he said he would have to get one sometime soon. And he did so, I believe before the turn of the century. When I was a kid, there were two in nearly constant use at the office. The last one sat for many years untouched, until we finally had to haul it away for scrap. The march of technology is never sentimental, that’s for sure.

As I grew up, my dad took over most of the work at the paper as his father aged. My grand-uncle George Hanst, grandmother Elsie’s brother, was the editor for decades, following B.H. Brother Don took on that role in the 1970s. George’s wife Polly, a tiny, energetic spitfire of a revolutionary woman, wrote columns in the paper, and also wrote regularly for the Farmer’s Wife magazine. So all around me were writers, journalists, and wordsmiths. I was steeped in it all, from the beginning. It is no wonder that I ended up joining the crew myself, which I did in 1990. I hadn’t meant to, really… I didn’t start out thinking, “Oh, I will make my career in hometown news reporting.” But I was 28, married to my love John who for better or worse had agreed to living in my home county, and we were hoping to start a family. A writing job opened in the newsroom, and there I went. Now, nigh on 30 years later, I am walking away.

I really left a year ago, mostly, after we sold the company to NCWV Media, a Clarksburg-based newspaper company. We came to that decision over years of wondering what we were going to do. Newspapers are on the wane, and have been for quite a while. And the print shop had struggled for years. Everyone does their own printing, or goes online to find the cheapest available. The days of the local friendly printer have gone the way of the local haberdasher, shoemaker, and wheelwright. We could have continued to publish the paper — which had become quite arduous as getting the materials to do it was getting more difficult and costly— until we all three just dropped over dead. Instead we searched for someone who might want to buy an established, long-running publication, and keep it going. We were lucky to find that someone in Brian Jarvis, the owner of NCWV. But selling a family business is not without pain and angst.

I worked for a few months as the editor, but my philosophy of county journalism, drilled into me over the decades by my family, did not weave well into the new company’s ideas. We all have our beliefs in how things should be done, and to alter mine to fit the new folks’ vision was, in the end, impossible. So I left as editor, but remained as a writer of the arts activities of the Garrett County mountaintop, and as a columnist once a month. For a bit longer than a year I have done that, diligently. But it is time to go. I have put a great deal of energy and hard work and dedication into my job. I think I have done well. And it is now time to put it to bed, and to wake up to something new. I once wrote a column about the difficulty of transition — in childbirth, and in life. This is one of those times. Letting go of such a significant piece of my heritage is bittersweet. I do not miss the stress or the in-office spats. I do not miss the unreliable equipment that could so frustratingly interrupt the flow of our day. I do indeed miss the people with whom I worked to get the paper out each week. I miss the newsroom chats on politics or the news of the day. I miss the feeling of producing something each week that did help people of my community in many ways. I think I did okay with it over the years. I know I did, in fact. And so, now I must let it sleep.

On I go.

The Snow is Dancing

Snow is part of life here on the mountaintop, on these highest ridges in Maryland. I doubt most folks imagine snow when they think of our state. Perhaps they think of the beach, or maybe the city of Baltimore. Or the Ravens football team, or maybe the Chesapeake Bay. I doubt the fat flakes that are falling fast out there as I write are what people associate with the Free State, at least not those who are vague about this shadowy western edge. Now, those who have lived here, or visited, or skied — they know. It snows in Garrett County. A lot.

As a native of this mountain, I must say that the snow’s appearance lightens my soul. I have hoped for it to come. I have been ready. I know to some it is a nuisance and a burden, and it can be to me as well. But I can’t help loving it. I always have. When it flies from aloft and takes over the ground, I have to keep looking outside. I am compelled to check on its progress, and to witness the transformation as the world turns white.

The birds flick their wings, shaking the cold away, and they chatter to one another, maybe asking where the next full feeder might be. The trees are drawn in white, each crook and curve painted. Pine needles bend down a while, and then, when pressed to that final bend, flick back upward, sending a puff of flakes away. Creeks are banked with battened cotton, it seems, as the water’s surface grows solid, with a beveled edge brushed by the ripples that are too fast to freeze.

This county was first settled in part for its weather, as the cool summers were often a prescription of 19th century doctors, who believed them to be good for one’s lungs, and for well-being in general. I agree with them. The weather here is beautifully diverse, with four distinct seasons, mostly with all the trimmings — autumn, full of color and sweatshirt temps; winter bringing drifts and ice; spring…. not so great, I admit. Cold, rainy, often snowy — and not the good snow, but the wet, sloppy stuff; and then summer, with brilliant blue skies, warm days, and cool nights. So yes, four parts of the year, mostly tolerable, minus spring’s old cold self. We’re lucky to have it all, and I hope it keeps happening, even as the world’s weather continues to change.

I love how we Garrett Countians have our own vocabulary about snow (a skiff, a butt-dragger), our own ways of handling drifts, our own expertise in plowing and road maintenance — all of it. We have to, because on top of our little pinnacle, the winter finds a place to land. There is no place else nearby where the old guy can really settle in for long. We are just high enough that he can stop and stay. So we bundle up, drag out the wool socks, brush off our porches and our cars, fire up snowblowers and generators, grab the firewood we stacked in September, and adjust. We get on with our lives, delayed only slightly by the winter’s visit. We get on because we just do, and always have.

(Slight digression — Isn’t it funny how we say, “It’s snowing.” What do we mean by “it”? What’s snowing? The sky? The world? Learning how to speak English has to be so terribly frustrating because of weird little phrases like that.)

We know snow and its different presentations. On a bitter morning, we know it will simply blow off the windshield with nary a flake left, because when the mercury is bottoming out, the snow is light like feathers. But if the sun has shone at all the day before, beware of reconstituted melt, i.e., ice, that must be scraped off. Don’t be pouring water on your windshield when it’s below zero… always a disaster. I remember being driven to high school by my brother Don, then 20-something, who seemed to make it a contest with himself to find out just how small a hole in the windshield ice he could see through to get us on our way. He liked to go with quarter-sized…while laughing. Geesh.

The sight of snow, especially when the mercury is only just showing, is lovely. It snakes across the roads, serpentine, and flows together up and over, sculpting itself into the most lovely drifts — like a surf of snow, curled at the edge, with wisps of white sifting off the crests. Paths are cut by tires and plows, and the pushed-up piles along the road often make me think of making Christmas cookies with my mom, rolling pecan puffs in powdered sugar. The puff, just out from the oven, melts the sugar slightly, which creates the soft sugar coating. Another roll in the sugar, and the cookie is properly covered in white, looking Christmasy and perfect. Snow that is still clean, piled in soft rows along the highway, makes me think of that. Always.

When the rest of the state gets a dusting, there is excitement, with news stories and predictions and bread-and-milk buyouts. Meanwhile, we’ve often already had more snow than the dear flat-landers will get all year. But that’s all right. We will ride it out, as we always do, and they won’t even know. I think we prefer it that way. We are snug in our houses, warmed by fires, equipped with proper boots and shovels and firewood. We are one with that bleak world out there, cold and beautiful, harsh and lovely. The hardiest Marylanders? Oh, that’s us. Hands down.

Cutting Through This Moment





Tolliver Falls, Swallow Falls State Park, Garrett County, Maryland
Oh, sweet mystery of life… it sure is a grand voyage. A journey into constantly changing and uncharted waters. Every second we pass is new. Sometimes I imagine breaking through time like a ship’s prow slicing through water. We are living something new every second, and we have no idea what is around the corner, ever. We think we do. We manage and plan and assume and count on things…. but we don’t know. Not from now to… now. Or now. Or now. All new.


As I wind on toward entropy, as we all do, I have decided to initiate this blog. It’ll be a coughing-up of my thoughts, emotions, observances, opinions… my witness to being a human being. I have zero expectations. I don’t know if anyone will read a single word. I personally can’t stand it when people go on and on about themselves — when I am subject to a conversation with another person who cannot speak of anything that is not about herself, I just want to crawl away. So I don’t want this to be all about me. What I hope to do is share observances and thoughts that perhaps will resonate with others.


I think we human beings all want to be on the team. We want to be in the game. We want to see in other people what we feel ourselves, and when an artist can paint a picture that resonates with observers, that artist is a success. We want to look at a picture and feel something familiar. We read a story and think, “I know just what the writer means.” That’s when we feel included. And that is vital to us, as humans. We want so much to be on the team. That gives security, because in the end, none of us really knows what the heck we’re doing here, how we got here, and where we’ll go afterward. It’s like we are all on an amusement park ride. No one remembers how we got on, no one knows how it will end. And it just drags us all over the place, making us laugh, scream, cry, throw up, and ask a lot of questions.


If I ponder much about how many people are riding that ride right now on this tired, besieged planet, I can get overwhelmed in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. (That’s one of my mom’s regular phrases.) So many humans. So many needs. All those souls — some enlightened, others repressed, some brilliant, others so shallow and vapid. Just so many. The Earth has a virus, and it’s us. I wonder if other planets whisper about Earth… “I hear she has, um… you know, humans.” And then the other planets screech “Oh My God” and nearly rocket out of their orbits. “Why, that can be terminal!” It sure can. We’re trying really hard to be fatal to this old rock. I hope she hangs in there while we learn all the hard lessons.


But I didn’t want to start out all hang-dog. I’m actually a very optimistic person for the most part. The national and international scenes of the past two years have definitely taken a toll on my psyche, as they have on anyone who thinks even a little. But in general, I like this human experience. There are tastes to taste, sensations to feel, and sights to see. The bonds of love are mystical and real, and can be quite costly when severed. But worth it, nearly always.


I’m 55. Yes. Double nickels. Five decades, five years. I was born 8 months before JFK was killed, and I was 6 when the fellas walked on the moon, for which I was allowed to stay up and watch. The youngest of five kids, I grew up to the music of the Association, the Lettermen, the Beatles of course, Iron Maiden, Rush, the Who, Frank Zappa, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young — you name the group of the ’60s, and I’ll sing a few bars of something. 


Throughout my childhood, our house was filled with music, teenagers in bell-bottom jeans, a lot of laughing, and occasionally pot smoke. My older sibs would entertain their friends by having me do the Elephant Dance, and my brothers would let their girlfriends in miniskirts paint daisies on my cheeks and make me flower necklaces, which of course I loved. I learned so quickly that being the youngest gave me an in with anyone who visited the house — it is always cute to make a fuss over a little sister. I cashed in on that all the time.


When my four older siblings went to school in the morning, and my dad went to work at the newspaper, my mom and I would watch Captain Kangaroo together. Then Mom would pull out her kitchen chair and I pulled out a miniature one, and together we would exercise along with Jack Lalanne. My mom is 90 now, and she still strives to exercise a little every day. I have not been so good about it, but I do feel quite an obligation to at least try.


When I went to first grade, I came home the first day in a flurry of tears. My mom asked me whatever was the matter, and I told her that they had not, in fact, shown me how to read that day. That first day. I had been led to believe that when I went to first grade, I would learn how to read. Well, I went, and no one showed me how. I distinctly remember Mom hugging me, and also doing that annoying thing of barely hiding her laughter at my 5-year-old frustration. Ah, well. I’ve always been a little high-strung about some things.


My childhood was safe and generally happy. I didn’t know at the time how rare that really is. But my parents were good to each other and to us. They respected us as human beings, and let us know early on that we were wanted. There was no question that the most comfortable and safe place for us as kids was in our own house. Of course it was also the place of many kids who were not secure at home. There were always extra kids around. I thought everyone’s house was like that.


But alas, they weren’t. Divorce was a quiet concept back in the day. I didn’t know a lot of kids whose parents had split the dishes. But then one day in the seventh grade my friend Michele dragged me into a coat closet and cried while she told me that her parents were separating. I didn’t even know for sure what that meant. I remember her face, all wet and with an incredulous expression, spitting out at me that they were divorcing. I was stunned. This was a couple of adults who had been in my life from the beginning. They were just another set of parents who were always among the familiar crowd, making up the security blanket of my tidy life. So when they walked away from each other, I was shaken. I was a naive little thing, for sure.


We were encouraged at home to be intellectual and somewhat adventurous. No one said, “Hey, you guys, be intellectual, will ya?” But we had political discussions at the dinner table, played board games, and went hiking a lot. We went to museums and zoos. We watched TV shows like Wild Kingdom and the nightly news, which we would talk about. Dad had a real love affair with the television that my mother did not share. She called it the “idiot box.” But Dad loved it, and he watched it regularly. He would make popcorn when something particularly good was on. And he let me watch shows like Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In and Green Acres and Petticoat Junction. Mom would sit across the room and read books, occasionally noting how ridiculous the comedy was, and that I might be too young for it. Dad usually acted like he didn’t hear her.


Mom had my sister Kathryn and me take piano lessons for years. We went to Mrs. Mary Douglass, a no-nonsense teacher who had little time for frivolity and even less time for a child who had not practiced all week. She scared me, as did her cranky little dog Cookie, a Sheltie who bit my hand once. Mrs. Douglass said I must have upset the dog. I suppose I did, by walking in to her house for my lesson. I am deeply grateful for the years of lessons, though. I learned the language of music, which has enriched my life beyond all measure. So Cookie be damned, it was all worth it. Thanks, Mom.


I hope sincerely that my three sons, now all in their 20s, feel that they grew up as secure and as loved. I think they do. But you’ll have to ask them yourself. My boys — Robert James, Alexander Eli, and Michael David — are my best work, hands down. They are everything, really. Flesh of my flesh, souls of my soul. I made them with John, my partner in life, with whom I have had a rollicking adventure so far.


This is way too much about me, though. Sorry. I will get on to other subjects soon. I fall down a rabbit hole and just keep typing. So I’ll put the brakes on now. It helps a little that my cat Miles is now lying on my forearms as I type. He is making me more efficient as I am restrained and a tad uncomfortable. Always a good catalyst for getting down to the heart of a matter. I adore cats, by the way… but that’s another post, too.


I have always been driven to write. It’s on my mind pretty much 100% of the time, which can be maddening. I figure painters think that way, as do dancers and composers. The art is always right there, begging to be transmuted. I don’t know what it’s like to be free of that. A conversation in college with a dear friend has stayed in my brain for nearly 40 years. She told me she did not feel she had any great thing to do in this life. She had no weight on her to produce anything but what she wished in her own time and space. But I have never felt free to just be. Never. I don’t know why. “So you think you have something important to do?” she asked me. “Well…. I think so, yes. But doesn’t everyone?” She looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “No. Definitely not,” she said.


For years and years I have asked myself why I am so driven to put words together to express something. In the end, I can only assume it is in my DNA or some other foundational part of my gray matter. And I can only accept it as that, and move on. I want to write, all the time. So maybe a blog is the best thing. With that thought, let’s get on with it.