I was surprised to see that, when I posted Friday night, I had not posted in 40 days. I have no idea where April went. It’s a total blur. Paraphrasing a window sticker on my old Beemer, "the less art THIS kid gets, the more it shows." I've been noticing that my mind has only been creative in short spurts lately. I can sit down and think about ideas and projects for a few quiet minutes, but then it's like the crowds running after the Beatles. My few creative thoughts are inundated and trampled by to-do lists, phone calls, research, erratic schedules, switching gears and driving to the next appointment or meeting.  

I just began a new job that will be taking me back to my community development roots, though the focus will be on jobs and economic development rather than neighborhood-based revitalization. I’m going to encounter some interesting issues—I can just tell. As someone who has been “her own person” for awhile now, I have a feeling some of these issues will push me to other perspectives into more of a “group” mentality. Will the ends justify the means? Is sacrificing of some things held dear now best for the long run? Stay tuned to the local economic news.

Upon arriving home Friday evening, my father had fallen again, this time while going to the post office. He would not let me take him to the hospital to be checked though he could barely walk and was in pain sitting. I convinced him to put ice on his hip for the entire night, and he was much better Saturday and better still again today. My mother had moved her pills and didn’t know if she had taken them (She found them; she hadn’t.)  After this all-too-familiar drama, I emailed a friend about how always in the back of my mind is the question of what is going to be The One Thing that really sends my parents’ situation into a clearly downward spiral. They insist on making their own decisions, and I can only subtly make suggestions—otherwise I’m “interfering.”

We in southeastern Ohio did not get to see the giant moon last night or tonight because of clouds. I did happen to spot some poppies yesterday at a house in town, and the owner allowed me to take a few photos. Today, what’s left of my mother’s irises were in bloom, so I snapped a few of those. New additions to my old “Wild Flowers” series from four years ago. Too long, too long. 

Earlier this week, I wrote a preview/announcement for an event today, “Cutting Classes for a Cure,” at Barnesville Middle School. Two teachers, Lori Witchey and Bev McConnell, have organized school events for the past three years to benefit the 3 C’s cancer support group. Both have been closely affected by the disease, and I found out that several teachers and students are cancer survivors themselves. I don’t know why I was surprised—my own aunt, grandfather, father and brother have all been cancer patients. In each of the past two years the school raised $1800 for the 3 C’s, which provides support services to patients and families that insurance can’t: hotel rooms for treatment trips, car tires to get to treatments safely, food gift cards, etc.

From 8 am to 2:30 pm today, students could donate one dollar to walk for that class period. When I stopped by this morning around 8:45, the gym was full of students, teachers, parents, grandparents all cruising laps to the Romantics’ “What I Like About You.” Lori Witchey told me they expected to have kids giving them one dollar bills. What they got was families sending $20’s and $10’s. Before the event even began, donations totaled $300.

According to the National Cancer Institute more than 41 percent of people born today will be diagnosed with cancer. As I look at these photos, where the atmosphere is festive, I know there is a lot of pain behind the smiles. I wonder how many of these children, women, men will go back to facing this disease when they walk through their front doors tonight.

Barnesville Principal Julie Erwin sent me an email this evening with the final total: $3954.80. Well done. This was so good on so many levels. Lots of gold stars to these class cutters.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

Spa-ring! No question now, winter is pretty much done. Here in the Ohio Valley temps have already topped 80. There are a couple of days each year where everything suddenly comes alive again. It happened this week. Trees are brown and grey one day, then are covered with white, pink and purple petals. I always think about how short-lived the magnolia blossoms are. It seems as soon as they open, the petals start dropping. A bright, yellowish green sort of shimmers through the branches and intensifies as leaves grow and unfurl. It’s the time when smells of the winter wet, dank earth mix with sunlight, earthworms, fresh rain and tender new plants.

I am writing about maple syrup this weekend. Having grown up a few miles from a big maple festival In Chardon, Ohio, I remember seeing the buckets on trees along the roads and seeing the boiling cauldrons and sugar shacks in the town square. Never was the temperature over 50 degrees, though. I was happy to find out that one of my favorite places, Oglebay Park in Wheeling, was having a “Maple Sugaring Day” today. In spite of early morning rains and threatening skies, visitors turned out enforce to wend their ways down a chronological woodland trail of demonstrations that told the story of maple syrup, from Native American to the present collection system for the park. Those fresh spring smells mingled with wood smoke and maple sugar steam---mmmmm.

There are a few photos of the maple sugar stations here and a few spring photos from along Oglebay’s Camp Russell trail. The feature article and more photos from today will be in next Sunday’s Times Leader, on April 1.  Thank you to Eriks Janelsins, director of Oglebay’s Schrader Environmental Center (www.OIonline.com,) for the always gracious hospitality.

(below, Greg Park, Oglebay Nature & Interpretation Director, dressed in Native American garb for his demonstrations of ancient sap harvesing techniques)





(below, Logan Bruce whittles a spile--the tap that 18th century farmers pounded into trees to collect sap)









(below, the horizontal ring pattern on this tree was created by a yellow-bellied sapsucker boring into the bark to feed on--yes--sap, according to Oglebay's Jake Francis)










(below, a more modern version of a boiling cauldron where sap is cooking down to a syrup)

Wednesday, March 07, 2012

So much going on, so much going on. After writing out a list today, I have 17—yes, seventeen—different articles in progress and coming up by the end of the month. There are two other “things” out there beyond that core, but I can’t really talk about them yet.

Last week, for one of the paper projects, I had the good fortune to spend a couple of hours with Mary and Richard Sidwell. They are do-ers whose history and lives are interesting and rich. They graciously invited me to their home at Raven Rocks, now 1200+ acres of nature preserve, purchased by the Sidwells and their friends in the 1970’s specifically to save the land from mining and development. (Interview and photos to be published in the March 18 issue of The Times Leader.)

This is an ancient place where Native Americans held ceremonial rituals during the first millennium. Left undeveloped except for farming, in the 1800’s into the mid-1900’s families took trains to a nearby town and brought picnic baskets here on Sunday afternoons.

Heading back from the ravine, I spotted a “heart rock” in the path. If you’re from the coast, you know what I’m saying. They turn up on the beach or on trails once in awhile. I had just a few I’d picked up myself, and a friend had collected a whole bucket full from several states. I also had a series of heart rock cards that I added to annually to thank clients for their business.

So here is my latest, from this sacred, beloved forest. Thank you for reading and keeping in touch.

It’s a blustery day here. Winter has made some attempts this year, but has arrived only for short jaunts rather than extended stays. Though it’s in the 50’s now, I believe we’re going to see some snow by tomorrow. Clouds have been streaming through, some with showers, clearing off and on.

Inside Grace Presbyterian Church (www.gracemf.org) in Martins Ferry there is always a blue sky, painted in the dome of the sanctuary. It is peaceful and cheerful and hopeful and, for some reason when I first saw it, reminded me of a baby’s room. Rev. Bill Webster, pastor there for 25 years, pointed out an angel airbrushed in the clouds.

I was visiting the church to interview Rev. Webster—a remarkable man whose story is in today’s Times Leader.  http://www.timesleaderonline.com/page/content.detail/id/536993/February-2012--Reverend-Bill-Webster.html?nav=5200

This Grace Church building was built over 100 years ago in 1901, but the original Grace, built in 1851, stood on the same lot and offered hope to escaped slaves crossing the Ohio River to freedom in the Northwest Territory as a stop on the Underground Railroad.

Upon entering the “office” door, everyone is greeted simultaneously by Rev. Webster and a pot of hot coffee. There are rich woods and comfortable chairs and that same sense of calm—peace, I suppose—that I felt at the Sisters of St. Joseph center. I attended service last Sunday to take photos for the article, and from the moment I walked in people welcomed me as “a friend they hadn’t met yet.” This is a community church, their community being as close as the next pew or the world. It’s all the same to them. We’re all sitting under the same blue sky.

COLUMN 5

By GLYNIS VALENTI Times Leader Staff Writer

I have an obsession. Not in a young, hunky, perfume ad supermodel sense (sadly,) but it’s something I have to have, usually three or four at any given time. I credit my parents for feeding this habit and various teachers for making me curious. No matter where I’ve lived, I’ve sought them out, and they’ve drawn me in to them. Books, beautiful books.  

              I learned to read at an early age, and, as I write this, next to my bed are three mysteries, three cookbooks, two books of James Beard essays, one business book, one compilation of M.F.K. Fisher works, one book on Bellaire and a partridge in a pear tree (kidding about the partridge—I’m terrified of birds.) Though most of my collection is in a storage unit in Oregon, I’ve managed to accumulate a continuation of that collection here in Ohio.

                One of the earliest books I remember is a paperback of bedtime stories, a copy of which is in my Oregon collection. My parents started us on Golden Books, Dr. Seuss and “Go Dog Go.” A great aunt gave me a Bobbsey Twins book.  I still have “The Secret Garden” that I had to purchase from the library with my allowance when our puppy tore some of the pages while chewing on it. I had most of the Nancy Drew series, and fluffy mysteries are still my preferred bedtime reading.  

                What is the attraction? Is it my interests in architecture, travel, food, photography, art, crime and personalities that send me to travel vicariously through pages about other people and cultures? Or do volumes of glossy photos and vivid paragraphs create those interests, like crumbs doled out to keep me hungry?

                All I know is that when I stopped in front of Wheeling’s Paradox Books last week, a seasonal cookbook caught my eye before I got in the door. The latest best sellers aren’t there. Established in 1974 and at Center Market since 1978, this is a treasure hunt bookstore, where you dig through wall to wall used tomes, carefully reading titles and authors on the spines, moving a few out of the way to read the ones behind, kneeling on the floor to see what’s on the bottom shelves and poking through boxes for undiscovered gems. Of course I came away with a few trinkets. 

                One Friday I truly only went to St. Clairsville Library to return something. Then I saw the book sale sign—moth to a flame. I’m now listening to the book on tape I picked up for my cousin—Stephen King reading his “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.” His graphic tale of how he became a writer offers advice, tips and anecdotes with some humor and little nonsense. A key point of his is that one can’t be a writer without being a reader. He says that if he’s not writing, there is a good chance that he’s reading, about 75 books a year. No surprise to me.

                A dear friend of mine in Rochester is a writer and book collector, and today, Feb. 12, happens to be his birthday. Rich, too, has always read, preferring poetry and fiction and collecting 20^th century poetry and fiction first editions. At one point he had about 2,000, but says he’s scaled back to 750. One of his college professors stoked his book obsession fire, and as Rich discovered new authors he burned through their repertoires, enjoying “the acquisition and hunt for the book.” 

               He also mentions that he likes the feel of a book in his hands. A friend recently gave him a Nook to explore, and he’s found that after sitting in front of a screen working all day, the last thing he wants is to stare at another, smaller one.

              I have to say I feel the same. I spend hours at my laptop researching, communicating and writing, many nights ending at 2 or 3 a.m. I couldn’t bear to boot up another screen full of words. My mind winds down zoning through rich photos of Spanish villages. My wrists and shoulders relax letting Hamish MacBeth solve the “Death of a Poison Pen.” My obsession, with its dark notes of dusty cloth and just a hint of must, is…intoxicating. 

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

The photo appears a bit bleaker than the scene really was. There was some winter gold in the clouds—the paler version, with cool tones—but I couldn’t get it to look the way I wanted it to look, slightly richer, not so flat. And those crazy swirl things in the clouds with layers of blues…I decided to convert it to grey scale to take some of the subtleness out of the blues and put some contrast in the yellows.

I put the color version up as my desktop wallpaper anyway, pale and flat as it is, because there’s something serene about it that makes me calm. Not too vivid, but interesting enough (for me) to look at. The sun was setting, cold and quiet on the ridge. I stopped to look at the scene between a press conference and a meeting.

Tonight there is a cold, damp drizzle still falling from today. I feel a chill and felt it even as I went out earlier, bundled up in bulky sweater, scarf and gloves, like I’m fighting something off. This has been a week.  A family member suffered a terrible, tragic loss. I missed a step and badly twisted my ankle and knee. I had a 13-hour work day yesterday, have an article to write yet tonight, another tomorrow, one Thursday night and three more for a Friday deadline. Yes, I’m supposed to be part-time.

By the way, I’ll post my column from Sunday following this post. Everywhere I went yesterday and today people said they liked it—mostly book lovers.

Think I’ll finish the Union Local story, wrap up in a fuzzy blanket and stare at my screen for awhile.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Photos here from Sunday. The Valley had a bit of an ice storm Friday night/Saturday, and I spent the weekend on the Hill with cousins Randy and Lisa (and another cousin, Kim, from across the road.) Lisa made chili and pepperoni rolls (YUM,) and I bought a red velvet cake from the Pastry Shop in Yorkville—nice little place--that we nibbled at throughout the weekend. Very casual. The Lifetime movies about the I-5 killer and Drew Peterson succeeded in terrifying Lisa and I while Randy was in Wheeling for a few hours.

Sunday morning the sky was blue, and my car was covered with ice for about two hours. But the sun warmed everything up nicely, and all of the trees were bare by early afternoon. For some reason the pine branches have me thinking of haiku. Maybe I need to work on simplifying.

 After writing my column on resolutions I, of course, pondered the past year and coming year. I have been trying to reconcile my present with my past and future. In typical Glynis fashion, this involves analyzing where I am and identifying the mistakes I made to get here and figuring out how to make better choices when any opportunities arise. I am responsible for my choices, and I blame myself for my regression.

Over the past couple of months, though, little extra ingredients are making me stop and take note about how to get my life back on track. These messages are continuing to converge—so many that it doesn’t seem to indicate a clear, simple, healing broth rather more of a dark chili with layers of textures and flavors and probably some uncomfortable heat. I feel like I’m starting from scratch, but these incidents are distinctive and are already having an impact on what is simmering.

Sweet: A few entries ago I introduced medium Carol Borkoski, a very sweet woman who focuses on messages of light and love. We’ve chatted several times since the first interview, and invariably she says spirits are practically lining up to get messages to me. Two are recurring: that I’m going to be moving (?) and that I worry too much (shocker.) I also just received an email from her with a part-time business idea for me that sounds very interesting.

Savory: While researching I stumbled across a website that intrigued me, www.theconsciouslife.com. Through this site I found an offer of some free motivational downloads by a speaker named Guy Finley. He’s funny and down to earth, and the subject of his talk series was “The Illusion of Limitation.” Did I need to hear this or what? One of his themes is about “I-mage” and how it isn’t real, but influences so many things that we do. A portion that really stayed with me was, in short, about jumping to conclusions and worrying (shocker) 1. about something that hasn’t happened yet or 2. about which I may not have all of the information. The mind automatically reacts and creates an “I-mage” of a situation that appears to be happening, but may in reality be something totally different. An example: a wife sees her husband at lunch with her best friend. The wife creates a whole story of infidelity and betrayal based on this and the fact that neither mentions the lunch to her. She becomes angry, hurt and upset. The reality of the situation was that the husband and friend were planning the wife’s surprise birthday party. I’m learning that if I stay in the present and don’t create scenes in my head to worry about, I’m better able to go with the flow, and things don’t turn out as badly as I’d feared.

Bitter: How I could learn a lesson from a sappy Christmas movie on hulu, I don’t know, but this line from “The 12 Dates of Christmas” hit me over the head like a wooden spoon. In the style of “Groundhog Day,” our heroine keeps waking up on the floor of a department store and re-living her Christmas Eve. She has a blind date that night, and is trying to rekindle the flame with her ex. After a few of these episodes, she sees her doctor thinking that she needs psychiatric help. She says, “I’m moving forward with my life. I’m going to get Jack back.” Her doctor replies, “Getting something back is not moving forward.” DONG-g-g-g-g….I’ve lived in regret for this whole year. I miss my friends on the Coast and in Rochester; I miss my clothes and books and music packed away in my storage unit 2800 miles away; I miss my cozy little bungalow style house on Melville with its pine trees and wisteria and leaded glass—the only place I’ve ever felt truly at home. But I sold it to move to Oregon, and I can’t get it back. This is a hard pill for me to swallow. It’s a thing, a thing that I love and I have to let go, even though I have photos of it that I carried back with me from Oregon. I have to focus on finding a new place to live for a new life. So, there. (But if I win the lottery, I’ll be buying my house back.)

Salty: I had a dream last week about a grizzly bear nudging me down a hall at a woodland resort. I could feel him behind me, and I was terrified but didn’t want to make any sudden moves. I was worried (again) about the families in the hallway and tried to keep the bear’s focus on walking through with me and away from attacking the children. I could hear him breathing and feel his nose and shoulder pushing my back. The end of the hallway was open to the outside, and the bear tottered off into the woods across the drive, and I woke up. Of course I had to look up animal totems and meanings to find out why this bear appeared in my dream. Apparently bears symbolize introspection and the subconscious. There is a need to quiet the mind and tap into inner energy to find answers. I may be going into a leadership position or have an opportunity for healing. Regardless of the specifics, I recognized the dream as an enhancement of actions that I’ve been taking in my waking life.

Spicy: I spent Friday night and Saturday hanging out at cousins Randy and Lisa’s house. We had some wine, talked, watched movies and ate “mass quantities” of nuts and cookies. In one of the movies, “Knight and Day,” Tom Cruise tells Cameron Diaz about his fantasy-wish-list full of interesting moments in exotic places.  I used to have one of these. It unfortunately was so long ago that I’ve forgotten what was on it. I think I’ll have to come up with another one in 2012—the sky’s the limit. What moments would I want on my bucket list? Time to have some mental fun. A little spice is good for you.

So as I look at where I am now, I’m preparing for changes ahead—not “I-magined” changes, real ones this year. It’s clear that I have to move on. I’ve decided to work on two Resolutions, based on these ingredients from 2011. The first is to complete a book by the end of the year. People have been urging me to write one for several years, so I’ve decided to make it happen. The second is an experimental project that I’ll write about later. I’m going to take my own advice.

I’m going to step back a bit from the outcomes, and I feel that I’ll be making the recipe up as I go. In any case, I have plenty of food for thought.