I learned about the rehabilitation of firefighters this morning over coffee. I am always impressed with the level and the quality of the training that is required by volunteer firefighters, particularly the leadership.
Narrowsburg Assistant Chief and husband Stephen related how the course covered how to take care of firefighters—for their well-being—at an active fire and at the firehouse.
As the holiday season approaches, I muse on the 1983 Peter Yarrow folk song “Light One Candle.”
It’s a song that narrates the Hanukkah story of a small band of believers who were up against the Syrian Army for the right to practice their faith.
"There will be no talking about politics." my father told me when we talked about Thanksgiving plans last week.
"If it starts," he said, "I'm walking away from the table."
I had gotten this warning before, and I admit, had paid it no mind.
It was tough going in the snow on Thursday afternoon.
We closed the office early and left when there was maybe 2 inches on the road. I brushed off the snow from my car, with a plastic bag, not being able to find my scraper. It was light and fluffy. I thought about the hills that I would to climb in my normal 10-minute, seven-mile commute home.
One of the things that I absolutely adore is talking about the nuance of the news. Not just any news, although I like that too, I like talking about headlines and storylines, credits in the present tense, and the capitalization of words according to a style, particularly in relation to The River Reporter.
(Before it’s printed, preferably.)
Halloween’s origins date back to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-in), which was the celebration of the new year.
We’re all connected.
That’s the beauty in rural living. Everyone is connected to someone else. And while that’s probably a truism for existence itself—we are all connected—it’s a reality that we realize daily in this rural landscape.
You never know who is going to be on the other end of the phone.
On Tuesday this week, it was a father who had just learned that Narrowsburg Home had closed and he was desperate to locate his 40-year old son who had lived there.
His call was transferred to the editor who told him where residents had been relocated.
It was raining and beautiful on the way to Hancock on Thursday morning. It was foggy and it seemed perfect to go rather slowly, to enjoy the leaves and the subtle glow of the rain-drenched highway.
Riding from Narrowsburg to Hancock, some 35 miles, is an experience of moving slowly through a landscape. For me, it's a landscape of natural beauty, undulating hills, steep banks, and sparse population.