Anne and I decided we
wanted to get away for
Christmas — travel to
somewhere fresh and exotic,
full of adventure. We
chose Milford Center. Only
twenty miles away, I
know, but far from Fly
Creek’s breakneck pace.
Our friend David, who
lives in the Milford Center
hills, had asked if we could
watch his place while he
flew to Kansas for Christmas.
(He made it, thank
God, ahead of a blizzard
out there.) Of course we
said yes, and got ready to
take over David’s roomy
farmhouse and supervision
of his dogs, cats, and
chickens. Wait, you say!
That sounds like your life
in Fly Creek! Well, yes, in
a way; but with more dogs,
cats, hens and roosters—
plus the genteel ambiance
of Milford Center. It’s the
perfect stay-cation.
We left Fly Creek on
the eve of Christmas Eve,
and I’m writing this the
very next morning. A lot
has happened.
Because one of us had
to stay north to forward
our phone south, Anne
and I traveled in two units.
I left first, driving through
blowing snow with Simon
in his crate and a cargo of
non-essentials I could be
trusted with. I hauled, of
instance, the ice-cream
maker, a mutual Christmas
gift due for a maiden
trial down in the sunnier
south.
Anne, after dealing
with Verizon, waited just
long enough to make sure
the transfer had taken
place, then set out with an
excited Blue, most of our
refrigerator’s contents,
and the suitcases.
Though Milford Center
must be south of home by
at least some degree of
latitude, it turned out to
be just as cold and snowy.
Simon and I arrived in
blowing flakes, but we got
a warm welcome at the
door. Bouncing up and
down in greeting were
Toby and Oscar the dogs;
and, standing at a dignified
remove, Lazlo and
Madeleine the cats. I built
a fire in the wood stove
and waited for the second
unit to arrive.
Toby, you should know,
is roughly half German
shepherd and half greyhound;
he could easily be a
saddle animal for a fouryear-
old. Oscar is shorter
and broader. He’s seventy
pounds, with a Brillo coat
and an irresistible, raffish
grin. Both have tails that,
happily wagging, can easily
clear a coffee table.
Blue knows these dogs,
and his arrival set off paroxysms
of joy, with lots of
cavorting and ritual sniffing
and the like. Then, because
Anne and I were too
knackered to cook, we sat
by the fire with pizza from
Sonny’s, down by Price
Chopper.
It was idyllic: crackling
fire, happy couple, sprawling
dogs and hunkereddown
cats stretching from
our feet, it seemed, to the
horizon.
When we headed up the
narrow stairs with Blue
and Simon, the rest of the
menagerie stayed by the
dying fire. Because of my
restlessness these days,
Anne and I sleep in separate
rooms; and so David
had made up his room for
Anne and a guest room for
me. Anne took Blue and
his bed to her room, and
Simon and I settled down
in ours.
Hours later I woke to
hear a lot of traffic in the
hallway. The big two dogs,
with eight paws and seemingly
hundreds of toenails
were galloping up the
stairs, rattling across to
my door, nosing hard
against it.
I remembered. David
had told me that Toby and
Oscar mostly slept in my
room. But I couldn’t let
them in. I didn’t want to
upset Simon, who was adjusting
to life in a different
house. And I didn’t want
Oscar, and especially
Toby, flopping onto the
bed with me. Toby, not
quite pony-sized, could
still roll over and squash
my ribcage.
They gave up after fifteen
minutes of snuffles
and trooped downstairs.
Then two hours later they
were back again, and two
hour after that. All that
snuffling, all those clattering
toenails! Simon, to his
credit, raised a head each
time, gave a disdainful
look at the door, and went
back to sleep. And I did,
too. Each of the times.
I gave up at six-thirty
when whines outside the
door took on a panicked
tone. Oh, of course. David,
an avid runner, is up at
five each morning, and
normally the beasties
would have long since
been outside to relieve
themselves. The dogs
greeted me with wild joy
and fell over themselves
back down the steps.
But we’d hardly reached
the bottom when I heard
more toenails behind me.
Blue, not to be left out,
had escaped Anne’s room
and was rushing to join
the melee. I opened the
back door and all three
dove outside to leap, cavort,
and finally take care
of essentials. In ski pajamas,
I stayed inside, forehead
against the cold
glass.
Ten minutes later I
called them in and realized
at once they were
staring expectantly at
their food bowls. What to
do now? First I hauled
Blue back upstairs and
pushed him in Anne’s
room. Then I came down
to find that the door to the
back pantry was stuck,
blocking me from dog food.
Muttering un-Christmassy
things, I added to my
pajamas a coat, pair of
boots, and my Elmer Fudd
cap. Then came wading
through the snow to the
back porch and through it
to the outside of the pantry
door. I managed to
yank it open. Dogs fed, I
again climbed the wooden
hill, as the Brits say. This
one has a good fifteen narrow
steps to the top. But
just as I reached the bedroom
door, another wild
clatter of toenails. Those
dogs weren’t going to be
blocked out of their room
again. I gave up.
Simon didn’t seem to
mind. He slept between
my ankles and the two
doggies flopped next to the
bed for another two hours,
snoring and belching and
worse. Over the last fifty
years, I’ve often slept in
dormitories; but never, I
think, in a kennel.
There’ll be more to tell
you, I know. This is only
our second day.
Jim Atwell lives in Fly
Creek.
Columns
Jim Atwell: Our excellent 'stay-cation’
- Columns
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From Fly Creek: Passing fronts and settled weather
(I owe the first part of this column to an informal writers’ workshop sponsored by the Smithy Pioneer Gallery. The small group, led by Gallery Director Danielle Newell, meets Sunday afternoons and is open to anyone interested in the writing craft. As a warmup exercise on that very rainy afternoon, we each wrote a few paragraphs on the weather and emotions. Here’s what that keen group prompted me to scribble down) The dour old Scotsman, the one featured in jokes without number about buying lottery tickets, pinching pennies, scorning worldly ways, etc., once silenced a friend who was praising the beautiful weather.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: We're back from Michigan ...
Unfortunately, we once again find ourselves stuck in a time warp. When we look at the calendar, we realize that Labor Day is fast approaching. Yet, we seem to be operating under the misconception that it is still early July due in large part to the fact that we spent the almost five weeks from July 15 to August 17 in Grand Rapids, Michigan. We feel the summer has sailed by and we, unfortunately, have not kept pace.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Censorship?
All those indebted to John Lawrence, Post-rider, and do not settle the same IMMEDIATELY may rely upon having to pay cost!! Otego, Aug. 24.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: 1984 comes to a close ... finally
As we continue traipsing through 1984, we realize that even though we were supposed to be covering the comings and goings of Cooperstown, we actually were able, even then, to touch on a number of pressing community, as well as personal, issues. Of course, much to the relief of the powers that were at CCS, the school was not among them. The he-we ran for the school board in 1984 and was elected. Thus the school was deemed off limits by the powers that were at the paper. But we discovered there was still a wide range of issues upon which we could write.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: New school book
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, Aug. 18, 1810
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Books offer tennis insights
Professional tennis sometimes seems to be the ultimate life. Where else could you travel the world, earn gobs of money, get in great shape, and have groupies from the opposite sex chasing you all the time? And you get all your equipment free to boot (which may explain why players smash racquets without remorse). Quite a glamorous life, isn’t it?
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: Continuing our 1984 musings
Now that we have undertaken the beginnings of this column, we fear we find ourselves unable to stop our review of the early writings. In fact, we seem to be completely addicted to the project. And thus, we will continue to explore the very foundations on which this column has been built.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Burnett's book recalls 'Golden Age'
It’s a shame that today’s young generation missed the golden age of television from the 1960s and 70s. The fact that Hollywood studios with their ``original’’ ideas of constantly remaking hit TV shows from that era into new movies and reunion specials is quite telling. Even Fox with its ``That 70’s Show’’ is a reminder of that whimsical time.
Continued ... -
Home Notes: A place to cherish
As we enter into the middle of summer, let us pause and relish in the fact that we have been blessed with such lovely weather.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Hurray for Mother Bassett!
Just back from my annual week at Lake George’s Silver Bay, in company with about 600 other Quakers. As always, it was a great time: Friends shared silence in the early morning by the lake and during the day in the big brown-shingled tabernacle. (Silver Bay is an old YMCA camp.)
Continued ...
Plenty of fine stringed music and singing in the evenings; lots of daytime rocking-chair stints on the deep veranda, facing across rolling lawns and lake to green mountains and skies of startling blue. -
In These Otsego Hills: In the beginning
Our remembering Jerry in last week’s column has now lead us to muse about our early days of writing a weekly newspaper column.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Prohibition should not be ignored
I was an American history major in college and one topic that my professors never discussed was prohibition.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Elopement
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, July 21, 1810 Compiled, with comments BY HUGH C. MACDOUGALL
Continued ... -
Home Notes: Personal Care is a rewarding occupation
When I was a young girl in the early 50’s my family would often take rides through Cooperstown and the Cherry Valley area.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: Remembering Jerry ...
Difficult as it is to believe, we have been a widow for eleven years this week. And yet it seems as if our late husband Jerry just died yesterday. The memory of it remains most vivid in our mind. We suppose there is much that we don’t remember about July 20, 1999. But we do remember just how much that day changed our life forever. We lost not only our spouse of 28 years, but also our best friend.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Celebrating the 4th
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, July 14, 1810 Compiled, with comments by
Continued ... -
Our Opinion: What’s good for the goose...
The board of trustees has decided to hire an engineer to review the work of CLA Site, the firm hired to do the site assessment and design work for the Village Gateway Project _ now known as the Cooperstown Intermodal Transit Project. That review will cost up to $12,000.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: ‘Thump-thump, dum-lum’
Since I last wrote to you I’ve been several times embraced to Mother Bassett’s bosom.
Continued ...
(Oh dear, I hope that’s not a disrespectful metaphor. But if you’ve seen photos, you know she was a handsome, dignified woman with an ample superstructure.) This time, for variety, the hospital visits at first seemed to have little to do with Parkinsonism. But a new problem had turned up that had me tested in every part of the hospital except obstetrics. -
In These Otsego Hills: Travels with The Widge...
We have decided that the role of grandmother is quite to our liking. As we have been told any number of times, as a grandparent it is perfectly acceptable to hold, play with and fawn over the grandchild until such time as said grandchild becomes fussy. And then, and this is the best part, it is completely within the purview of the grandparent to return the fussy grandchild to the parents. We love it.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Shocking accident, American arrested
On Wednesday last, as Joseph Faulkner, esq. of Middlefield, was returning home from Cherry-Valley, a gust of wind arose up suddenly, a large Elm was blown across the road, directly on Mr. Faulkner, who, together with his horse was instantly killed.
Continued ...
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From Fly Creek: Passing fronts and settled weather
