text:
Cary Cooper holds illegal raffle for campaign
Posted in the Rome Forum
1 - 10 of 10 Comments Last updated Sep 5, 2012
#1 Aug 31, 2012
Seems to me that a candidate for the office of the Sheriff would know better than to hold an illegal raffle in order to raise money for a political campaign. I have to wonder how he expects to be the chief law enforcement official of the county when he can't seem to obey the law himself. If he is up to this type of shenanigans now, I can only imagine what his plans are If he were to get elected. Whether he did it
Intentionally / illegally or if it was sheer incompetence really makes no difference in my opinion. If it was intentional he should be prosecuted like anyone else whO commits a crime. If he didn't know better then I would say he has no business running the Sheriffs department either way, sounds like Cooper's career may be over before it even gets started.
#2 Aug 31, 2012
It was a door prize, not a raffle... This post is lame and misleading Tim... I mean.. whoever.
#3 Aug 31, 2012
The information used for my post was gathered from Channel 2 News at 6 am. If the information is not accurate, maybe you should take that up with them. According to the newscast, it wasn't changed to a raffle until later and apparently
Is still covered under the law. By the way, I am not Tim. I believe Sheriff Burkhalter has more operant things to do rather than post "lame" comments on Topix. Mr Cooper seems to be doing a fine job of hanging himself without any help from any outside sources. I would think someone running for this type of office would be a tad bit more knowledgeable than what Mr Cooper has displayed. Unless you can prove otherwise, it may be beneficial to work on a game plan on how to run a campaign from behind bars. Good luck!!!!
#4 Sep 1, 2012
cant cooper just issue a apology and give the money back and just chalk it up to a mistake
#5 Sep 1, 2012
I agree. I think he should just admit he was wrong, apologize, and give the money back. Then move forward running an HONEST election.
#6 Sep 1, 2012
not usre why my previous post was removed
#7 Sep 4, 2012
The GBI refused to investigate. This whole thing makes the sherrif look bad. I don't know anything about this Cooper but I think I will vote for him. We need a change every few years anyway and there have been a lot of problems with this administration. Several deputies were fired or suspended in different incidents and the sherrif actually talked a young woman out of taking a TPO against her former abusive boyfriend because the sherrif was a friend of this mans family. This man later killed this young woman's father and some of that blame falls on the sherrif.
#8 Sep 4, 2012
you can really tell when things get desperate, when the "Captain jumps in the lifeboat, and "The band played on.." reaching... swinging for the fence, next you will say.... what???? weak, lame and desperate
United States
#9 Sep 4, 2012
Cary most likely unintentionally made a boo boo. Not the first boo boo he has made and will likely not be the last. Not a bad guy at all. Just not sheriff material
#10 Sep 5, 2012
Jonas, you Cooper guys are really getting scared aren't you? The GBI didn't REFUSE to do anything. Caldwell did not request they look into it. They did what they had to do when a crime is reported to them........they investigate it........which in this case simply meant notifing the GBI considering the conflict of interest. I'm not sure if your just stupid, or if you are one of those people who lie so much your not sure where the real world ends and your fantasy world begins.......sad little man........sad
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And I Shall Have Some Peace There: Trading in the Fast Lane for My Own Dirt Roadby Margaret Roach
Margaret Roach worked at Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia for 15 years, serving as Editorial Director for the last 6. She first made her name in gardening, writing a classic gardening book among other things. She now has a hugely popular gardening blog, "A Way to Garden." But despite the financial and
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Margaret Roach worked at Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia for 15 years, serving as Editorial Director for the last 6. She first made her name in gardening, writing a classic gardening book among other things. She now has a hugely popular gardening blog, "A Way to Garden." But despite the financial and professional rewards of her job, Margaret felt unfulfilled. So she moved to her weekend house upstate in an effort to lead a more authentic life by connecting with her garden and with nature. The memoir she wrote about this journey is funny, quirky, humble--and uplifting--an Eat, Pray, Love without the travel-and allows readers to live out the fantasy of quitting the rat race and getting away from it all.
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The story of a successful 50-something woman who chose to quit a high-powered Manhattan job, move to the country and reinvent her life.
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Read an Excerpt
And I Shall Have Some Peace ThereTrading in the Fast Lane for My Own Dirt Road
By Roach, Margaret
Grand Central PublishingCopyright © 2011 Roach, Margaret
All right reserved.
Chapter 1
Margaret Untethered (A Preview)
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
SHE OF NOBODY ELSE'S BIDDING: That is who I am now—someone who has not done what anyone else said since July 2008, though not because I am either disobedient or a slacker. Hardly. Thirty-two years of corporate servitude are in my past, and there will be no more promotions or pay stubs, thrilling facts I celebrate with a long-overdue vigil for my self, a one-woman sit-in in the woods.
Friends and colleagues warned that I would become depressed, isolated, perhaps worse when I walked away from my lucrative, esteem-laden career as Executive Vice President, Editorial Director at Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia on the last day of 2007, leaving the peak earning years in my wake and relocating to my longtime weekend home and garden in a New York State hamlet where dairy cows not so long ago outnumbered people. Many stories of retreat are tales instigated by a trauma, or depression. I was never depressed in my old life; I was just strangely and terribly lonely, isolated despite being surrounded by six hundred colleagues daily, more than a quarter of whom worked for me, and living in a city of millions.
I was a big success, people told me, but the secret I never spoke in reply or anytime was my belief that I had long ago given up on me—the one whom others, in equations of family, love, and work, relied upon—choosing the easy route over a path toward things they don't necessarily pay you or pat you on the back for. I remember when it happened: In my insecure early twenties, already a college dropout and wanting the absolution of proving I was no dummy, I took a job that placed a bet on my intellect over creativity. It was the surer horse but (as with many favorites) a comparative dullard to that sexy long shot of allowing one's potential sufficient time to percolate. Could I write fiction, or be a photographer? We would never know; right then and there, I turned my back on possibility. Promotions at the newspaper I signed on to at first came easily, and suddenly I had fallen into the burning ring of fire (yes, bound by wild desire); money talked. True, the tether to the old life was mostly a financial one, its other shiny-but-searing edge the attachment to ego-fueling professional esteem. And it burns, burns, burns.
If I was so successful, I wanted to say back to my best friend and my accountant and the guy who cuts my hair and everyone else lovingly offering praise all those years, then why had I pushpinned a cryptic note to myself on the kitchen wall, a plaintive shorthand list called Tolerances, as in, how much can you tolerate of what for how long? Why were all my years-old diaries aching with phrases like the hit-by-car feelings of my workday and Where is my creativity? and that clincher, Who or what am I waiting for?
So from a role in The Devil Wears Mara (as in Max Mara; though I never asked one personal errand of an assistant in all my executive years, nor threw a coat or handbag at anybody), I finally walked away and shape-shifted to bumpkin-in-training in the mere flash of time it takes to drive 120 miles. Single, childless, and technically even pet free, I started up the road to start again in my garden in the woods.
Right away, though, I began hearing the voice that would keep asking for an answer I did not have: Who am I if I am not mroach@marthastewart dot com any longer? As if that were not enough, the confrontational facet of Margaret manifested as that raspy voice broadened its inquisition: If I am neither working nor in a personal partnership, in service to some master or another, who am I?
I am nothing more than a work in progress, thank you—the truest answer I have ever given to that question. I am just me, which is (apologies to my old friend Martha) a good thing, even without the stripes and status that my onetime titles and W-2s and all the other "accomplishments" seemed to imply. This latest incarnation, which is at once a simpler and a harder one, began just as the formative childhood version had—in stretchy, shapeless clothing, with most waking hours spent either on the floor puzzling things out or parked safely in the one same seat, trying to learn to focus the gaze, a bit of a bobblehead all over again.
Big fat lie:
As soon as I got out of my out-of-control city life, I got everything under control.
With my exit from the city and from corporate culture—from what had become my own place of disaffection despite astonishing views of the Empire State Building and the rest of the manmade majesty from up on high, twenty-four floors in the sky, where I sat—I had planned to go to heaven in a wheelbarrow of plants and creativity. Reality check: Forces bigger than myself have determined a different course these cataclysmic days. To hell in a handbasket, as Grandma liked to say, we were apparently meant to head instead. Tra-la.
Hard time on a cold floor during a rough recession might not sound seductive, but fair warning; the smell of homegrown home cooking and worse yet, of freedom, may prove to be contagious if small indignities that will surely surface can be overlooked, and then outlasted. The trick is learning to stay still.
Indeed, I awoke in my clothes the first wintry weeks more than just occasionally, and puttered other days away in my pajamas. (In those early months, the two categories of clothing looked different enough to be told apart.) I spent a considerable amount of time doing what I self-respectingly must assert was ruminating: repeatedly weighing a strengthening desire to pierce my navel at the tattoo place just five miles up the road, by the only traffic light within fifteen; mentally calculating the (prerecession) run-rate of my inadequate savings while I categorized and then alphabetized an enormous CD collection on the living room floor; discarding twenty-nine of the thirty-seven pairs of jeans I'd accumulated somehow, even though I never wore jeans in my recent past life; matching up freezer containers with their lids and nesting them in size order the way a child learns from, and delights in, a set of colorful plastic stacking toys.
Craving solitude and invoking my right to self-determination, I had pulled my own rug out from under myself, and now I was sitting on it, wondering about the new math of 2008; about my new look; about Who am I if I am not mroach@marthastewart dot com any longer? The story went that I was now doing the things I'd never had the time to do, the things I'd shut down my lifeline to income production and dropped out to make time for. Can these really be the things I never had time to do? Are CDs and recycled yogurt and cottage cheese cups the guideposts on the true path? Every journey must have its guides, its messengers—but these? This is what you send me?
WHAT DIGITAL RABBIT HOLE HAD LED ME to Andre Jordan, an eccentric British cartoonist, I do not know. But when I got there in late 2007, across a web of ISPs and DNSs and URLs, I found Andre had doodled five bold white tree trunks against a black background in one of many oddball illustrations on his blog that's aptly named A Beautiful Revolution. Beneath the trees, a hand-lettered inscription: I've decided to go live in the woods (it's for the best).
From this total stranger (now a dear friend and weekly contributor to my garden blog, but that's leaping ahead) I adopted a logo for the extricate's journey I had already begun planning, the end to a decades-long career in New York City mainstream publishing, and continued making my way north.
Actual rabbit holes and Andre's trees included, images of nature have always figured heavily in how, if not where, I have lived. Despite fifty-plus years' residence in the various boroughs of New York City, it is nature that has provided my symbols and my signals. Field guides and back-to-the-land classics such as a 1940 edition of M. G. Kains's Five Acres and Independence or Living the Good Life (Helen and Scott Nearing, 1954) have filled my bookshelves, fueling my fantasy life of longing to just get the hell out of here. Even the most obscure bits of bird behavior or meteorological patterns hold a magnetism for me, as do little-known phenomena like diapause—a stunning survival mechanism in insects that can be invoked in the face of danger—and other such tactics for not getting swallowed up.
When I left the safety zone, I wagered big that nature would continue to show me the way, if only I stayed quiet enough to be able to hear the bird sing (and the snake—or the seeds inside a dried gourd, still alive and wanting out of an increasingly brittle shell before it's too late—rattle). If only I would let the garden, and the bigger ecosystem it is tucked into, teach me.
For peace comes dropping slow, William Butler Yeats wrote after the line of "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" that is this book's title. Finding peace, and even making it, yes, and also metamorphosis can be time-consuming undertakings. I have already learned this from my backyard friends the green frogs, who wait as long as twenty-two months—holding on, half-baked, even through a hard winter, before letting go of their heavy, unneeded, but familiar tails. The guides are all around me—human, plant, animal, even what for lack of another explanation I must call spirits—offering to help flesh out My Story of Me, which I hope proves a myth that I can live with the rest of my days. Some are familiar voices—the same lifetime-long messengers whose tip-offs I pretended not to hear when they spoke the first (second, third… ) time, back in the old country. Can't you see I'm in a meeting? I'd say in a shrill voice heard only inside my head. Not now, not now. These days, utterances of messengers old and new are all playing involuntarily on some weird tape-delay, playing loud through every speaker in my universe; spewing out at me over the wi-fi radio, in my dreams, everywhere.
Attention, attention! the Zen master teaches. I've got a lot of listening to do.
SOME OF MY EARLIEST NEW-WORLD RUMINATIONS took the form of blogging—posting old and new personal garden writing on an impromptu site I created to homeschool myself in the do-it-yourself web, though mostly I "studied" after a glass of wine or two, and definitely without any business plan on file. I had run marthastewart.com in its early years, but now my kingdom was infinitely smaller, with me in every role—including the name on the URL. Thank you, Jesus. Chief Everything Officer: CEO at last.
But in the midst of all this important "work," the phone calls and e-mail inquiries started. Can I come see what you're doing?
You want to see my closets without so many jeans, my stacking toys? I am thinking, suddenly fully awake. Attention!
But come they all did, to Copake Falls, New York, and then came the newspaper stories, the radio interviews, a national television appearance.
"This woman was living my dream—and the dream of so many other 50-somethings like us, who long to rekindle the creative fire that is snuffed out in the corporate world," Anne Raver wrote in the New York Times on June 19, 2008, two months after I launched my homemade hobby project, the blog called A Way to Garden.
By late summer, Adrian Higgins, a longtime Washington Post columnist, had made the pilgrimage, too. He drove nearly eight hours to see me, a stranger. Over and again that afternoon, and afterward in e-mails, his synopsis: "I am so envious that you had the nerve." Adrian's story appeared on September 11, 2008, seven years after the day that he correctly inferred was the true catalyst for all of what is happening now to me, and also probably popped the lid off a reservoir of yearning I heard in all those whose dream, I'm told, I am living.
From twenty- and thirty-something bloggers, to the head of the large group of NPR affiliates, who ran a three-part interview, the consensus those first months: Margaret Roach is onto something. She is on the path. I've gotta get me some of that. More than a thousand blog commenters, and hundreds of cold-call e-mailers, echoed the same thing: Way to go, Margaret. A Beatles refrain keeps echoing in my head: Say the word, and you'll be free / Say the word and be like me.
Like I said: Watch out; this might be contagious.
But I was surely an accidental touchstone, a trigger for their confessions about what predatory danger they, too, so want to elude; what depth of precious, lifesaving peace and quiet they want to achieve. So what is this dream of which they—perhaps you?—speak so longingly?
Have I in fact hit the jackpot?
(Do you believe in magic?)
True story:
As I sat down to write the proposal that would become this book—on the morning of July 13, 2008, six months into my post-Martha, post-paycheck life—an e-mail showed up in my in-box. It was the kind with a generic-enough sender so that you're not sure if it's spam or for real. I opened it.
Hey, I'd been purchasing lottery tickets down at the Xtra-Mart, so why not open an e-mail? The body of that message:
—Mark Twain
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
The e-mail was in fact spam, but it certainly was intended for me. The spammer in this case was an idiot savant, and I am grateful.
Be grateful to everyone, the ancient sage Atisha taught, and that means everyone: those on your favorites list, and those on your shit list, too. Not just beings who approach you laden with gifts, but ones who bring you their burdens and pass you their hot potatoes. Be grateful even if they try to scare you away with venomous behavior.
True story:
Two weeks after the Mark Twain fortune-cookie-ish e-mail, as Month 8 of my adventure began, I was really gaining on it. I was getting properly dressed in street clothes most days, and only occasionally waking up that way. Progress, unless you count the number of mornings I awoke parallel to the headboard, my head to the west and feet to the east instead of the south-north direction I'd started in. (Note to self: Tell shrink, but don't dwell on such minor details.)
I was especially proud that I'd honored one of the trickier commitments I'd made to myself when I left the city: to work at preventing complete social isolation. It was a legitimate fear—more to those who care about me than in my own mind, however—after more than thirty years of working long hours in the lively community inherent in any corporate environment, and particularly because I am in many ways a solitary type. Work had been my village and family. Despite my recent rural reclusion, though, I had made two new friends, and was going to see one of them for dinner.
It was a Friday night, exactly seven fifteen. Hair done, makeup and even some jewelry on—baubles I hadn't worn since my exodus. A bottle of smartly chosen red was stashed in my bag for my oenophile hosts, a successful Hollywood screenwriter and his ex-Yalie wife, whom I'd met (magic?) because she was one of my blog's first commenters; they are likewise recent refugees from urban living. Perfect.
Perfect? I should have known better (with a girl like you… ). It was the first day in the first month in my entire adult life that I had no paycheck to cash. The day had already included a total solar eclipse and a series of biblical electrical storms, the kind my first country months had been unnervingly loaded with, the kind I'd weathered beneath the 1877 Swedish dining table or huddled inside the enclosed staircase, shaking.
I don't think that there is anything that is really magical unless it has a terrifying quality, said the painter Andrew Wyeth. The storm's passing had seemed to clear the air, to change the charge of things, and I was feeling exhilarated, enthusiastic, open. I was going out. New friends had been delivered, cause for celebration.
I shut the inner door and swung the screen out then quickly back behind me, too, as I stepped my left foot onto the black rubber doormat.
The longest journey begins with a single step, and this was definitely the one, landing me right in the path of a five-foot-long timber rattlesnake, the well-named Crotalus horridus. No; I did not burst into an impromptu David Byrne lyric just then, but if this tale should become a musical: We caught a rattlesnake, now we've got something for dinner. / We got it. We got it.
Technically, all my shelves of field guides remind me, as a Homo sapiens I am this animal's predator. It felt distinctly the other way around.
Note to readers: An Eat, Pray, Love–style pilgrimage to India is not a requirement for those seeking (rude) awakening. And apparently the package I'd selected for my enlightenment tour was the all-inclusive, deluxe one—close encounter with large, venomous reptile included.
I suffer from a lifelong case of ophidiophobia: a fear and loathing of those (including snakes) who slither through their lives, and periodically shed their skins. With regularity in adulthood, I have been visited by snake dreams at night. During every period of personal upheaval, I have been visited by snakes during waking hours, too: snakes in my living room; curled on the kitchen windowsill between the screen and inner window I was opening; on the bathroom floor waiting for me beside the toilet when I got up in the darkness from a long-ago boyfriend's bed, a bed I didn't really want to be in, anyhow.
Try as I might, I hadn't quite taken in the advice of the great New York State naturalist John Burroughs, advice based on his own observations in the woods just across the Hudson River from here at the start of the twentieth century:
The lesson which life repeats and constantly reinforces is "look under foot." You are always nearer the divine and the true sources of your power than you think.
Me? I scream. And then in midshriek, I rush away. I try not to look—though with a venomous snake you must look, and keep on looking, if there is to be any hope of catching and relocating it a short distance away from the house. I know the drill: I must somehow watch the snake and also grab the phone and call for help in the form of the nearest person who has both the license and gear to accomplish this sensitive measure. On that July evening, I had lost sight of the snake by the time that help arrived.
For a serious gardener, fear of snakes is a liability. For a serious gardener in one of the remaining northeastern habitats of a threatened or endangered American pit viper, it has required a constant test of that fear (or courage). In more than twenty years of weekends spent rooting around on my piece of land, though, I had never encountered Crotalus horridus. Not here; on the road, yes, and in the woods, but not here. The timber rattler is well known to all the other settlers scattered sparsely along this dirt byway cut into the midslope of a steep, fourteen-hundred-foot hillside, but did not show himself to me until that night. Perhaps he knew I had not been prepared, and kindly waited to come calling at the kitchen door until I seemed to be all good and settled in.
Welcome to your new life, Margaret. Was that what he was saying when he rose up and shook his stack of rattles? Or perhaps, Don't tread on me, the meaning assigned to the rattlesnake's image on pre-Revolutionary flags, a cry against oppression, a signal of readiness to strike against those who would deny his freedom.
Or, I am here, Margaret, and watching, even when you don't see me. I'm waiting for you to take it all off. Come on, silly girl; it's not so damn hard. Shed.
True story:
Late summer arrived, and though I would not be going "back to school" full-time that fall, I had a meeting in the city the week of Labor Day.
I went in the night before to have supper with my closest friend and garden mentor, Marco, at his home in the Bronx, where I still kept a rental place. Arriving a bit ahead of our scheduled dinner hour, I dropped my bag and washed up before going five houses down the block. On the stretch of grass between my parking space and the front door, a distance of perhaps twenty-five feet that I had tread on thousands of times in more than a decade—going to the office; returning from the office; going to the office; returning from the office—I noticed something by my left foot, the foot that I'd presented just weeks before to that timber rattler.
This is the Bronx, mind you, but I have almost stepped on a discarded snakeskin. I do not know what generous creature left it, but I have no doubt that it was put there for me. I keep it now in a ziplock bag on my bulletin board, in case I should ever think I have been imagining things.
"HOW'M I DOING?" AS NEW YORK CITY MAYOR ED KOCH used to say. "You know how I always ask everybody how am I doing?" he is quoted in the 1981 book named for his most famous interrogative. "Well, today I asked myself, and the answer was, 'Terrific.' "
Terrific (from the Latin word for frighten, incidentally), yes, but let's be honest: I live with a cat, and an independent, disinterested one at that, a stray male who adopted me the morning of September 11, 2001, when I pulled into my weekend country driveway at twelve twenty PM from Manhattan, a cat who mostly inhabited a small building behind my house by mutual consent. Sort of our version of separate bedrooms.
I am childless. And parentless. I have no reliable income, and I have not managed to really scale back anywhere near far enough. I applied for unemployment insurance in that first July and got turned down because of a technicality that backfired; I had incorporated my new life, in anticipation of doing ongoing consulting and other work (the work that has all just dried up).
The world's "credit tsunami," a "hundred-year event," unfolded in increasingly sickening chapters as an insistent backdrop to my own much smaller monetary wonderings. And I repeat: On the first day of the first month in my adult life that went unsalaried, just hours after a total solar eclipse, I stepped out my door onto a giant rattlesnake.
Then why was everybody (including the reptile) still giving me the high five?
Apparently these kind strangers were, as I had been, feeling trapped. (Sound familiar yet?) So strong was their projection that they attributed my new life with characteristics it doesn't even have: They perceived my glass those first months as not just half full, but positively brimming over. Craving optimism about the second "half" of life, they imagine it can all work out—if only they, too, can break free and find refuge, or at least la diritta via.
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi retrovai per una selva oscura,
che la diritta via era smarrita.
(In the middle of the journey of our life
I found myself in a dark wood,
for the straight way was lost.)
In fact all that happened those first months here in the woods, besides some serious bouts of cleaning, is that everything I fear was being systematically delivered to my doorstep, as if to say: And this: Deal with this, too, please, Margaret. Now.
Would an appropriate man be delivered next?
The next special delivery that first summer was my ex-husband, whom I had not seen in more than fifteen years and who, basically, has loathed me most of that time because of my one-sided decision twentyish years ago to leave our marriage. I plead temporary insanity, or at least total exhaustion; we had married in the wake of my mother's moving into full-time care for her early-onset Alzheimer's, a disease that visited her before she was fifty and brought me home to oversee her for several unspeakably ugly years in the house I was raised in. Then, maybe a year into our marriage—and weeks before I left it—I nursed my best friend to his own dementia and death from AIDS. There was nothing left for me to share—nothing to have or to hold on the bare nubbin I had become.
The day my ex simply appeared unannounced in the driveway here, apparently on an impulsive detour en route to his oldest friend's home nearby, I had been out mowing. I did not love the moment of recognition then—an awkward sentence or two of explaining I was now here full-time and his explaining, in turn, what brought him to the neighborhood—and then as quick as he came, he was gone. But I cherish the image now, the mental snapshot of our reunion: I was heading back down the road to the barn on my beloved orange tractor, wearing my ersatz pajamas and a hoodie as old as the Gap itself and safety goggles and giant noise-reduction earmuffs, when I saw the unfamiliar red 1949 pickup parked across the end of my driveway. He did not recognize me, or at least not at first. Who would have?
Apparently, provocative events like global economic crises bring out all manner of ghosts along with the varmints, and not just from Wall Street or out from under rocks.
Be grateful to everyone.
There have, thankfully, been more agreeable visits by gentlemen callers.
On April 19, 2008, three weeks into my aimless garden blogging, I wrote this entry after holding a camera in my left hand to photograph a frog who was in my right one:
My, my how times have changed. Four months ago I was wearing designer clothes and living in fluorescent light. Today I was mucking out water gardens in the sun, and refitting plumbing gaskets while my boyfriends looked on disinterestedly. All nine of them (all just like this hunk I'm about to grab). Handsome, huh? Heaven, huh?
It had taken me exactly a year to position myself within reach of the princely bullfrog, and this new life stage; a year of negotiating the contractual timing and terms of my Martha departure, and of planning my escape. Those old journals—the ones I had the time and drive to look at in the first months upstate—reveal I'd actually been planning my departure actively for more than seven years, since the year 2000.
On the way "home," I had seen every manner of therapist and adviser (physical and psychiatric, financial, legal, astrological), started buying the weekly lottery tickets, and cleaned every corner of my life out to lighten the load I had to carry to the New World. I had hired the professional matchmaker, writing a giant check despite my disappeared income, wanting to head regret off at the pass by ensuring I didn't let happily ever after elude me if money could, in fact, buy you love. Bases covered. Check.
On the eve of the New York Times story, I even gave one of my closest friends, an ex-boyfriend whom I treasured and somehow hoped would mend his ways, the heave-ho. I was going to cross this threshold unencumbered, without Martha, without Max Mara, without him. Without all those jeans. With all my plastic lids, at least, fitted on right.
Eradication, extirpation—and even evisceration. Out, out damn spot! There were a few additions, a couple of high-ticket items I brought into my new life, like better bird-watching binoculars and a serious wi-fi radio to keep me company. But perhaps most notably among my tax receipts for this first year of self-employed stillness was one for twenty dollars spent at Staples, a New Year's binge. The booty: a bulletin board, pushpins, and index cards.
The intention: to post (without applying judgment or editing) any and all ideas—to just allow and witness them. The board, cards, and pins were my "twenty dollars to a new life kit," and I more than got my money's worth. My own lid was coming off now, and each card was a fumarole, venting built-up steam. The crazy collage included cards with lines from songs I'd grabbed from the wi-fi stream, diced from tunes the DJ seemed to be spinning just for me:
I feel so close to everything we've lost. (Sincerely, L. Cohen.)
Gonna rise up, find my direction magnetically. Gonna rise up, throw out my ace in the hole. (Good advice, Eddie Vedder.)
Bold as love. (Thank you, Jimi.)
We ain't going to hell. We're going to the rebel side of heaven. (How'd you know, Langhorne Slim?)
Cards with questions to myself, including that trickiest, loudest one: Who are you in a digital age, if you are not mroach@marthastewart dot com anymore?
Cards with titles of projects I imagined at some moment or other that I might undertake: Story of woman who communicates with lovers solely in iTunes playlists, having given up on "talking things over."
On another set of cards, I also (bravely?) had written a fear list:
Electrical storms and power outages.
Dying alone.
(And not necessarily in that order.)
Right off I started making more progress facing my fear list than anything on the other cards, all the while hoping the last entry needn't be encountered anytime soon (and particularly not as a result of a bite by Item Number 1). Dare we put a collective foot across the threshold and see what actually unfolded? First we will need to go backward to look forward, though—a lesson I am increasingly learning—to where my hunger and my restlessness began.
Excerpted from And I Shall Have Some Peace There by Roach, Margaret Copyright © 2011 by Roach, Margaret. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
What People are Saying About This
Meet the Author
Margaret Roach has been a columnist at the New York Times, fashion editor at Newsday, the first garden editor for Martha Stewart Livingmagazine, and the editorial director of Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia. In 2008 Roach left New York City for her home upstate, where she is a consultant and avid gardener, keeping fans up to date on her blogs A Way to Garden and The Sister Project. Roach is the author of A Way to Garden, named Best Garden Book of the Year by the Garden Writers' Association of America, and Groundcovers, part of the Burpee American Gardening Series, and co-authored The Natural Habitat Garden.
Customer Reviews
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Interesting opportunity to follow the thoughts of the author as she leaves her corporate life behind. As someone who also enjoys solitude (which isn't the same as loneliness), it was easy to relate. An excellent memoir, well written and without excessive navel gazing. I enjoyed the small surprises. *Note: This book was provided through the Barnes and Noble First Look program with the expectation of an honest review. My opinions are my own.
I must admit that I have only reached the midway point of the text and have had to take a break from it. The narrative is rather disjointed, and while I am a great fan of post-modern writing with all of its interjections and wordplay, it does not seem to work with non-fiction. The pages are rife with snippets of songs that appear from nowhere, and they create a jarring effect. I understand that the early pages may focus a great deal on the accumulation of designer items as a means of setting up a contrast to a post-career eschewing of material wealth, but I haven't reached that shift yet. As a result, the frequent demonstration of great material wealth just seems to run counter to the ideals that the book's title calls to mind.
Margaret Roach leaves her job with high power Martha Stewart to find peace. Somewhere along the way she had to find who Margaret Roach is. There is nothing like a house in the boonies to help you do both things. This is an engaging book on why everyone should have a house in the country----------you will find peace and yourself.
I recently finished this book and was glad that the author spent the last couple of chapters writing in praise of her move without all the jumpy anxiety that she wrote with through the start and middle of the book. I'm not sure if she was lifting parts of her journal entries for the body of her book because it seemed like notes to herself about her feelings and jumbled thoughts about anything and everything. It could have been better written but she wrapped up her peeks and slumps into a thankful praise of her new life. I wish her well and would be interested in book two now that some time has passed since the first book.
I found the book to be just too many words to say little. I read about 1/2 the book and got frustrated and quit reading it.


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Item: THP005
Creamy peanut butter flavored high protein bars
20 grams of protein
Gluten free
10 Bar(s)
Serving Size 1 Bar (60 g)
Servings Per Container 10
|Amount Per Serving
|% Daily Value*
|Calories 230Calories from Fat 80
|Total Fat 8 g
|Saturated Fat 3.5 g
|Trans Fat 0 g
|Cholesterol 5 mg
|Sodium 300 mg
|Total Carbohydrate 23 g
|Dietary Fiber 1 g
|Sugars 0 g
|Sugar Alcohol 11 g
|Other Carbohydrate 9 g
|Protein 20 g
|Vitamin A
|Vitamin C
|*Percent Daily Values are based on a 2,000 calorie diet. Your daily values may be higher or lower depending on your calorie needs.
*Percent Daily Values are based on a 2,000 calorie diet. Your daily values may be higher or lower depending on your calorie needs.
|Total Fat
|Less than
|65 grams
|80 grams
|Saturated Fat
|Less than
|20 grams
|25 grams
|Less than
|300 mg
|300 mg
|Less than
|2,400 mg
|2,400 mg
|Total Carbohydrate
|300 grams
|375 grams
|Dietary Fiber
|25 grams
|30 grams
Calories per gram:
Ingredients: Protein Blend (Calcium Caseinate, Whey Protein Isolate, Soy Protein Isolate), Coating (Maltitol, Cocoa Butter, Chocolate Liquor, Sodium Caseinate, Milk Fat, Soy Lecithin, Natural Flavors, Salt), Glycerin, Maltitol, Peanut Butter (Ground Peanuts, Sea Salt), Water, Cocoa Butter, Peanut Flour, Natural Flavors, Soy Lecithin, Sea Salt.
Contains Milk, Peanuts and Soy.
Allergen Statement: Manufactured in a plant that processes eggs and tree nuts.
Gluten Free
1.46 lbs
Creamy peanut butter flavored high protein bars
20 grams of protein
Gluten free
Just because you're trying to manage your weight doesn't mean you have to eat blah foods. ThinkThin Creamy Peanut Butter bars are a delicious addition to your weight management program. These sugar-free bars deliver 20 grams of protein in each serving. They energize without the effects of sugar and gluten. Rich and filling, thinkThin bars are individually wrapped, making them perfect for any one-the-go lifestyle.
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text:
Orison S. Marden Quotes
Work kills no one, but worry has killed multitudes… Worry not only saps vitality and wastes energy, but it also seriously affects the quality of one's work. It cuts down ability. A man cannot get the highest quality of efficiency into his work when his mind is troubled. The mental faculties must have perfect freedom before they will give out their best. A troubled brain cannot think clearly, vigorously, and logically.
It is a psychological law that whatever we desire to accomplish we must impress upon the subjective or subconscious mind; that is, we must register a vow with ourselves, we must make our resolution with vigor, with faith that we can do the thing we want to do; we must register our conviction with such intensity that the great creative forces within us will tend to realize them. Our impressions will become expressions just in proportion to the vigor with which we register our vows to accomplish our ambitions, to make our visions realities.
Popular topics
- Popular topics:
- Inspirational
- Love
- Funny
- Success
- Friendship
- Life
- Motivational
- Wisdom
- Leadership
- Dream
- Positive
- Freedom
- Knowledge
- Happiness
Orison S. Marden
- Born: October 20, 1911
- Died: August 25, 1975
- Occupation: Lawyer
- Cite this Page: Citation


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Agréable En-Suite Chambre avec Wi-Fi
Nombre max. de visiteurs2
Salles de bain1
Surface20 m²
- Internet/WIFI
- Cuisine
- Serviettes
- Parking
- Machine à laver/sèche-linge
Description de l'hébergement
|Park View, W3 0PU London, Royaume-Uni
|Type de logement
|Chambre privée
|Code de l'offre
|Taux d'acceptation
|Temps de réponse
|Quelques heures
|Calendrier mis à jour
|Il y a une semaine
La chambre a un lit / matelas à ressorts double, parquet en chêne, grande salle de bains avec douche, bidet, décorées à un niveau très élevé. La chambre et la salle de bains ont tout ce dont vous avez besoin pour vous sentir comme chez vous. Vous aurez également une connexion Wi-Fi gratuite.
W3 0PU est un quartier résidentiel très calme à proximité de North Acton Playing Fields avec un court de tennis et d'autres installations sportives et un café, 5 min à pied de North Acton / Central Line dans la zone 2, l'accès facile à partir de Heathrow (via Ealing Broadway) et à le centre de Londres (20 min en métro de Bond Street, facile entraînement 6 mile via A40); stationnement dans la rue (des restrictions s'appliquent), cinémas, magasins et supermarchés à proximité.
Règles de la maisonPas d'enfants, pas d'animaux, pas de fumée.
Le petit-déjeuner et l'utilisation de la machine à laver, le cas échéant, est en sus.
|Prix à la semaine pour un voyageur
|304 €
|Prix au mois pour un voyageur
|1095 €
|Prix pour > 1 voyageurs
|18 € par voyageur/nuit supplémentaire
|Arrivée après
|Arrivée avant
|Sur arrangement
|Départ avant
|Politique d′annulation
This review covers three stays with Anna - this particular one and two in June. My daughter Laura stays with Anna when she has a late shift at her hospital where she is training as a Midwife. We live in Southampton and she does commute a lot but needs to stay somewhere now and again. Laura feels very secure and comfortable with Anna and she will continue to use her throughtout her third year training and beyond when she takes up a permanent post in the future. Thank you Anna.
This was definitely the best room I've booked via Wimdu so far. The room is spacious and equiped with modern furniture. I especially loved the comfy chair and the large shower. I loved having my own bathroom, which was en-suite. Anna and Jan were both very nice people. I didn't talk to them that much, but they seem like good hosts. The house is 5 to 10 minutes away from the tube station on foot and it takes about half an hour to get to most places in the city centre, which is very good for London standards! The house is situated in a quiet street and it was lovely to be able to escape the crowded and noisy city after a long day and sit down and relax in my own private and quiet room.
We had a very nice and pleasant stay in Anna & Jan's house. We were warmly welcomed and Anna provided us with really helpful information how to get around in London. If wished they offer breakfast - continental or english type - which we tried both. And I have to mention, that Jan's English breakfast is definitely worth a try. From beginning to the end of our stay we felt always welcomed.
Excellent accommodation and hosts, convenient located and highly recommended.
We loved our stay here! If you like a warm welcome and feeling at home while you're on holiday, this is definitely the place where you want to stay. Anna and Jan are very nice and can give you a lot of info about London. If you decide to stay here, make sure to order their breakfast, it is a perfect start of the day.
Do notice that you are not in the center of London, although the underground is very easy to use. We only had to walk 5 minutes to the station so we didn't mind at all, but don't forget to include this travelling time while planning your day.
I can totally recommend this room. Nice and helpful host, very nice bathroom and close to the tube
Have no hesitation about staying in Anna's house. The room is beautiful - on the second floor and so sunny and light . Facilities excellent including marvellous en suite and a comfortable armchair. Anna is so welcoming and helpful. It is simple to find and transport easy to town via the Central line. You cross a busy road to get to Park View but the house is extremely quiet. Shops and eating places close by - some near the tube station at North Acton.
Thank you Anna for a lovely stay.
I could not come to the place in the afternoon, after our check-in time, because the host was not available. The room was cosy, with nice double bed and no heating at night time. Bathroom as well did not have a hair dryer. I agreed with the host that we will move out at 12 o'clock and after being 10 minutes late, we were just accused for abusing his hospitality. Host was completely rude at my girlfriend when she politely asked him whether he has a hair dryer. His reply was 'we are not a hotel'. After that, she got cold, thanks for him.
What a breath of fresh air! I arrived later on a Wednesday evening and Anna and Jan were there to welcome me. They were in the middle of cooking dinner and they even invited me to join them. The room is fantastic and large, with a desk, chair and an en-suite bathroom and everything is brand spanking new. The pictures don't do it justice, since it is even better than on the pictures. I would highly recommend this place, since it only takes you about 20 minutes by tube to get to Central London (direct line!) There even is a nice pub in town and a selection of restaurants. In short, the ideal accommodation when you need to visit London!
- Qualité des logements garantie!
- Vérification de l'hôte par téléphone
- Paiement sécurisé via SSL encryption


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Re- started running after a loooong lay of about 6 weeks ago and it's all been going really well, my fitness has improved and I've managed a 10k at 49.04 - my previous PB even when I was running regularly in the past was 49.42 so I was made up. Tried a 10k yesterday, started off okay, felt not bad but not brilliant either but checked my watch (I time check at a certain landmark on the run each time) and I realised I was hammering along - almost 40 seconds quicker than normal - the PB beckoning, I carried on. Suddenly 1k down the road I just "ran out". Just nothing left. I basically failed the run. I have no idea why that happened. I was comfortable at the quicker pace and feel I could maintain it, so I wouldn't say I started too quickly and just fried myself but legs just went to Jelly!!! WHAT'S OCCURING??!!!.
I was driving to work last week. I looked at my speedometer, and I was going faster than ever. Over 70mph average... so I put my foot down a bit more... and I got up to 80mph. Fantastic - the car was simply purring along, it felt like I could go on forever. But then, my car started coughing and spluttering and quickly came to a halt. If only I'd looked at my fuel gauge.
Seriously though, you went faster than you're ready for. You need to build up your strength speed and endurance.. to break PBs. And yet you smashed your PB last time out, and tried to absolutely smash it again - all on the back of a 6 week lay off. Did you really need to ask this question?!!
Sorry, I've been running regularly (4-5 times a week) for 6 weeks, I wasn't running for about 6-7mths before this. I've started running with a sort of "hidden agenda". Since I beat my PB I've always got it in the back of my mind to hammer again and I am well aware that just bombing along all the time isn't the way to go. That said, it did occur to me that fueling might be the issue. It's still annoying though! felt like a waste of a run.
It's not fueling in the sense of not eating enough that day or the day before, it's fueling in that you were running anaerobically for too long and your body couldn't cope with the lactate. You're not fit enough for your body to convert a greater proportion of oxygen into energy and thus maintain your pace, so you ran out of steam. That's why it's better to run an even pace through out the whole run than to surge, run too hard at any one point and you burn out.
Also, don't go for pb's in training. You don't get medals for training. Save your efforts for races.
My fuel analogy was not ideal... but you know what I mean! Essentially, there are many things that make machines fail quite suddenly, that give you little warning. Lardarse explains very well... I agree with him - EXCEPT... of course you should go for PBs in training... unless you're racing very frequently! It keeps me well motivated.
BTW... it was DEFINITELY not a waste of a run, assuming you suffered no injury. It will have contributed to the training of your lactate removal system... and also you'll have learned from the experience. It was possibly one of the most valuable runs you've done in a long time!
No, thankfully I'm injury free (for the first time in ages!) and I'm still injury free! So, no harm done. I didn't really think of it as a positive run, I'm still a bit of a novice, never really exelled at sports so I'm still reading about things like lactic acid and how that all works etc, so when you put it like that perhaps it wasn't a waste of time. I did think, annoying though it was at the time, that ultimately it's a learning curve. Maybe it will make me a better runner overall.
I wasn't trying to refute your fuel analogy just to explain a little more that it's more than just because he hasn't eaten enough porridge for breakfast!
Not winnng medals in training is a little mantra to stop you running too hard in long runs, it's easy to go off at marathon pace (for example) in training and leave your best performance in a sunday lsr because you can't recover to race pace for the real thing.


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text:
Yes, I KNOW it's out of date. I'm not waiting four months for this, though. I refuse. And so there. I am STUBBORN.
Gordon/Kimberly ahead!
Challenge: "Everything For You"
Timeline: Doesn't matter
Required Reading: None
Rating: G
Good day to you, Human Kimberly.
Perhaps it's obvious who I am, with a greeting such as that. I do hope it is. I've been trying for a while now to put my name into this letter, but I simply cannot bring myself to. The pencil hits the paper, I go to write the name, and then nothing. Look.
My name is
You see? In my mind I know you'll realize it's me because I'll be the one handing you this, and if I'm not then certain things I mention should make it obvious soon enough, and yet I still can't write my name on this. I don't quite understand. Perhaps later on.
It is currently the afternoon of February 14th as I write this. I am sitting at a desk in an out-of-the-way corner of the room in an attempt to minimize distractions. Next to me is a trash can filled to the brim with crumpled papers which are, at this point, beginning to topple onto the floor. All the result of about three days' worth of work. Work that, in the end, has amounted to nothing. You see, with Valentine's Day fast approaching, I figured this would be the best time to confess certain things to you. However, there's absolutely no way I could EVER tell you in person. My tongue twists, my insides melt, and I generally just make a fool of myself. I thank you for never mentioning that, by the way. At any rate, I've decided that the only way I'm ever going to manage this is if I write a letter, give it to you, and wait to see what happens. At least once its in your hands, there's no way to take it back like I have been. I can finally get all this off my chest.
What am I trying to get off my chest, exactly? Well, it's kind of hard for me to say. Another case of the pencil hitting the paper and nothing happening. I suppose I'll start from the beginning. Do you remember the day we met? Waffle met you first, invited you over, I ended up giving you your nickname by pure mistake... I was still just a kitten, but even though I wasn't sure just what was going on or if it had a name, I still knew deep down that I
I can't seem to finish that sentence. Let's try again. Oh, what about the time I told you I'd show you a unicorn? I honestly didn't say that with the plan of faking it in mind. I wasn't aware of what I was even saying until I had already left, and at that point, going back and telling you I lied... I couldn't do it. I couldn't face you and admit to hurting you. Why I thought CONTINUING the lie and roping my brothers and Hovis into it would be any better, I'm not entirely sure. I guess one's mind can get clouded when one's in
OK, forget that last part... point is, I just didn't want to hurt you with my stupid mistake... and so I went and made an even dumber mistake that almost got us all killed. No, it wasn't bright of me at all. But the fact you forgave me so easily... sometimes I wonder, why? I suppose it's just a testament to how deep our friendship is, that we went through such a thing and came out of it still as the best of friends. And even after you swore you never wanted to see me again... what happened directly afterward... I don't know if I'm reading too much into why that happened, but... oh, if I wasn't so distracted at that point...
But never mind that. This isn't ever going to get where I want it to. Hm,what else is there for me to say... I don't want to stop writing, but I'm not sure what else TO write... oh, I know! Something I've been wondering for a while now. Do you remember that day that Blik and I kept giving you gifts? Waffle was around too with a scoreboard, but I'm not sure if you noticed him, I didn't see him until he said something... but anyway, I'm just curious. What did you make of that day, exactly? What did you think we were trying to do? It's an honest question. I'd rather not come out with the truth of the matter just yet. I'd like to know what you think first. Same goes for the next night, when you ran out and saw Blik and me in the rocket – did you wonder what was going on there in the first place? Obviously, your first priority was getting us down from there, and I thank you immensely, but after all that... again, I'm just wondering. It does have relevance to why I'm writing this letter. I'm certain I'll get to the point eventually. For now, I'm simply stalling for time. I do apologize. This isn't easy.
Another thing I've been wondering, while I'm on this track... what about the incident with Sachiko? I'm imagining you found him with his cage unlocked. I'll admit now, I am the one at fault. I was just so jealous, you were spending more time with him than me, and, well... I kind of sneaked into your yard that night, took Sachiko, and... I didn't do anything, I promise. I almost did, I don't know what I was going to do but I almost did SOMETHING, but thankfully I regained my sense before anything happened. I thought something had, but... let's not get into that. Quite frankly, it's a wee bit embarrassing. Just don't ask where that sick rabbit came from. What did you end up doing with him, if you don't mind me asking?
OK, moving on... what else to talk about... other memories... well, I would like to thank you for how you handled that slumber party incident a while back. That was kind of my idea to crash it. I know there's no possible way you didn't recognize who we were, but the fact that you didn't out us and allowed us to stay as long as we behaved... and two of us did. I'm not naming any names, BLIK. ...sorry. But while Blik and Waffle were really only in it for the free root beer – and I suppose Waffle was in it for the whole "beauty salon makeover" thing as well, don't ask me, I haven't a clue – but that wasn't the main reason I wished to be there. I quite liked the idea of spending the night with you, my best friend. I still feel terribly guilty for that lie as well. I realize I'm not often honest with you with some things. I'll try to be better at that, I swear.
But there are things I HAVE been honest about – what about when I changed the Earth for you? Some people claim they'd do such a thing for the people they care about, but I'm one of few who can say I took that quite literally. I couldn't stand to see you so upset, I thought it would cheer you up, and so... not that it went that great for most involved. Especially not after things went haywire. But I know you quite enjoyed it beforehand... I'm glad I was able to give you that much, even if it was short-lived. I just love seeing you happy. You're my best friend, after all...
...no. No, that's not right. Not completely. Oh, sure, you're definitely my best friend, but... well, I... there's something more... I won't let myself put this pencil down this time, I will NOT, I am going to write the one sentence that could have taken up this entire letter and still held the same point... really, I'm just wasting paper... I should just cut to the chase... I'm writing to tell you that, well.. I... you see... I... I'd do anything and everything for you, anything you ask of me I'd be more than happy to give you, I just want to see you smile... because... I...
I love you.
I am Gordon Quid of the Highland Quid Clan, and I am in love with you, Human Kimberly.
Nothing else needs to be said.
Sighing, I placed the pencil down on the desk.
"Did I really...?"
I picked the paper up, flipped it back to the beginning, and read what I had written. Surprisingly, I barely even remembered writing most of it. The paper was covered with eraser marks, and the handwriting was a messy scrawl, particularly toward the end when the pencil was barely touching the paper. My paw was obviously shaking when I got to that point; I doubted anyone but myself would have even been able to read the end of it. However, there was no turning back. I'd said that I was going to give this to her, TODAY, and I wasn't about to break this promise. I opened the drawer on the table where I sat and began to dig through it.
"Where did they go?" I muttered to myself, not finding what I needed. "Waffle?!" I called, looking around the mansion to see if anyone was near. "Hovis? Danny? Marie? Beth? Is anyone here?"
"I am, Uncle Gordo!" came a young female voice. A yellow kitten came running into the room, the stick of a lollipop hanging out of her mouth. "Ya need something?" she continued, not bothering to remove the candy.
"First off, Beth, I've asked you not to call me Uncle Gordo..." I said, knowing as it came out of my mouth that it was utterly hopeless.
"Why not?" Beth asked, walking over to the table. "Dad calls you Gordo all the time."
"It's simply not a kind thing to say," I explained.
"But it's your name without the n," Beth rationalized. "I know what it MEANS, but... it's also your name! So you're Uncle Gordo." She gave a final nod, as if to quickly end the matter. I gave in, having more things on my mind than arguing with my niece over the unfortunate nickname.
"Listen, Beth, could you do me a favor?" I asked. "There was a pack of envelopes in this drawer here, but I can't find them..."
"Oh, Uncle Waffle took those. Said he wanted to make cards for his newts."
"That doesn't surprise me at all," I chuckled. "Well, could you go get one for me, please? I don't think I have much time left, it's kind of important..."
"Why don't you get it yourself?" she asked, fiddling with the stick to her candy.
"I'm kind of worried that someone will see my-" I started, but stopped abruptly.
"See your what?" Beth asked. "Whatever it is, there's no one else TO see it."
"There's not?" I said. "Where did they go? I know your parents are out on their date, but I didn't see anyone else leave. I've been kind of distracted."
"Uncle Waffle said that Gomez and Stella wanted to go on a date, too, but that he had to hang around and 'supervise'," Beth told me, making air quotes. "Marie went along with him just to see what the heck a newt date is like. Hovis said that today's a holiday and that he refuses to work on holidays. Last I saw him, he was going up to his attic with a book. Don't know where Danny is. Probably causing mischief. I haven't heard any explosions yet, though."
"Well, that's good," I said, at this point used to Danny disappearing, returning looking like he'd been up to something, but nothing unusual ever turning up. He's frighteningly good at getting into trouble but never letting us know what trouble he'd gotten into.
"What're you writing?" Beth asked, suddenly noticing the paper in front of me and moving closer to get a better look.
"Something personal..." I mumbled, folding my arms over it and blocking it from view. Beth gave up and turned her attention to the garbage can. "You wrote all THIS?!" she exclaimed. "TODAY?!"
"Well, over the past few days, but – Beth, NO!" I cried as she uncrumpled one of the papers and began reading it out loud.
"'Oh, my love with such lovely brown hair and sweet sparkling eyes and musical voice and...'" she stopped reading and cringed. "Uncle Gordo, what IS this?!"
"I've been working on something for someone..." I murmured, feeling my face grow hot. "Put that back in the trash. It's horrible."
"I'll say," Beth said. "Whoever this is for, never try writing her poetry again." She crushed it back into a ball and dropped it onto the heap. "So, who's the lucky cat?"
"Well..." I started, wondering how on Earth to start explaining the whole thing.
"Is she pretty? What color's her fur? Is she a warrior like you? Tell me!" Beth insisted, shaking my chair. "C'mon, I didn't know you had a girlfriend! Why haven't I met her yet?"
"She's not my girlfriend," I said, not yet ready to bring up the species confusion. "I'm just an admirer, that's all..."
"You're not stalking her, are you? Girls don't like that, you know."
"It's nothing like that!" I said hurriedly. "She's a friend of mine. I've had my eye on her for a while, just never got farther than friendship... today's the perfect day to change that!"
"And I'll make sure you do change that! It's the only way I'll have an aunt! Or cousins!"
"Why is that?" I asked, still not pointing out the several things wrong with those hopes.
"You think Uncle Waffle's ever going to get a girlfriend? Or even want one?" Beth asked.
"Perhaps you have a point."
Beth nodded and took the stick out of her mouth. The candy on the end was bright red and cut into the shape of a heart. She examined it for a moment before sticking it back between her teeth. "So, tell me, who-" Before she could finish her sentence, the doorbell rang.
"I got it!" she announced, bounding off. "You finish your letter! Make sure you can impress your friend with it!" I returned to looking over the paper and mouthing the words, hoping that everything was just right. It was too late to fix it now; Kimberly would be done school any second...
"Oh, hey there!" I heard Beth shouting from a few rooms away. I strained to see if I could hear the visitor's voice, but it simply didn't carry as well as Beth's shouting.
"You wanna see Uncle Gordo? I dunno if I should, he's sorta busy..."
I stopped looking over my letter and continued straining to hear. I could tell the other speaker was female, but I couldn't understand a word she said. The voice seemed so familiar, but I just couldn't place it...
"What's he busy with? Well... did you know he has a GIRLFRIEND?"
I wasn't even down there and I still turned slightly red from that. "Why would you tell people that, Beth?" I grumbled to myself, wishing she could hear me. Not that it'd matter; she'd probably keep pressing the issue. The identity of Beth's mother was certainly obvious.
"No, I don't know who she is either, but he's writing her a letter! Shh, keep it quiet, though, I don't think I'm supposed to tell anyone..."
Bit too late for that, now, isn't it?
"Well, I'm sure he'll stop with the letter for a bit to talk to you. I know you two are friends! And you brought him a present, too! How sweet! C'mon, Kimberly, I'll show you where he is!"
"YACK!" I yelped against my will, and as quickly as possible, I pulled the drawer open, stuffed the paper in, and slammed it shut again. It was just in time; seconds later, Beth came rocketing back in, Human Kimberly following closely behind.
"Hi, Gordon!" she said, smiling happily. To her chest, she hugged a red, rectangular box tied with a pink ribbon. "Happy Valentine's Day!"
"Happy Valentine's Day!" I replied with as much eagerness as I could manage, considering my heart's current position in my throat.
"Where's your letter?" Beth asked me.
"What letter?" I responded with a huge, false grin. "Beth, why don't you go see what your brother's up to?"
"You're never concerned about that, especially when nothing's crashed yet," Beth responded.
"GO SEE WHAT YOUR BROTHER IS UP TO," I repeated, not shouting, but certainly placing more than necessary emphasis on the words as I said them through shut teeth.
"Oh... kay..." Beth said slowly as she looked from me to Kimberly, as if not entirely sure what was going on. "I'll go look for him. You two have fun, then." She walked off slowly, occasionally looking back at the two of us, trying to figure it out but not quite getting it. I waited until she was certainly down the hall before resuming my conversation.
"Is that present for me?" I asked Kimberly, indicating the box. "You didn't have to get me anything... I didn't get something for you..." I tried my hardest not to look back at the drawer, at what I was GOING to give to her, but was starting to have second thoughts about.
"It's OK, I wanted to give you something!" Kimberly said, still smiling and holding the box out. "Go on, take it!"
I did so, calming my quivering paws as much as feasible. Slowly, I tugged at the ribbon to untie it and lifted the lid. Inside was a bottle of root beer with a blue ribbon wrapped around the neck, a tray of gumdrops, and a card made of pink construction paper. I placed the box on the table and removed the card. There were no words on the front, simply an assortment of heart and cat stickers. I opened it, my organs twisting themselves into a tighter knot. Inside was a message written in glitter:
To Gordon Quid, my bestest friend in the world!
Happy Valentine's Day!
Love, your bestest friend, Human Kimberly
"Well? What do you think?" Kimberly asked as I stared at the card in silence. "The tray came from a box of chocolate, but I know you can't have that, so I put in fruit candy instead... I cleaned it out, I promise, if you got sick from my present I'd feel terrible..."
I looked up from the card and at her hopeful face as she eagerly awaited a response. I opened my mouth in an attempt to thank her, but no words came out. Instead, I did the only thing I could think to do; I stood up on the chair to meet her height, reached out, and pulled her into a tight hug.
"Thanks," I finally managed to get out SOMEHOW; my heart was fluttering way too fast and I could barely breathe, but somehow I didn't care anymore. I smiled happily as she hugged me back for a few all-too-short seconds.
"I just wanted to say hi and to give you that," she said as she withdrew from the embrace. "I'm sorry I can't stay long, but I have to go home..."
"It's all right," I assured her. "It was great to see you, even if it wasn't very long. Sorry I didn't have anything for you..."
"That... that was enough..." she said quietly, suddenly facing the floor. Was she... blushing? "I'll see you again really soon, I swear!" she continued, finally lifting her head and regaining her cheerful demeanor. "Hope you enjoy the candy and the soda! Bye!" she said, turning and waving.
"So long, Human Kimberly!" I called as I waved back. As she walked away, I opened the drawer and pulled out the letter. I opened my mouth, ready to call her back and tell her I DID have something...
...but at the last second, I changed my mind, tore the paper into shreds, and tossed the pieces into the trash. I sat back down in the chair and sank a little, clutching the card and floating in my own little world.
"I found Danny!" I heard Beth calling, knocking me out of my stupor. "He's in his room reading comic books. Nothing was broken, though he did throw an action figure at me and yell at me to get out. I don't think the figure survived that."
"I think we have some model glue lying around," I said, completely ignoring what she'd walked in on. "Should be easy to fix."
"Is this the present Kimberly gave you?" Beth asked, peering into the box. "Candy, huh... you know, if I didn't know any better, I'd think Kimberly was trying to give your girlfriend some competition. When are you going to deliver that letter, anyway?"
"I'm not," I said, pointing to the shreds. "I don't think I'm ready to. Not yet. Perhaps next year."
"Aw, bummer!" Beth whined. "I wanted to know who it was for! Can't you at least tell me?"
"Sure, I can," I said. "It was for Human Kimberly."
"...she's a human," Beth said simply.
"I know," I responded.
"That... that's so... CUTE!" she finally responded. "So sweet, not letting something like species get in the way of true love! That's just like you, Uncle Gordo! I should have known, I KNEW it, especially when you sent me away, I should have GUESSED! Hey, Kimberly! KIMBER-"
I grabbed Beth and placed my paw over her mouth. "Shh, please, I don't want her to know yet..."
"Well, why NOT?" Beth whined. "LOOK at all this stuff! You think she's going to say no?! C'mon! Tell her! Don't let her walk away! That's BORING!"
"I'm just not ready," I repeated.
Beth sighed. "Fine... you're WEIRD, Uncle Gordo."
"I know," I said, reaching into the box and pulling out an orange gumdrop.
"You'll let me know when you DO tell her, right? I just wanna know when I can call her Auntie Kimmy. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
"I'll let you know," I assured her, not entirely sure about the whole auntie thing. After swallowing the gumdrop, I took the root beer, pushed the cap off with my claw, and took a long swig. Somehow, it tasted even better than it would have if I had simply gotten one from the vault. "Listen, Beth... can you keep the whole thing our little secret? Your parents and Uncle Waffle will probably figure it out, but I don't want anyone else to know yet."
Beth groaned, her hopes of revealing such a juicy secret dashed. "Whatever you say, Uncle Gordo... I'm gonna go see if there's any more taffies."
"You go on ahead and do that," I said, placing the card back in the box and replacing the lid. As she dashed off, ever the streak of energy, I picked up the box and headed to my room to enjoy the rest of my gift.
"Perhaps next year..."


text:
Visitors can enjoy films, exhibits, archaeology displays, walking the grounds and nature trail, picnicking, photography, Junior Ranger programs and ranger programs when scheduled. Check the calendar for upcoming events!
Ranger Programs
Places and Spaces, Plantations Lives – 1hr walking tour exploring archaeological remnants and plantation architecture of historic Snee Farm. Saturdays and Sundays at 11:00 am. Call the park at 843-881-5516 for more information.


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