In 2013 I spent nearly every Saturday morning walking some of the trails at Oglebay Park, just about an hour’s drive away. Last year, not so much because I was working on my parents’ house. This year I hope to get back on track, so to speak, and I definitely wanted to get some photos of the tulip gardens around the Mansion buildings--so beautiful and featuring one of my very favorite types of flower. This morning I was able to scoot over from Shadyside early, before the rain. Visitors come from all over to see the flowers and grounds, and—pleasant surprise—I bumped into the Ebbert family strolling through the amazing tulip displays, too. If you aren’t able to make it before the season ends, this will hopefully inspire you to visit Oglebay next April.
Sunday, March 22, I had the opportunity to participate in an InstaMeet in Wheeling. Photographers/Instagrammers from the region gathered at Wheeling's Heritage Park on the riverfront, picked up the list of subjects, and took off throughout downtown with phones and cameras. Subjects included Rust, Stranger, Doorway, Alley, Faded Building Advertisement, Window and Church, and a couple of others.
If you'd like to see what everyone posted, go to Instagram and search #wwim11_WheelingWV. There are a few from yours truly there with other shooters' takes on the town. If you'd like to see my other Instagram work, check out my IG account, @g.valenti.photo.
I have a new lens for my camera and am still learning how to use it. I think it will be fun, though—a Holga—with its retro, gritty, grainy look. Working on my new websites has taken its toll this week. I needed to step away from the computer and get out of the house into the sunshine before the weather turns again tonight. So I drove to Bellaire.
I definitely need to keep practicing with the lens, but this was the first outing. If you are exploring the web, check out my new site www.ArtSoulWine.com (and its Facebook page.) I'm busy updating and upgrading my photography website, too, still at www.GlynisArt.com.
Last week I had to shoot photos of vintage items for a news article. I went to the Barnesville Antique Mall, and it was pretty cool. My head was spinning after perusing three floors crammed with all kinds of items, big and small, Depression glass, pottery, lots of jewelry, handbags, knick knacks, kitchen items—you get the idea. The people were very nice and had set up a display for me to photograph. I purchased a pair of earrings, restraining myself with all of my willpower against buying a large armoire (that I don’t need, and, truthfully, couldn’t get into the house if by chance I could find a way to get it home.)
Tucked away among the bowls, plaques, baubles and linens, there were a couple of odd items. I posted the “duck o’lantern (?!?)” on my Instagram account. And, truly, I'm glad I was a good little girl because I can't imagine how I would have turned out if Santa Claus had brought me a baby doll like the one forever-screaming, pictured below. I had the strangest thoughts about how the other two dolls have just tuned that one out; they’ve become jaded, numb and stare blankly into their own worlds, day in, day out. Which led me to think about how we, witnessing or experiencing similar constant noise (violence, crying children, barking dogs, maltreatment of animals or humans, etc.) eventually tune it out or adopt it as part of the daily landscape.
But I was on sensory-overload at that point, had totally missed lunch and hadn’t even finished my morning coffee.
I think I’ll be going back, though. I just got a Holga lens, and this might be a good test location.
The following column about my pup Zsa Zsa was published in today's Times Leader. People have asked me how she is doing, and the answer is well. She's very funny, and I have to be vigilant and consistent, but she is a good little dog. Though the word "Amish" didn't appear in the newspaper, make no mistake that they are top offenders in the puppy mill problem. When I took ZZ to the vet's for the first time, she knew immediately from where the pup came just from the physical traits and subsequent health issues mill dogs exhibit. We're trying to remedy the mess these people made of this innocent animal's life. Here are a few more Zsa Zsa notes:
- Nicknames: ZZ, Zsah, and Lil' Z (gansta)
- She loves to be in the sun and will follow patches of it on the floor around the house
- She also likes toys and bones and isn't shy about taking what she can from her cousins or buddy Toby, though she isn't aggressive or threatening. It's hysterical to see her charge into a pile of toys and drag out the biggest bone (Samoyed size) without being intimidated at all. Think ant and rubber tree plant.
- She is still trying to figure out cats (who isn't?) but, again, isn't threatening--simply curious, much to the object-cat's chagrin
- In spite of the long days spent on the front seat of a U-Haul in November, she loves to ride in the car and now pokes her head out of the pet carrier to view the world outside the window. Previously, she has curled up and slept.
At the end of 2013 I adopted a three-year old (estimated) ball of fur with one dark eye and one blue that weighed six pounds soaking wet. I wasn’t sure I wanted the responsibility and expense of a pet. My parents died the month before. I had no idea where my life was going.
It began when I called Vicki Groves of My Young and Old Fur Babies Rescue to donate some blankets, and she said, “You’ll never believe what I got this week.” She told me about her visit to a Holmes County veterinarian’s and stopping the vet tech as he lifted this pup, with tail wagging, out of the cage to euthanize her--just another breeder in an puppy mill that out-lived her usefulness. The vet thought she was a grey and black Shih Tzu, but after Vicki bathed her four times at the clinic to get the filth and smell from her coat, it turned out the pup was apricot and white. She didn’t bark and seemed very sweet.
“She would be a great dog for you,” Vicki concluded. “She needs a quieter home; she could lie on your lap while you write.
When I dropped off the blankets, this little bundle fell asleep on my arm. Soon after, I, with the encouragement of most of my Facebook friends, made arrangements to adopt her. I’d picked out a Chinese name that meant “little joy:” Xiao Xiao. Right away it was apparent that she was more of a “little diva,” so her name became similar sounding Zsa Zsa instead.
I won’t lie. This co-habitation has been an adjustment for both of us. Her breed is notoriously stubborn, but she obeys eventually and looks to me for direction, acknowledgement and food. Zsa Zsa also has health issues due to irresponsible breeding practices. She’s allergic to almost everything, literally, so I cook vegetables, fruits, whole grains and fish for both of us. I also have to make logistical schedule adjustments to come home every few hours to let the pooch out of her crate.
As she’s been acclimating to a world beyond a wire cage, I’ve observed a few lessons from her. Maybe she was sent to remind me of these as I reassess my own life.
First, Zsa Zsa goes with the flow. She’s fine hanging out with her toys and blankets at home, but is always up for adventure whether going to see her “cousins”--my cousins’ Samoyeds and kitty-- or traveling across the US in a U-Haul. She greets everyone and is curious about everything new, a little cautiously sometimes, but always giving whatever it is the benefit of the doubt. If it has popcorn, all the better.
Vicki thought the mill may have severed Zsa Zsa’s vocal chords (not unusual) because she didn’t bark while at the rescue. Thankfully she wasn’t put through that horror. Turns out, lesson two, Zsa Zsa only barks when she thinks it’s necessary. She watches, evaluating what’s happening instead of throwing herself into it with mouth running.
Third, Zsa Zsa doesn’t let her past determine her future. I can only imagine her previous miserable life, and if it had turned out that she was snappish with people or fearful of other dogs, who could blame her? Instead, she wakes every morning facing fresh, new days, more good now than bad. She is afraid of the dark, though, so we sleep with a nightlight (and I with a mask over my eyes) to reassure Zsa Zsa and to keep me from waking to an ungodly screeching howl at 2 a.m. But her uninhibited joy as she scampers and struts is contagious.
Fourth, Zsa Zsa tries. Even if she’s unsure or afraid, she gathers up some moxie and gives it a go. She wants to contribute to “the pack,” and I want her to have some confidence, so when she succeeds at a challenge, it’s “good girl,” “yay,” and lots of pats on the head.
Now the not-so-good news. Zsa Zsa would have died without anyone knowing of this harmless, sweet and spunky little creature of God. There were already garbage bags on the vet clinic floor containing dogs not fortunate enough to catch Vicki’s eye, and this goes on every day. Holmes County and Lancaster, Pennsylvania are known as the “puppy mill capitals of the world.”
Virtually all puppies in pet stores—around 500,000 annually--come from mills, as do puppies at flea markets. A mill owner rakes in upwards of $300,000 per year at the expense of confined, malnourished and even injured dogs that keep the puppies coming. While puppies are sent away from the mill, the mothers—like Zsa Zsa—merely exist in wire cages breeding twice a year until they can’t produce, then are euthanized by a vet or killed on the farm. Googling “puppy mill statistics” will yield links to USDA and Humane Society reports and the ABC News story on Amish puppy mills. The only way to stop the cruelty is to stop buying these puppies and putting your money in the pockets of the monsters. Instead, support the rescues that save these dogs.
Lucky us, Zsa Zsa and me, when Fate smiled. Another year of exploring ahead, and, as Vicki predicted, Zsa Zsa is snoring on the couch beside me. Valenti can be reached at email@example.com.
I’m not a fan of winter, at least the cold, snowy kind of winter. I have always sort of hibernated during January. It’s such a dark month, the one glimmer of hope being that the daylight grows steadily longer.
Last January was brutal with below-zero temps and lots of snow blowing around. I have to say we’ve been lucky this year, and the snow has been minimal with short cold snaps. In Rochester I would listen in the middle of the night for the snow plow, and I find myself waking here, too, to the scraping as it comes up the hill. When it comes. This is not the city. When I don’t hear traffic going by in the early morning I know the road is covered.
But Winter found us at last, and we’ve had about six or so inches over the last three days. This is okay. While I can’t embrace the weather, I am resigned to accept it as it is. And I even made time to shoot a few photos on my way to the office today because, without the wind, the snow has settled on the trees, and it’s very pretty.
I’m still working on my new websites, and, with any luck will have one up and running in the next two weeks. It’s exciting to be working on a couple of new art projects, too, and preparing a new photo class. Off and running for 2015.
It is Christmas, and, since this is an unusual Christmas for me, I’ve been thinking about tradition, specifically about cards. I sent photo cards out again this year, and I think most have arrived safe and sound. But I’m sharing with you another card tradition that has always meant much to me.
When I was going through my storage unit last month, I packed a sealed box marked “Christmas” and “Glass” in one of the moving boxes, wrapping it in a blanket and placing pillows and skeins of yarn all around. Upon opening it last week, I was delighted. It was my framed Christmas cards, garland, a couple of odd-lot ornaments and some favorite holiday videos. But, ah, the cards.
The majority of the 21 cards were given to me by my ex-husband, Rich, during our 10 years together, and, with the exception of a couple of painful post-divorce years, these cards have always made me smile. They are beautiful—so beautiful that I decided to frame them, and they became part of my Christmas décor. Eventually they decked my mantle in Rochester and my bookshelves in Oregon, which became my Christmas trees of sorts—displaying ornaments, garlands, lights, the cards, memories.
I love looking at them, small works of art. All have a touch of nostalgia and a touch of magic. I think that is what Christmas was--or is--to Rich and to many of us. It, far more than other holidays, is about wishes and goodwill. A benevolent, jolly spirit sweeping through a starry night distributing gifts throughout the world is nothing less than magic. We want to believe; we want to believe in good.
I hope you enjoy these as much as I do. Happy Christmas.
Once again my column in Sunday's Times Leader garnered some comments, so I've decided to reprint it here. For the record, I'm still deciding where to go or whether to go at all. Not sure what I'll be doing, either, because there are so many possibilities. My hope is that at some point the Universe will part the clouds and shine a big sun ray on a map or a house or a plane ticket. Or the winning lottery ticket, so I can do everything and go everywhere.
According to the American Moving and Storage Association (AMSA,) each year an average of nearly 36 million people move their households. I know two of those people this year: my friend Dottie and myself.
A few years ago Dottie came back to the Ohio Valley from her home in California to take care of a couple of elderly relatives. Sound familiar? She and I are part of the 15 percent of Americans who move for “family-related” reasons. She cultivated a life here but missed her daughters and grandchildren on the west coast, and they missed her. This year Dottie decided to pull up stakes and build on her daughter’s property. She asked me if I would drive the U-Haul truck cross-country for her, adding that I could head up to Oregon and clear out my storage unit holding my own furniture, books, camera equipment, etc. for over four years. I agreed that this was a good idea, and I needed a change of scenery after the last year.
A Facebook friend recently drove to San Diego posting awesome photos all along the way, noting that to see the “real” America, you have to get off of the Interstate. I totally agree having driven I-80 through 1,400 miles of corn from Nebraska to Ohio, but Dottie and I were interstate-bound, too, with deadlines to meet and long days of driving. My Instagram and Facebook posts could only chronicle some bits and pieces of sights seen from I-40, leaving “The World’s Largest Wind Chime” for future travels.
Most of it proceeded without incident, but between Oklahoma City and Albuquerque an approaching weather system created 40 m.p.h. winds. It was a 550 mile drive anyway, but the wind, the hills and a loaded-down 17-foot U-Haul turned it into a 12-hour day. Finally in the hotel parking lot, aching, tired and after Google maps sent me circling in the opposite direction of the hotel, I locked my keys and my pup Zsa Zsa in the truck.
As I had a meltdown and Dottie called AAA three times, a man stepped over from the counter and said, “I hear what’s happening, and I can’t make any promises, but I’ll take a look at the truck for you.” He was an angel and removed the keys through the window while Zsa Zsa slept on the seat. I gave him a restaurant card to use for lunch with his kids.
Dottie and I did take some time to visit Sedona, Arizona and taste wine in Paso Robles, California. We unloaded the truck and returned it in Amador County, then headed up to Oregon.
Before leaving Ohio I discovered that it was less expensive—not to mention time consuming—to fly back to Ohio and hire movers to ship the contents of my storage space instead of renting another U-Haul. Many people commented on my last column about downsizing and clearing out. Well, those comments echoed in my ears as the purge continued.
I cautiously raised the door of the storage unit and waited for something to tumble out. All was safe and sound, and, thankfully, mostly in boxes and bins. I began transferring items to a “giveaway” pile and a “garbage” pile, steadily working my way through, oh, one-third of the unit. Hmmm. My goal was to reduce the amount of all the stuff by half, and the movers were going to pick everything up in two days. I stepped up the “get rid of” action, loaded up my rental car with items for Goodwill and made some more progress.
By the end of the first day I’d come to three realizations. First, I had had a LIFE in Oregon. Here was my artwork and inventory; here were the items filling my cupboards and drawers; here were my files of photo negatives and client projects; here were my lesson plans, materials and tools for the classes I taught; here were my shop fixtures. It was all coming back to me.
The second realization was that I was living proof that one person CAN have too many books—and it pains me to say that. Boxes and crates of art books, cookbooks, magazines and the old mysteries that I’d collected seemed to get in the way of everything else I was trying to sort. I did give many books to Goodwill and magazines to recycling, but only glanced at the coffee table books that I used during my photo classes.
Third, I realized I could keep my storage unit for now. Once I gave myself permission to keep the space, I felt more relaxed and focused about sorting and packing. While my stuff should be in Ohio by the time this column is in print, I’ve left the possibility of returning to Oregon, even part-time, open. I packaged up the things that were pertinent to life here—sweaters, wine and much of my artwork--and left behind those belongings more suited to the beach.
It’s scary to not have a concrete plan, but right now I need to take one step at a time even if the steps go in different directions. Maybe if I continue removing the clutter, ever paring down, at some point it will clear the path.
Well, here I am. I thought that my trip to California and Oregon might make things a little clearer as far as next steps, but it didn’t. I did make some excellent wine contacts in CA to try to get something going here, but found myself feeling exhilarated by the Oregon beach air and seeing friends and familiar places again. This was unexpected.
I was overwhelmed by Sedona. I’ve not experienced mountains like those or the type of energy at the Chapel of the Holy Cross. It was serene and yet vibrant (almost tangible) at the same time. I don’t recall ever feeling anything like it. I had to go outside because of the power.
The Oregon coast is always amazing. There is so much natural beauty. It’s breathtaking. And even as sheets of rain were whipping off of the ocean on Friday as I was out and about, I felt comforted by it, especially when I stopped to say hello to Bob and Lenore at EVOO and Suzanne and Jim at Icefire Gallery and it was all cozy-warm inside. As I drove back to Nadine and Van’s (where I was staying,) I thought, “This is winter on the coast. Wind, water and warm.”
I cringed at the memory of last year’s stretch of below zero temps in Ohio (and New York and the whole Great Lakes region.) Blech. But here in Ohio opportunities are beginning to crop up, and I just need to focus and push myself ahead with some of the possibilities. I’m unpacking the boxes and furniture that I had shipped here from my storage unit. The first thing I noticed was that the contents smell like the coast—fresh and evergreen-y. I almost want to seal up the boxes to keep that wonderful scent close by. And so it goes.
If you follow me on Facebook or Instagram, you’ll have seen a few shots from the road, but these are some additional. My newspaper column on Sunday also talked a bit about the trip, so I’ll post that here, too. For now, sit back and enjoy the ride.
Sometimes I lead a charmed life. I asked friend Diane Conroy about an upcoming Sons of Italy event, their annual wine dinner. She was on the committee and invited me to the tasting to choose the wines!
The dinner is this Saturday, Dec. 6. Of course the food is authentic, and the wines are Italian.
The line-up looks like Niro Montepulciano with antipasto and bruschetta; Riondo Rosso with roasted pork shoulder and pepperoni lasagna roll-ups; Planeta Segreta and Straccali Pinot Grigio with the seafood dishes; Bartenura Moscato with dessert; a delicioso PISA Liqueur as a finish.
Thank you to the Sons of Italy for the warm welcome. I’m looking forward to the dinner!
(I was in California and Oregon during November. Posts regarding the trip coming soon, and I’ll get back on track.)
(A little feature from today's Times Leader in honor of National Pizza Month. Thank you to Dominic DeFelice and DeFelice Brothers Pizza for their input and allowing me to take some photos at their Wheeling/Bethlehem store. Buon appetito!)
It’s that time of year when, after a long day and a dash through the neighborhood on a dark night, families gather in the kitchen to divvy up the goods. Yes, it’s National Pizza Month, and opening that box on the table has become part of the American way of life.
So much so in fact, according to National Restaurant Association statistics, Americans consume pizza at the rate of 350 slices per second, or 46 slices per year for every man, woman and child. For a family of four, that’s 23 eight-slice pizzas per year. In the US, 93 percent of the population eats pizza at least once a month. Pizza is the “go to” food for family parties, especially for families with children under the age of 18. A Gallup poll notes that pizza is the top choice for lunches and dinners with the age 3 to 11 crowd.
America’s favorite topping is pepperoni, which is on more than 36 percent of all orders and totals 252 million pounds consumed per year, but no one knows exactly where this trend began. It did gain popularity sometime between 1930 and 1950. Regardless of which kind, 62 percent of pizza orders include some sort of meat. And with pizza becoming a diet staple, each American also eats around 11 pounds of mozzarella cheese annually. Among toppings, anchovies are the least favorite in the United States.
There are as many topping preferences as cultures throughout the world. The Japanese like pizza topped with eel and squid; Russians like a fish mixture of mackerel, salmon, tuna and sardines with onions. Curry is popular in Pakistan, tofu in India, coconut in Costa Rica, hard-boiled eggs in Brazil and shrimp with pineapple in Australia.
Most people think that pizza originated in Italy, Naples to be exact. However, research shows that people were baking bread 7,000 years ago in the Neolithic age. A little later, Ancient Greeks put herbs, garlic and onions on flatbread, and after that various cultures in the Mediterranean, Middle East and Asia developed their own types of flavored flatbreads.
Naples, as it happens, was a Greek settlement established around 600 BC. The seaport city grew and thrived with explorations and developing trade routes through the centuries, fostering an increasing population of working poor, or lazzaroni. Since many had no kitchens, street vendors and bakeries began selling inexpensive flatbreads with toppings, coined “pizza” (believed to originate from the Latin pista of pinsere, to pound or beat) around the 16th century. Many of the early pizzas were also sweet, and the more savory versions familiar today developed later. Tomatoes found their way onto pizza after European explorers brought them back from trips to the Americas. While wealthy Neapolitans dined on rich foods and wines, the poor “mangia”’d their way into history.
Port’Alba, the first official pizzeria opened in Naples in 1830 and featured an oven that used lava from nearby volcano Mt. Vesuvius. On a tour through Italy with King Umberto I in 1889, Queen Margherita Teresa Giovanni asked to try pizza when they arrived in Naples. Don Raffaele Esposito, owner of long-established pizzeria Pietro il Pizzaiolo, obliged with a special pie topped with tomatoes, basil and, for the first time, mozzarella cheese—honoring the colors of the Italian flag—and he named it for the queen.
The first “official” American pizzeria was Lombardi’s Pizzeria Napoletana on Spring St. in New York City. Gennaro Lombardi opened it in 1905. As Italians immigrated to the US, they also opened restaurants and pizza parlors, introducing their cuisine to a growing American middle class. Soldiers returning from World War II tours in Italy helped spread the word about pizza and boosted its popularity as a tasty, wholesome meal.
Today the $30 billion a year pizza industry serves up the second most popular restaurant menu item, the first being burgers. For consumers over age 50, pizza is second to chicken when it comes to take-out food. Chances are, there is a pizza restaurant nearby because they hold a 20 percent market share of the number of restaurants.
Based on per capita counts, the National Restaurant Association reports that New Hampshire rates the highest with 3.87 stores per 10,000 people. West Virginia ranks fifth in this count with 3.40 stores per 10,000 people, followed by Pennsylvania at 3.26 stores. Ohio ranks eighth with 3.18 stores per 10,000 people. New York, home of the first pizzeria, comes in 15th with 2.63 stores per 10,000, and Hawaii is last on the list with only 1.21 stores per 10,000 people.
Of the chain pizza restaurants, Pizza Hut is the largest in the world. According to Technomic, a restaurant industry consulting firm, Pizza Hut restaurants and delivery/take-out units total 6,120 in the United States alone (an average of more than 120 stores per state and over 8.5 percent of the pizza real estate, but they also have outlets in 90 other countries. Rounding out the top five chains, largest first, are Domino’s, Little Ceasars, Papa John’s and Papa Murphy’s. In total, chains have 47 percent of the total 71,387 US pizzerias.
The other 53 percent are independently owned, Connecticut having the highest percentage of independents versus chains at 87 percent. New York is second with 83 percent independent. Pennsylvania is eighth (76 percent,) Ohio is 13th (55 percent,) and West Virginia is 26th (45 percent independents.)
Locally, regional family-owned DeFelice Brothers Pizza has been serving their brand based on family recipes since 1982. President Dominic DeFelice says that they’ve been able to maintain the integrity of the original pizzas even through their growth to nine stores.
“Our dough is made fresh several times a day. We chop our fresh vegetables in every store. We use 100 percent real dairy cheese,” DeFelice explains. “We used to make our own sausage, but found someone to make it to our specifications when we couldn’t keep up with demand.”
He adds that they used to use fresh tomatoes, but, because of the company’s growth, sought out a producer in the United States who is able to pick and can (fresh pack) tomatoes within a six hour time span, giving DeFelice a consistent product that is as fresh as possible. He believes the fresh products and flavors played a part in the “DeFelice Bros. Special” pizza winning a competition in Italy.
In all, DeFelice Bros. offers more than 20 toppings on the menu, but, true to form, pepperoni is still the top seller, and anchovies sell the least. The above-mentioned “Special” (with pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, green peppers and onions) and monthly promotion pizzas (in October, it’s taco pizza) are popular, also.
DeFelice and district manager Geno Traficante think people like pizza because “it covers the four food groups:” dairy, meat, grains and vegetables.
“It’s portable and fun,” adds Traficante. “It’s also social and communal. People buy it for parties, to have with friends and family.”
“The key is the fresh ingredients, tomatoes, basil,” notes DeFelice. “We try to keep it simple.”
And with the trend toward healthier, simpler eating, a “better pizza” movement has arisen. Technomic research and surveys indicate that 41 percent of American pizza diners want fresh, local and/or organic ingredients for their pies. Thirty-four percent of pizza consumers said they would pay more for gourmet ingredients, for instance free-range chicken, goat cheese, tapenades, house-made mozzarella and smoked ricotta.
Pizza purists have also united and formed the “Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana,” the True Neapolitan Pizza Association. Members have set the parameters for creating an authentic Neapolitan pizza. The dough must be hand-kneaded and rolled without using any instruments like a rolling pin. It must be within certain size guidelines, use ingredients of particular quality and origin and be baked in a wood-fired, domed oven. The association evaluates and designates pizzerias outside of Naples to carry on their historic traditions.
Finally, since pizza has become a huge part of American culture, here are the facts on the world’s largest pizza. The World Record Academy says the largest baked pizza was created in December 2012 in Italy by five Italian chefs raising awareness about celiac disease. Measuring 131 feet in diameter (covering one-third of an acre,) the gluten-free pizza weighed 51,257 pounds and took 48 hours to bake in 5,000 batches. The ingredients included 19,800 pounds of flour, 10,000 pounds of tomato sauce, 551 pounds of salt, 8,800 pounds of mozzarella cheese and 275 pounds of parmesan cheese.
Valenti can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Last week I was invited to see and photograph the crush at a small local winery, a venture run by six hard-working siblings based on their father's homemade wine. Vino di Piccin in Lansing has a beautiful wine bar and some pretty darn good wines (i.e. Angelo's Reserve and Luigi's Zin.)
Saturday was all about the California Zinfandel and Cabernet Sauvignon grapes they secured from an Ohio distributor. Crates of Geneva, Ohio Concord grapes sat waiting for their turn in the crusher, too.
Thank you to the Piccin family for allowing me to hang out and take some photos, for the tastes, and for being such gracious hosts to everyone who walks through the door. The glass of wine in the final photo is what Saturday's grapes will aspire to be: Luigi's Zin.
(This feature appeared in today's Times Leader.)
By GLYNIS VALENTI Times Leader Staff Writer
Pumpkin season arrived right around the time of the fall equinox, just as the leaves began to turn colors other than green. Or it arrived September 1, the day McDonald’s released its Pumpkin Spice Latte drink (Starbucks released theirs on September 2.) Either way pumpkins mean fall, and fall means pumpkins—and lots of them.
According to information from Iowa State University, pumpkin sales in the United States rose 16 percent from 2011 to 2012, meaning growers sold 1,388,800,000 pounds worth of pumpkin in 2012, a total value of nearly $149 million. Ohio is number three in pumpkin production behind California and top producer Illinois. In fact, 90 percent of America’s crop grows within 90 miles of Peoria, close to the Libby’s pumpkin processing plant. More than 85 percent of the world’s canned pumpkin comes from this plant.
In October pumpkins are all around in a wide range of shapes and sizes. While all varieties are packed with nutritional benefits, some pumpkins are grown and suited for different uses. Pumpkin is a vegetable, a member of the Cucurbitaceae family of vine plants like squash, cucumbers and cantaloupes. The most familiar varieties have orange or yellow skins, but they can be white, brown, red, grey or green.
The smallest pumpkins weigh only a few ounces and are used for decoration. The largest, or “giant,” varieties are grown mainly for competitions like the King Pumpkin contest at the Barnesville Pumpkin Festival. Many weigh several hundred pounds, but this year’s 1,514 pound winner was a festival record-breaker. The other hundreds of varieties of cooking, processing and carving pumpkins are in the middle of these extremes, and there are some particulars about choosing them.
All pumpkins are squash, the word “squash” coming from an Algonquin word, “askutasquash,” meaning “eaten green or unripe.” The earliest pumpkin eaters did harvest them early and prepare them like zucchini and other squashes.
One of the oldest known pumpkins is the cushaw, Cucurbitaceae argyrosperma, which originated in Mexico and was used 7,000 years ago. The cushaw’s elongated shape and crooked neck set it apart from the pumpkin pack, as does its light to whitish green color with mottled green stripes. Also called the green-striped cushaw and Hopi cushaw, it’s a heat-hardy, pest-resistant plant grown in desert areas of America’s southwest and can be stored up to four months. Early growers not only ate the plant for sustenance, but used it medicinally to treat burns and skin conditions like eczema, as well as to rid the body of intestinal worms and parasites. Outside of the southwest, southern and Appalachian cuisine make the most use of the moist, fibrous yellow flesh today for pies, pastries and Tennessee cushaw butter, but its availability is limited in other areas.
Out perusing pumpkins? There are two heirloom varieties that aficionados may enjoy hunting down. The first is the cheese pumpkin, C. moschata, a large, tan squash named for its shape’s likeness to a cheese wheel. Of West Indian origin, it was known to be in Europe during the 1500s and was cultivated on American soil before the American Revolution. It appeared in an 1815 seed catalog here and was also known as the Landreth Cheese and Mammoth Cheese pumpkins. Today’s Buff Pie pumpkin is believed to be the same variety.
The second, the Quaker Pie pumpkin, is rare but still around. A New York seed catalog advertised this white-skinned, white-flesh globe, which averages about 8 inches in diameter, but weighs around 10 pounds. The vines grow to 15 feet long and have very large flowers. In cooking, this variety has a coconut flavor.
Pumpkin—real pumpkin, not the canned pie mix—is a rich source of the antioxidant beta-carotene. One cup of cooked, drained flesh is only 49 calories and yields 2 grams of protein, 3 grams of fiber and 12 grams of carbohydrates. It contains a wealth of minerals: calcium, magnesium, potassium and zinc. But the beta-carotene converts to Vitamin A which is vital for skin, mucous membranes and eye health and fights age-related macular disease. Studies are indicating that Vitamin A also helps the body resist lung and oral cavity cancers. Pumpkin seeds, too, are a heart-healthy snack providing dietary fiber and mono-unsaturated fatty acids, protein, iron, niacin, selenium, zinc and the amino acid tryptophan.
Finding cooking pumpkins is easy this time of year. Here are a few pointers for finding the tastiest. Cooking pumpkins are smaller, between 4 and 8 pounds. The flesh is dense, sweet and smooth. Look for names like “Sugar Baby,” “Baby Pam,” “New England Pie,” and “Autumn Gold.” Ripe pumpkins make a hollow sound when tapped. Avoid those that are cut or bruised because of the risk of bacteria getting inside. They can be stored for several weeks at room temperature in a cool, well-ventilated area.
When cutting, remove the stem end first. Cut the pumpkin in half lengthwise and remove the webbing and seeds. Slice the halves, and cut the flesh into cubes. Not just for pie, pumpkin is used in stews, cookies, pancakes, breads, casseroles, sauces, ice cream, cheesecake, ravioli filling and on its own as a side dish. It is often used interchangeably with winter squash, especially butternut.
Carving, or field, pumpkins are usually larger and grow in various shapes. It helps to have a carving design in mind before shopping. Elongated varieties lend themselves to faces or window designs. Plumper shapes are suited to the traditional “jack o’ lantern” face. Oddly shaped pumpkins may provide opportunities for creating funny or scary faces. Again, a hollow sound when tapped means a ripe pumpkin, but the skin should be firm, not soft or bruised. It should sit solid and level.
Assemble cutting and carving tools such as knives, saws, an ice cream scoop and dry erase markers or T-pins to draw or transfer the design. Professional pumpkin artists use a variety of power tools during the carving process. One suggests a drywall saw for the initial cuts, a jigsaw for smaller cuts, a rotary tool for the skin and an angle grinder for cleaning large areas.
Decide where the opening will be. If it’s the top, cut into the pumpkin on an angle to make a cone. Openings can also be cut into the back or the bottom, but make sure the pumpkin will sit safely. Remove the seeds and netting with an ice cream scoop, beginning at the top of the hole and progressively moving down through the pumpkin. Scrape the inside clean with the scoop or scraper tool, and try to scrape the flesh down on the inside to less than one inch in the design area to make carving easier.
To transfer a pattern, secure or draw the image on the prepared area. Follow the lines of the design with a sharp, pointed object such as a T-pin, nail or metal skewer, then dust the lines with baking soda or cornstarch. Mark the areas to be cut with a marker or crayon while peeling the pattern away. Start with the small sections to be removed. Gently follow the dots with a saw blade or small knife. Keep the design in mind while carving—whatever is lit in the design is what needs to be carved out. The professionals urge care and patience here not only for safety, but to not damage intricate areas in the design. Don’t slice or rush, removing the sections carefully by hand. Make sure the back area is scraped clean and flat so as not to create shadows when lit.
Pros suggest a light spritz of bathroom cleaner with bleach or soaking it overnight in a tub of water with a little bleach. The bleach will keep pests away, and the water will keep the pumpkin firm. A thin layer of petroleum jelly on the exposed edges will help retain the moisture and prolong the pumpkin’s life. Light it up with blinker or flicker bulbs, black light or a noise sensor that turns it on when someone walks by.
Back to the Pumpkin Spice Latte, or PSL, Starbucks has sold more than 200 million over its 10 years on the menu. A medium has 510 calories, 20 grams of fat and 62 grams of sugar. McDonald’s PSL has fewer calories at 440, but the same fat and sugar content. The non-fat versions still contain the sugar (as much an average candy bar) but fewer calories and far less fat.
The real kicker? There is no “pumpkin” in it. According to the Starbucks website, the PSL is an “espresso beverage that features freshly steamed milk, rich and creamy pumpkin-flavored sauce and warm seasonal spices such as cinnamon, ginger nutmeg and clove.” But America’s love of pumpkin shows no signs of slowing down, and in 2013 spent $308 million on various pumpkin-flavored products. What would the Great Pumpkin think about that?
Thought I would add a couple of photos from yesterday's trip to the Ohio Valley Farmers Market in Bellaire. Susan West/Lone Oak Farm had bright heirloom tomatoes, and Vagabond Kitchen was serving up Chef Ryan's steamy hot soup made with market veggies and just a little hot pepper. "Soup. Bee-you-tiful soup." (the turtle in Through the Looking Glass, C.S. Lewis)
And here we are in October, one of my favorite months, full of transition. That description is more appropriate than ever this particular year. In four weeks, trees will be bare, temperatures will be cooler, clouds greyer, days shorter. By the end of the month furniture and extraneous possessions here will have found new homes, and I’ll be reevaluating whatever is left.
The month that begins with today’s sunny blue skies will end with the dark night and flashes of candle light that is All Hallows’ Eve. But the fog I’ve been in seems to be clearing, and just over the past week this has all come together in my head—and online.
I seemed to be on a Path in Oregon, making plans, moving along. Then I took the detour to Ohio, which sort of shook it all up. Since my parents’ deaths I’ve had this urgency to start moving again, but lost my sense of direction.
I think I’ve tentatively gained a bit of it back. I’m starting (again) with my photo work. I’ve been trying to get to the place in my head that led me to Oregon, and that was the desire to create and teach art. My first steps on this path are 1. currently teaching a pilot online photo class; 2. a new photography website—now in progress--with the same domain (glynisart.com) that has updated content and a fresh look; 3. a photo project on Instagram/Facebook that has me shooting every day this month, see #gvoctoberproject. I’m also creating a totally NEW website incorporating my favorite things. I will, of course, keep you posted about all of that. Very exciting.
I love this glass pumpkin. It, too, changes—elegant, then funky, silvery, then dark, glowing full of sunlight, or an antique just cleared of cobwebs in an old Victorian. As October begins it’s a bit early to ask myself where I’ll go from here. But I know that by taking some new steps to move forward, I won’t be in the same place at month’s end.
So now that I have been through the house, examining and weighing the remnants of my parents’ lives, it is time for my own reckoning.
Yesterday I started in my corner of the garage. Several Rubbermaid bins have been sitting there since I moved from Rochester to Oregon. The three or four that I went through (those bins not buried under hypertufa supplies and my Oriental rug) still yielded paperwork to be shredded and things to add to the giveaway piles. I brought my silverware into the house to use.
I was surprised at how detached I was as I methodically glanced and tossed. Not wearing my glasses was probably a good idea. Once in awhile something caught my eye, and those few things were placed in a “review” pile.
Though I would prefer “spring” as a metaphor for growth and rebirth, there is change in the air today. I heard Canadian geese this morning, getting an early start. I was hopeful when I heard a brief rain as I woke up, but that was the beginning and the end apparently. The blustery wind has blown the clouds and any chance of rain east for the foreseeable future. Color is creeping through the trees, and we know what’s next. I looked over my curious pile of memories this morning. Change is imminent.
1. In my “office” bin, I found this program from a Bobby McFerrin concert. NEAD, the agency where I worked at the time, gave me two prime tickets for my birthday. I was so appreciative. The people in that office were kind and giving and funny. Everyone was on the same mission and worked as a team. So proud and blessed to have been a part of it.
The letter is from an acquaintance. I felt guilty when I pondered this because I truly had no idea who this person was, yet I am “dearest Glynis.” I finally figured out that he was a friend of a friend whom I met once or twice with my friend in Cleveland. Other than that, I know nothing about him.
The notebooks were entirely different. There were logs from one of my part-time jobs for a market research firm along with, surprisingly, notes to someone I was seeing at the time. I don’t think I ever sent these notes—a good thing, I’m sure. It was upsetting to read some of them because this wasn’t a good time in my life. The words are not angry, but in fact overly caring. It was difficult to read because I know how unhappy I was, and I used all of my strength to cover and push that pain down. Live and learn. Well, sort of.
2. The wine bottle is something I brought back from Oregon. It was in a basket with other more pertinent things. Clients—five brothers--at my wine shop meet in Cannon Beach every year from different parts of the country. They came into the shop and grilled me about wine, did some tasting and talking and bought a couple of bottles for the weekend. As they were leaving town, they stopped in to say goodbye and presented me with a half glass of this premier Bordeaux ($200+ bottle.) I was touched and flattered to be included, and it gave me a little confidence, too. The bottle shattered on the garage floor when I dropped the basket.
In one of the bins I found my father’s sunglasses from the 1960s, which, after he said I could have them, I wore occasionally. He came into the garage just after I broke the bottle. I thought he would be mad that 1. there was glass all over the floor and 2. that it was a wine bottle. Instead he seemed genuinely concerned that I not hurt myself cleaning it up and sorry that I broke something that I valued.
You never know for sure how people will react.
3. This other notebook had a different “theme.” In it I explored different path choices. What was the comparative cost of living in Santa Fe or Taos? What were my skills? My marketable skills? And this page, for some reason left blank. “What I would do if I could do anything.” That is the question, isn’t it?
The framed card is one that sat on my desk in Rochester. It reads, “Your road…is your own.” True again. I find myself trying to determine what I want to do next and where I want to go now, but this time I’m releasing things I don’t want to carry on the next leg of my journey. My road IS my own, and I can DO anything I want. I have figured this out at this point.
Each of us has a path, and, if you’re moving along it, the scenery is always changing. I feel like I’ve been here before, but not. This time around I’ve let go of things, of the past, and am continuing that work. Maybe that’s what this is about: releasing, shedding like fall leaves, finding one’s essence and truth within.
Here is the second part of the series on heroin, which appeared in The Times Leader earlier this year. Do check out TylersLight.com. The videos are quite powerful.
HEROIN: The Addiction
By GLYNIS VALENTI Times Leader Staff Writer
“We didn’t understand addiction and how to separate the person from the illness. We felt alone in our quest for help.” Wayne Campbell, father of a heroin overdose victim
Heroin addiction is a no-win situation. A scant minority makes it into recovery, but for the rest of their lives they will be walking a tightrope. More often than not, using heroin is fatal. It is a daily game of Russian roulette pitting a $10 stamp bag against the rest of one’s life. This wretched scenario may have begun with friends sharing six packs of beer under the bleachers at football games or relaxing with joints around camping trip campfires or with a prescription for easing the pain from surgery, chronic pain or a sports injury.
While the United States population is roughly five percent of the world population, Americans use 80 percent of the world’s prescription drugs and 70 percent of the world’s illegal drugs. In Ohio 11 young adults between ages 15 and 25 die every two days from overdoses. The human body doesn’t distinguish “dangerous.” It only takes in more and more of what makes it feel good. It builds up tolerance for opiates quickly and reacts violently when the intake isn’t enough.
Heroin and other opiates are extremely dangerous because 1. they are highly addictive (it’s an almost certainty) and can happen with one fix; 2. as soon as the effects wear off, the body begins moving into withdrawl; 3. withdrawl is hard on the body and weakens it, making the drugs more attractive; 4. addicts need more doses more often, and there is no “regulation” dose. Dealers don’t care about safety, so there may be less heroin cut with more strychnine, or a higher grade of heroin in this shipment that they cut with laundry detergent, or a lesser grade cut with other more powerful drugs. Dealers do care about collecting $10 for a dose about the size of a crushed baby aspirin. There will always be addicts on which they prey.
Heroin can be swallowed, inhaled as fumes, “snorted” through a tube into the nasal passages, “mainlined” into a vein through injection or injected into muscle or fatty tissue, called “skin popping.” To liquefy the drug for inhalation or injection (the most common and potent means of ingestion) addicts will have a “kit” consisting of bent spoons, glass pipes, tin foil or bottle caps, a length of rubber banding or hose and syringes and hypodermic needles. The drug is detectable in urine for up to four days after using, but most addicts cannot wait that long before their next fix.
Heroin (injected) initially produces a euphoric rush and a warm, fuzzy sensation. The user feels relaxed, drowsy and pain free as the world slows down and thoughts and memories slip away. The drug flows to parts of the brain that control blood pressure and breathing, but also to critical areas controlling pain and dependence, so as heroin is easing the physical pain the mind is welcoming that relief and creating the need for continuing. It is completely converted to morphine through chemical processes in the body. There is no “experimenting” with heroin; the body and mind are immediately drawn in.
The rush, of course, wears off, and the user begins coping with the aftermath: nausea and vomiting as the body tries to reject the heroin, dry mouth, confusion, slurred speech, muscle weakness and slow breathing. Some deaths are attributed to this stage when the addict loses consciousness and is asphyxiated by his own vomit.
Aside from increased tolerance and addiction, regular use of heroin will manifest other harmful indications such as scars and bruises, depression (when not high,) appearing sedated, severe weight loss, decline of personal grooming and cleanliness, premature aging, irritability, mood swings and changes in sleeping patterns. Users are susceptible to pneumonia and infections of the heart and liver. Addicts who inject the drug run an extremely high risk of contracting HIV/AIDS and hepatitis from dirty needles, as well as skin infections, abscesses and collapsed veins. They may complain of a condition termed “itchy blood,” which causes them to scratch uncontrollably, leaving welts and sores.
Psychologically, the addict’s life revolves around heroin, and he will lie to loved ones, co-workers and strangers about his addiction and actions connected with it. When his money runs out, the addict will use any means necessary to obtain drugs, including, but not limited to, manipulation, theft, gambling and prostitution.
Withdrawl begins 6 to 24 hours after the last fix and can last up to 10 days. All of the above-mentioned downswing effects like nausea and muscle weakness progress into sweating, cold sweats and chills, anxiety and uneasiness, muscle spasms, insomnia, aching muscles and bones then cramping, diarrhea, excessive sneezing and discharge of mucous, watery eyes and yawning. Unless a user is in a rehabilitation facility, he or she is most likely to seek out a dealer for relief.
The Campbells of Pickerington, outside of Columbus, are an all-American family, educated and hard-working. Their oldest son, Tyler, was well-liked and set his sights on playing Division I college football, earning a scholarship to the University of Akron. He made the starting team in his second year and found out how rough play could get. After games, doctors would be on hand in the locker rooms, checking players for injuries, pulled muscles, headaches, etc.
Wayne Campbell, a Martins Ferry native and Tyler’s father, says he found out later that the doctors would give players pain killers to alleviate those aches and help them get through practices. Tyler told his parents everything was fine. Then he suffered a shoulder injury requiring surgery. The doctor gave Tyler 60 Percocet to help him recover.
During Tyler’s junior year, however, his positive attitude deteriorated, his grades dropped, and his performance on the team declined. When he came home for the Christmas break, Campbell knew there was a health issue and took him to an OSU medical center where a doctor found the prescription drug addiction. Campbell sent Tyler to rehab after which Tyler returned to the University of Akron—and to drugs.
His parents got him back into rehab, then into a smaller college. A dealer there introduced him to heroin. Campbell got a call from one of Tyler’s friends, and they admitted him into an exclusive Cleveland rehab facility where he was surrounded by doctors and lawyers with the same addiction.
Upon his release, Tyler changed his major to counseling to help other young people get past addiction. On a visit home from school, Tyler suffered a fatal overdose.
“We couldn’t help him,” Campbell recalls. “The addiction was the issue. It grabbed him, and he couldn’t shake it.”
Two weeks after Tyler’s death, friends and family met, and Tyler’s Light (TylersLight.com) was formed. Campbell travels to schools and organizations telling this story, talking with students and parents and making sure people know that speaking up could save a life. Campbell was surprised that the problem was so prevalent in their county and in Ohio. He does presentations often in Belmont County, especially since the Columbus drug task force commander told him heroin traffickers target suburban, rural teens rather than urban school districts.
Campbell echoes law enforcement’s pleas to parents to monitor their children’s friends and activities. Even if mood swings and erratic sleep patterns seem like normal teen traits, changes in behavior, clothing, weight, grades and friends could signify problems, including involvement with drugs. Finding “kit” items or noticing missing money or valuables are red flags. Knowing the signs, paying attention and taking action are the only ways to help a loved one.
“There are no do-overs,” Campbell adds. “You can’t ask them why.”
I worked on the house this weekend. My brother had to postpone coming down until next weekend, but, since it was my first weekend at home in awhile, I took advantage. I accomplished about two-thirds of what I wanted to do, but that’s okay. I’ll keep moving my parents’ things into the basement and moving my things upstairs. This will clear out rooms and closets (I hope,) as I get ready for the next steps. There is just too much stuff of theirs and mine.
I want to bring a desk upstairs, but a living room loveseat will have to go. I cleaned out six of the seven drawers in the desk on Saturday. The last drawer is stuck, and I’ll have to keep chiseling away at it. The photos show what is making this clear out a monumental task: all kinds of bits and pieces, random papers, obsolete paraphernalia. It all appears in every drawer in dressers, chests, envelopes and boxes.
This assortment includes normal desk supplies with a china hand that belonged to a now-unknown knick-knack; screwdrivers, screwdriver parts, a folding ruler, a classic flashlight and a toothbrush; boxes of razor blades and rubber bands sold by the pound (still usable;) family history that starts with my great, great-grandparents and ends with my mother’s handwritten memories for a reunion and a stray puzzle piece.
Is there anything more endearing than children’s art? My brother’s class (kindergarten or first grade, I think) sent some cheery notes to my father, who was in the hospital with a kidney infection a few days before Thanksgiving. Many have flowers or cars or turkeys, but one of these has a “pome,” another has a penny as a present, and my brother crafted his own card for “Mr. Ault.”
The excavation continues.
Among everything else of concern to me right now, I am hearing disturbing murmurs. There is a general undercurrent of restlessness in our world, and it all seems to be speeding up like the out of control bus in the movie. Stop--and it all goes up in flames. But the murmurs I mentioned don't portend any different an outcome.
While I was wrestling with the column below in my head, I had a couple of unnerving dreams where I woke up shaking. One is still unsettling as I write this, and I knew that I HAD to get these thoughts out into the public realm. The photo, which I titled "Peace," is one that kept showing up in my head as I organized my thoughts. What could be more innocent and peaceful than a duckling paddling around the Necanicum River under a blue sky?
By GLYNIS VALENTI Times Leader Staff Writer
I have been struggling with this column for more than two weeks. It concerns no less than the issue of good versus evil.
In years past I have likened people--on certain days or times of the year—to bees at the end of summer. Buzzing, hurrying, darting to get where they’re going and do what they have to get done, usually just before a holiday weekend or before a big storm hits. But it isn’t a random occurrence anymore. It has not only become the norm, but has spread into all kinds of tangents and facets of life.
Though there are still 24 hours in a day, seven days a week, time is at a premium. It’s the “me, now” era, so get out of the way. Tempers are shorter. Everyone carries a big stick, but no one walks softly. All voices have something to say, relevant or not, and insist on being heard. Loudly. Defensiveness transitions to bullying and then to simply taking what one wants. It’s compounded throughout the world, resulting in terrible headlines that make us feel powerless.
I have friends who monitor world politics, violence, finances and trends. One of said friends is a devout Catholic, and she has been filling me in on the Ferguson, Missouri news, directives from Pope Francis and her own observations. She has summed up and connected all of this growing unsettling energy in two words: chaos and evil.
There are conspiracy theories that no longer seem theoretical. Of particular interest and concern (to me, at least) is the idea of governments and corporations without ethics instituting means to weaken and control economies and populations and foster chaos. The ground and focus keep shifting all around us—the Greek economy, North Korean weapons, Mexican drug cartels, Middle East bombings, and in the United States, the health care debacle and a pharmaceutical-dependent society amidst a rising threat of terrorism.
Most Americans are, for now, insulated somewhat on our soil, but I do see more pushiness, more defensiveness and oversensitivity in day-to-day life that is taking its toll. My personal theory is that this restlessness is the result of the chaotic energy trickling down in the atmosphere at large. Life is immediate—information, food, transportation, cash, satisfaction—and it creates sensory overload and dependence on immediacy at the same time. “Me, now” and chaos.
This brings me to “evil.” According to my friend, all of the chaos is playing into Satan’s plan, if it isn’t being orchestrated by him already. Let me say that I have always believed in a Higher Power, God, but not so much in an evil one. My friends are adamant that Satan exists, as is Pope Francis. In my research for this I found many headlines about the Pope going “old school” on the Devil, calling for the church to take every opportunity to stop him in his tracks and to fervently pray for the world’s safety. My friend also mentioned a group of nuns whose only task is to pray. One of them came out of sequester to talk about how it has become a ‘round the clock endeavor in order to stave off the Dark Side.
In researching my series on heroin, one of the most horrifying facts was that drug dealers now lace marijuana with heroin in order to get teens hooked right away. I can’t describe the despair I feel for these dealers and these children since hearing this. There are other haunting images that I push back from an in-depth feature on SPII (Sexual Predator Internet Initiative.) What kind of human does these things, thinks these things up? This is evil.
Now that I’ve emptied the contents of my head, how can I be most effective in the good versus evil battle? As I’ve mentioned, my friends keep close watch on current events, usually the negative. This is not me. I’ve come to believe that giving what is negative attention gives it power, especially if fear is involved. If I am concentrating on Middle East bombings or fear a terrorist attack in America, my thoughts, being energy, will further that course.
I have to start with myself. I once read a woman’s quote about her divorce: “I can either be bitter or better.” Can’t we all? Every moment contains that choice. I can be irritated in slow traffic, or I can take that moment to send loving thoughts to a friend in need. I can assure myself that what I have is more than enough. I can give people information they can use. In a crowded store I can smile, say “excuse me” and “thank you,” and acknowledge those who do the same. I can strive to be a calm, kind oasis in a sea of chaos. I can pray for the highest and best for all concerned. I can envision my positive ripples radiating out to meet others like them and flooding the world.
And, to paraphrase another quote, if you think that “one” can’t make a difference, try sleeping in a room with a mosquito.
Valenti can be reached at email@example.com.
No real copy for this post. I'll let the photos tell you about today's Oglebay Institute's fundraiser "Farm to Table," featuring the area's best chefs cooking up fresh local produce and some of those farmers selling said produce to attendees.
Great to see Holly Herbold, who has consolidated with Bluebird Farm--I always go overboard photographing her vegetable displays; Eric Rubel of Crossroads Farm; Chef Matt Welsch and wife Katie of Vagabond Kitchen serving fresh greens with WV-raised herbed roast beefalo; Chef Zach Orban and Avenue Eats owners Lara Graves and Phillip Kendall with their veggie and pork (or tofu) wraps and lavender cupcakes; Chef Mark Glass of West Virginia Northern Community College Culinary Arts program dishing up chicken with beans, a pretty bean and tomato salad, and apple cobbler; Charlie Schlegel of perennial favorite Ye Olde Alpha and his new Cilantro grilling up chorizo sausage served with blue potato chips.