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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.
Early on we realized that the weather was one of those fairly safe topics. It was then and it still is now. But the weather in 1984 presented a very challenging time for the Winter Carnival. If we remember correctly there was tons of snow and cold weather in the weeks leading up to the carnival. But by the time the carnival rolled around, the snow had melted and it was warm enough that we were wondering why Cooperstown has so many snow birds.
Consequently, we wrote in the column of February 22, 1984: ``In closing, we have decided, after a great deal of thought, to mention the Winter Carnival. Margaret and the rest of the gang expect it, are prepared for it and would undoubtedly be crushed if it didn’t happen.
Needless to say, this is not the first time the weather has played havoc with well made plans. In fact, longtime Cooperstown resident, Mac Preston says that even back in the days when the Knox School was at the Otesaga, the weather seldom cooperated with the school’s winter carnival plans. She can remember more than once standing, feet freezing, on the tennis courts, which had been flooded and frozen into an ice rink, watching the carnival king perched on his throne of ice, which was melting merrily away. Obviously history repeats itself.
But what we really can’ understand is that if the date of the Winter Carnival is indeed such a good deterrent to winter weather, why isn’t the Carnival scheduled to run from January first right through April?’’
We also made a decision from the very beginning that we would from time to time present the ``You Never Can Tell Award’’ to deserving individuals. Our first one appeared in the our first column of 1984 and read: ``Before closing, we would like to introduce the ``You Never Can Tell Award’’ to be bestowed upon deserving individuals from time to time as the appropriate situation arises. Our first recipient is Barb LaCava who, on the morning of Dec. 14, called to ask Jerry if he could substitute at the high school.
She explained that the other subs she had called were going to the Women’s Club Christmas Tea that day. Guess what, Barb, you never can tell.
Jerry was a delightful Santa at the tea, although we really don’t think it is true that Santa has been coming to Mabel Atwell’s house for almost a hundred years.’’
Our second You Never Can Tell Award was bestowed on January 25, 1984 as follows: ``And finally, this week we would like to present to The Badger, who has proclaimed to the world that he has, heaven forbid, thrown away, as in discarded, his NationalGeographics, the ``you never can tell’’ award.
We too emptied our attic of Geographics.
We struggled them down two flights of stairs, dragged them through the kitchen, and deposited them outside near the back door, hoping against hope that no one would notice. We tried to pretend they were just ordinary, everyday garbage. But alas, we couldn’t fool the garbage men.
The truck backed into the driveway, and magically, two pairs of eyes were riveted to, you guessed it, the boxes and boxes of shiny, yellow, heavier than lead magazines. Instantly the boxes were swooped up and saved. ``These are too good to throw away’’ we were told. So, dear Badger, you may think you have done away with Gilbert Howy Grosvenor’s handiwork, but you never can tell. Somewhere, somehow, someone will manage to save them.’’
And finally, we also learned early on that when someone tells a good Cooperstown story, it should make its way posthaste into the column.
Thus on November 7, 1984 we shared what we consider to this day to be the most classic of Halloween stories.
We quote: ``Halloween is not our favorite celebration.
When one always dresses oddly and always wears a funny face, Halloween loses its attraction. But, George Connell of Chestnut Street shared with us a delightful Halloween story. One year on October 31 calling hours were being held at the funeral home. Many trick or treaters realized that a solemn occasion was in progress and so avoided the place. One small boy, however, strode up to the door and demanded his due.
As George was fetching the goodies, the costumed urchin was peering around the curtain into the room where the open casket was resting with family and friends consoling each other in hushed tones.
After spying the coffin, the wide-eyed boy turned to George and said. `Wow, you really go all out for Halloween, don’t you?’’’ And while we greatly love the story, we are still not fans of Halloween.
And we still now, as we did then, suffer, from time to time, with a lack of news worthy items for the column. This too started early on when we wrote on February 1, 1984 that: ``It seems that this week we are faced with the interesting dilemma of the incredible shrinking column. We would hate to think that a mere five weeks is to be the extent of our journalistic career.
However, the phone has not rung off the wall, the doorbell hasn’t rung for so long we forget with which tune it is currently programmed, and George Robinson delivers less and less mail each day. In a moment of sheer panic, we almost called a certain news bureau to find out exactly what happened on this day in 1843. Instead we opted to check the stoplight. If that still works there is at least some activity in the village.’’
Of course, we hasten to note that in Cooperstown February is a far cry from Cooperstown in August.
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