It’s the fancy (and by “fancy,” I mean Latin) quasi-poetic way of saying “time flies,” and ain’t that the truth. When we’re young, we think we’re gonna’ live forever, but around middle-age, we start to wonder where the time went.
In My Humble Opinion
It’s that time of year again. As plumes of steam emanating from sugar shacks dot the landscape here in the mountains, I’m reminded that I once made maple syrup myself. About 10 years ago, a friend noticed that I had a few sugar maples on my property and suggested that I try my hand at it. “Sure,” I said.
Just when I was about to give up all hope, spring has sprung. Although Mother Nature isn’t quite ready to commit, there’s no denying that winter will be beating a not-so-hasty retreat over the next few weeks, as the snows melt and that big yellow ball in the sky peeks out from time to time.
It’s that time of year again. As Old Man Winter considers taking a back seat, the weather vacillates, see-sawing from mild to wild. It’s below 30 as I write this, but we’re expecting near 60 by the time The River Reporter hits
There’s a lot of wisdom in that old adage, which concludes with “don’t say anything at all,” but there are times when my hands are tied and I simply can’t ignore what I’m thinking. “Sure you can,” I say to myself in the mirror with a wink.
The first time I walked into a library, I wasn’t much older than five. My then-seven-year-old sister was already reading at a sixth-grade level and my mother had fostered a love of literature in us both at the earliest opportunity.
My dog-eared copy of Merriam-Webster’s “Idioms, Metaphors, Similes and Hyperbole” states that “you can’t judge a book by its cover,” a well-known metaphorical phase, “which means that you shouldn’t pre-judge the worth or value of something by its outward appearance alone.” Although my mother drilled this into my head a
I’ve written all sorts of Valentine’s Day columns over the years. In an effort to not repeat myself, I re-read several over the weekend, having pulled them from the archives here at The River Reporter. It wasn’t long before a theme emerged. Apparently, I’m not a big fan of the “L word.” Some essays were snarky, others were rude.
Traditionally, I consider February my “slow” month—a period of time when more than a few businesses, art galleries, restaurants, theaters and the like, shutter for a few weeks in anticipation of the hustle and bustle that spring inevitably ushers in here in the Upper Delaware River region.
If you don’t know what a hashtag is, don’t feel bad, you are not alone.