November 7, 2025 Joni Mitchell's birthday - age 82

I celebrate my 80th birthday in the same week as Joni Mitchell's 82nd birthday. I feel as though Joni's music spoke for a wide segment of the women of my generation, single mothers or single mothers who gave up their children for adoption, artists making their way in a male dominated world, struggling to find love and artistic, creative satisfaction and success, trying to express our experience of living in the world. I love the line in one of Joni's songs "songs are like tatoos" and her songs did pierce your skin and stay with you, but much deeper than skin, right to the heart.

Joni Mitchell's lyrics are poetic brilliance and narrative genius. You are there with her as she navigates her dangerous liason with the 'coyote' and his two other women, and in the tour bus with her as she passes the tragic farm house on fire. She has music for every stretch of the soul, from playful 'Cary' to the despair of 'Blue'.

Joni, I am so glad you were there to put our world into music and share our experience! "I wish I had a river, to skate away on."

Love and Happy Birthday, another 80 year old, still independent, still living

wrightj45@yhaoo.com

James and Ann Whitall House, Red Bank Battlefield, National Park, NJ

'Join us in celebrating the Holiday Season at the historic James and Ann Whitall House. Step into a world of timeless elegance as we invite you to our beautifully decorated historic house this holiday season! Experience the magic of the holidays surrounded by charming architecture and rich history, all adorned with festive decor.'

December 5, 6 7 from 3 p.. to 8 p.m.

Bayshore Discovery Center, Bivalve, NJ

'Flagship: Monument on the Move' ]On November 1, the Bayshore Center and the Monuments to Migration and Labor (NJMML) project hosted Flagship: Monument on the Move, the first of three events that NJMML Monument Artist Immanuel Oni is organizing in the South Jersey project region. The event focused on exploring the migration histories of African Americans who came to the Port Norris area from the Chesapeake Bay region, to work in the oyster industry.'

For two or three years, I worked as a tour guide at the Bayshore Discovery Project. If you haven't been there ist is the re juvenated and reanimated ghost town of the former multimillion dollar oyster industry. There are so many things to see "down South" and I strongly recommend you go exploring from Greenwich on the Cohansey to Bivalve, Shelpile on the Bay. There are a couple of nearby boat marinas if you go to Greenwich and one has a nice restaurant though you need to check because I am not certain of the days, hours or seasons.

The Civilian Conservation Corps, the WPA recorded live interviews with people who were trucked from down South to work in the oyster canning industry. The Museum at the Bayshore Discovery Project has audio versions of those interiwws, as wel as the standing stations used by the shuckers who could wield their oyster lnives like ninjas. These trucked in season workers were housed in dormatory style bunk houses at Shell Pile, named for the reekin mountains of shells under the blanket of screaming seagulls. These mountains of shells were ground into gravel for roads and powder for fertilizer.

There is so much to learn about this once thriing industry in both New Jersey and New York. There is also a wonderful raised trail into the marshlands for bird lovers.

Happy trails through New Jersey's deep and fascinating history wrightj45@yahoo.com

Germany 1969 and 70 - a fragment for Marilyn

I was talking with my friend, Marilyn Quinn, today about our years in Germany when we were 21 and 22 and we discussed writing our memories. She had been a student in Munich and I had been an army wife in Heilbronn am Neckar. I have books worth of memories but I will put only a fragment or two here and send the link to Marilyn.

My landlady's name was Frau Froeschle and she ran a butcher shop as well as several rental properties in a kind of atrium style modern architectural houseing complex The buildings were concrete and two stories tall. Our apartment faced a paved courtyard in the front and a cooperative garden courtyard in the back. our apartment, which we were able to rent because it was the Vietnam war and the army post, Wharton Barracks, was full of soldiers either going to Vietnam or getting put together to go home from Vietnam, so officers had the option of living "on the economy" which meant an apartment in the village, rather than on the army post. It was a remarkably clean little town and all the windows had window boxes with red geraniums in them.

Our apartment had a small back bedroom with one plump bed and a red down duvet, a slanted ceiling and a window with a view of the back garden where each morning I could see half a dozen stout housewives in cotton dresses, aprons, head scarves and laced up construction boots hoeing and raking and working on their vegetable patches.

There was a small central room off of which was a tiny living room, furnished with contemporary modern German "mobel" (furniture) a small slim wooden frame sofa, matching chair and a coffee table. My favorite piece of furniture was in the kitchen which faced the concrete courtyard; it was a creamy yellow cabinet with a door behind which there was a built in sifter for flour, and a pull out tray for rolling out dough. There was a small table and chair set, a kitchen sink and gas range. The bathroom was also small and had a 'new to me' fixture, a tiny backpack sized tank that held the hot water - that was it - no more hot water when that was used up!

Below us lived an interesting array of temporary neighbors. At first there was an American couple from New England but my first lieutenant husband told me I couldn't fraternize because her husband was a lower rank and it compromised his position as an officer. The Boston wife told me the landlady's butcher shop specialized in horse meat and they had bought some and made hamburgers and it was good. I was horrified. I don't think she and I would have been friends anyhow, but they moved back to the states and were replaced by a group of Middle Eastern, maybe Turkish, foreign workers. We only ever saw the women, about three or four of them, draped head to toe in long swaths of colorful fabrics.

The landlady, Frau Froeschle, was a strangely malevolent person who wore a phony smile below remarkably hostile eyes, they fairly gittered with some kind of malice. I remember coming out of the bedroom one morning and finding her standing behind the full glass door of our apartment like a character from a horror movie. It wssn't easy to ascertain her purpose other than to check on my housekeeping because she spoke little to no English (allegedly) and I spoke little to no German at the time. Soon, however I was enrolled in a language class on the post.

Frequently Frau Froeschle got drunk and raged out her kitchen window, also second story (over her butcher shop) and facing my kitchen window. She would hang out the window in a black satin slip with a bottle of wine in her hand and scream curses at me, or at our apartment, hard to say which. In all our other encounteres she was coldly polite.

One of the few major incidents we encountered was the day the draped women in the apartment below left their apartment with the door open and a toddler inside. He closed the door on them and there was something cooking which was soon burning and smoke was coming out from under their door. They were screaming in their language, speaking no German or English, and I came down to see what was causing the commotion.

By tht time, I knew at least these a few words: "Feuer" und "Hilfe, bitte hilfe!" which I shouted at Frau Froeschle's grandson who was working in the paved courtyeard. He was a surly and hostile youth of about 16 or 17, who usuallyignored my greetings but he put aside his dislike long enough to come see what was the matter. A stout, muscular youth, he put his shoulder to the women's apartment door and smashed it open. They ran in and grabbed the todder; he opened the windows, and then they all left as quickly as they had arrived. The women went into their apartment immediately and closed the broken door the best they could, all leaving me in the hallway without a word or nod of thanks.

We never managed to cross the cultural barrier and whenever they saw me they covered their faces and fled as though I were a plague carrier.

The only friend I made those years was a German bar girl named Trudy who also lived across the couryard next to Frau Froeschle's apartment. A beautiful platinum blonde in her early 30's who spoke fairly good English, She was supported by a succession of young American soldiers, as a sort of wife. That made it possible for the soldiers to spend free time off base in a home and family type setting. She often joked to me about her boyfriends and how she would trick them into buying her new furniture or other expensive items by telling them she was pregnant and needed to get an abortion. She had three small children already. That is a story for another time.

In those years, I was so young, only 21 and 22, I really never gave much thought to Frau Froeschle or her personal history, and it is embarrassing to me now to think how little I thought of anything like history or the war which had only been over for 25 years at that time. Many of the storekeepers as well as Frau Froeschle would have been alive during the war and enemies of the Americans. We were occupying their country. Next time I write, I will tell about what I learned about the history of Heilbronn am Neckar and how I found out about it.

Auf wiedersehen, wrightj45#yahoo.com

My posts for the next few days will be devoted to my upcoming 80th Birthday

Turning 80 years old. Begun October 30, 2025

Friends my age are surpised that we have gotten old. Each of us has faced it in a different way. Many cling to what I think of as a kind of disguise: they color their hair, wear make-up, and some have cosmetic surgery, face lifts, injections and so on. I choose to dig into the reality of this moment. To me, increasingly, it feels like an accomplishment to have survived for 80 years. Each day I read reports in my e-mail news feed about people half my age dying from cancers, drug overdoses, murder, automobile accidents. And heaven knows there have been plenty of oppportunities for the death dealer to call in my note: traveling in dangerous places with my ex-husband in Europe (Morocco, Turkey) even just riding with him on some of the dangerous highways we traveled. And of course the classic death notice for women - domestic violence, childbirth! I survived plagues - polio, the Corona Virus Epidemic, (the influenza epidemic after WW1 killed my biological grandmother) and a cardiac event a few years back plus a severe Diverticuitis hospitalization - so many ways to die and yet, here I am two weeks away from my 80th birthday.

So with Marcel Proust in mind, I decided to slip around into the past and also, in the very modern way, to kind of document the two weeks leading to my 80th birthday - my favorite form, the JOURNAL. Along with the blog posts, I will be doing this in a paper book format; I have a very nice hard bound Art Journal that will be perfect for this, but I will also do it here.

The mental onstruction of this literary project really begins with lunch on Thursday with two friends, Nancy and Barbara. We ate at Maritsa's in Maple Shade which is a good place to start because it is located in Maple Shade, where I lived my teen years, on Roland Avenue in the 1950's.

The more I contemplate my life, the life of an ordinary woman, the more I see the significance of it. Perhaps because I studied journals in college and saw history from the eyes of real people living ordinary lives in what is perhaps NEVER ordinary times! Interesting to read the journal of a Hessian soldier in an army rented by his German overlord to the British to fight in the American colonies during the Revolution, and two or three journals of American colonists during the Revolution; Joseph Plum Martin's being the most famous. Also a young man from Greenwich on the Cohansey River who died in service from a camp disease, and a middle aged wife evicted from her home because her husband in Philadelphia was a loyalist. He fled to Britain and she was forced to take refuge in spare rooms from kind friends throughout the City of Philadelphia.

My life begins on November 13, 1945, the year World War 2 ended, and spans the last 50 years of the 20th Century and the beginning 25 years of the 21st. Talk about interesting times! I made a scrapbook during my scrapbooking period about my life from 1945 to the age of 70. To my disappointment, my friends for my birthday lunch on Thursday had no interest in looking at it, though their lives spanned the same period and it was, after all, a decorative illustrated scrapbook! During the scrapbooking period, I made one for my sister's 50th and my daughter's 30th, but I think I may have been the only person interested. I made one for myself at 70. I loved doing it because it blended collage, autobiography, history and a contemporary art form the scrapbook.

It was a dark and rainy day that we met for lunch on Thursday, October 30th, so the pictures on the sidebars are cloudy and gloomy looking. When I go to Maritsa's I always drive to my old homes, our last family home on Linwood Avenue, our first family home in New Jersey on Roland Avenue, the Pennsauken Creek which bordered our development and our cul de sac, Roland Avenue. On the way home, I pass my old high school which isn't even a high school anymore.

On that subject, so many of my schools are defunct: Merchantville High School, Mary Ethel Costello School in Gloucester City where I taught for over 25 years, the University of Arts in Philadelphia where I also taught for about 25 years, first in the Saturday Lab School and later in the graduate seminar as an adjunct professor. I was very proud of that and here is the reason: I was a grade school misfit - I was a tramatized, eotionally disturbed pants wetter, selectively mute, and when I did speak it was crazy nonsense of a panic stricken child. For example one incident I remember was that I raised my hand to go to the lavatory, but when the teacher called on me I was so ashamed and embarrassed I told a crazy tale of having a 'butterfly collection' which she then invited me to bring to school for 'show and tell.' Then I wet my pants in my seat. To go to the bathroom, you had to raise your hand, go sit on a bench in the front of the room facing the 40 or so overcrowded post World War 2 baby boom class, and wait for the paddle to come back. I just couldn't do it. After all, children in my age group were punished severely for 'accidents' and bed wetting so we were intensely indoctrinated with the shame of going to the bathroom.

Grade School was a nightmare in a brick factory school followed by our move to Maple Shade, NJ and a pretty, new school on a side street off the main street. One thing I remember from that time in the new school was a boy pulling up a root ; and telling me to smell it because it was 'root beer' - sassafras! It was deliciously fragrant. Another thing I remember was a bad boy named Cody who would grab my chest on the way to the pencil sharpener and stab the cactus on the window sill beside me on his way back to his seat. The best and most wonderful memory however is planting trees on Arbor Day and singing out the open window "Poems are made by fools like me but only God acan make a tree." Those trees we planted still stand in red and gold leafed spendor outside that little school. I had a kind teacher there, Miss Heal. And she did heal with her soft voice and her kind and dignified demeanor. She played piano for us and we sang. Sadly, Miss Heal was murdered many years later in her old age by a mentally ill man who robbed and beat her and threw her body down the cellar steps.

My chronic truancy in Philadelphia became sporadic truancy in middle school, so suffice to say I was a school failure.

Things didn't improve much in High School although I began to recover emotionally and I was able to clear the cobwebs from my eyes and see something of a path forward. I did poorly and was tracked into the business career path, which was actually quite beneficial because it prepared me for work and money to get out of the house and become independent. I became a truant with a good excuse, hepititis which I got from swimming t=in the polluted Pennsauken Creek and contracting the disease from the sewage dumped into the water. I was out of school ost of a year and bedridden on home bound instruction after months in the hospital at Lady of Lourdes.

This segment seems to be devoted to the early years, so I think I will stop here. There comes Dating, My first job and apartments, Marriage, and Europe in my 20's. Home, college, Divorce, Single Motherhood, College again, Career, Retirment, Volunteering and the History World, then the present moment. >p/> Like my historic joural writing friends, I don't imagine anyone will care about this record of an ordinary life, but like them, I feel compelled to write it.

Happy Trails wrightj45@yahoo.com

It is Halloween 2025 at my house

Just adding this as a post script but in the front of the blog post instead of at the end. Please use my e-mail to contact me as the comments section of the blog is polluted by spam. The moderators do their best to trash the spam but it is a pplluted river, sadly. But you can reach me by e-mail at wrightj45@yahoo.com (cut and paste the e-mail as the link doesn't seem to work either)

Along with being Haloween, it is also 'clocks back" and two weeks until my 80th birthsay! Many of my friends in this age group say they can't believe they are 80 or 79. I do have to add that it is somewhat shocking to find myself 80 year old. That is OLD! But in my has grown a different sense of awe, that in this world of many dangers, I have been so fortunate to have lived this long and made it to this monument - age 80!

On a different subject - the anonymity of this blog is interesting to me. Since the comments section has been completely poisoned or I should say 'polluted' by spammers, no one really uses it which is why I put my e-mail on my closing. This week I had an e-mail from the deep past - the 1970's to be correct. When I was married, my ex-husband and I often visited and stayed with his best friend, Tom Nicholas. They had been friends since their youth. Tom was an interesting and talented man. He was an artist and went to Philadelphia College of Art. He was also a poet and he built at least three beautiful woodland cabins on land in the woods outside of Plattsburgh, New York. Tom's sister was a fellow high school student at Merchantville High School with me and her husband was in my class - 1963 graduates. So we had a couple of additional connections. At one of the period when we visited Tom was living with a lovely, warm, kind and intelligent young woman named Sheila. She worked as a counselor in a group home for young women called The Robin's Nest. I am the kind of persona who makes connections, so I always wondered about Sheila, after I got divorced and she and Tom split up, we never were in contact again.

Tom was a couple of years older than I am so I supposed he was 80 when he died. Apparently, according to his sister, he must have had a heart attack while driving his truck in the woods and his truck slowly drifted to the side of the road and came to a stop against a tree. Sadly his poor dog was in the car with him. Someone found them and the police took his dog to the shelter. Sad it is was, I couldn't help but think that the woodsman that he was, Tom wouldn't have wanted to die in a hospital or a nursing home, and would probably have wanted that kind of death, in his truck in the woods.

Anyhow, I wrote something for this blog about Tom and his death and it even prompted me to contact my ex with whom I had little or no contact in the nearly 50 years since we separated but I didn't know if anyone would know how to reach him to let him know his best friend had died. We had a brief flurry of e-mails and that was that.

Apparently, however, Sheila had come across my blog post about TomNicholas and she reached out to me. She is fine, she had moved to Florida and married and had a child and she had just found out about Tom's death. It was really wonderful to hear from Sheila. I can't help wondering about the people shose paths crossed with mine through my life. Unfortunately, too often when I looke them up on google, I find that they have died, as was the case with Salmon Harris the Canadian Artists, as well as my maternal Aunt, Susan Atmore, and some of the men I knew from the Edward Payson Weston 6 day Marathon, Wesley Emmons, and a man I once was going to marry, Rob Sweetgall.

In my death wishes letter, I should write a postscript and ask my daughter to make a last post on my blog to tell anyone who randomly runs into me here, that I have gone on to the "Spirit in the Sky."

eanwhile, though, I am here and celebrating my life and the seasons - gotta run to get ready to have Happy Halloween lunch with Debby Longo and Eleanor Hoffbauer, two neibhbor/friends of mine. We are going to the little Train Station Cafe in Woodbury today for lunch.

I plan to do somekind of record of the 14 days up to my 80th birthday, and maybe this is the beginning!

Happy Halloween everyone! wrightj45@yahoo.com

My 80th birthday is coming up!

Each day, it has become more and more important to me that I am turning 80 on November 13th. I never was big on making a fuss about birthdays and generally lunch with friends and a personal project would suffice. For example on my 70th, I made a scrapbook about my life. Each birthday I would buy myself something I really wanted, often, something like an outfit from L. L. Bean where I don't normally shop becaue their prices are extravagant. This year, I have several lunches lined up beginning today. Today I am meeting Babara Solem and Nancy Thomas at Mritsa's in Maple Shade which is where I spent my teen age years. I have written before about the milestones in my life that happened in Maple Shade, my first bank account, my first serious boyfriend whom I later married. There I spent my high schoolyears. Today, I will pass all those places.

Yesterday, whiledriving around running errands with my sister, a friend texted her that Pierre Robert had jsut died, a radio person in this area. He was friends with a radio personality that Iknew, Michael Tearson. Michael Tearson had an encyclopedic knowlege of rock and roll bigoraphical and recording information. He also had a magical nighttime voice! I loved to listen to him on the radio - WMMR was the station. One thing I reember about him was that he hated The DArk Side of the Moon which he said was the most requested bit of usic and he was tired of it. It is very long, that's true, but I alwyss loved that song, especially the lone female voice singing wordlessly at the end, her soaring voice, so full of emotion, deep, not sentimental but full of feeling.The days of great radio.

Eighty years is a long time. So many of the friends and boyfriends I knew are dead and every day more contemporaries from the world of culture who are around my age are reported as having died. So many of my family, the whole fabric of my childhood have gone, vanished into the grave or smoke and ashes. My ex-husband is still alive. And thankfuly all my siblings still live. So many pets have died. Since I jsut had another pet medical emergency this week to the tune of #600, dogs were on my mind and my sister and I counted up 6 dogs who have lived in this house over the 40 years that I have lived here. This year is the 40th anniversary of this house as well - half of my life has been lived in this house.

Aside from all the personal milestones in a life, marriage, childbirth, college graduation, buying a house, there is the wider world of history that circles around a life. I was born the year World War 2 ended! Ilived through the scacity left over from the epression and the world war, then blossomed into the post war years of bouty - the 1950's. The winds of war swirled around me from the Korean conflict to Vietnam, which was the one that had the closest ipact since my brother was in the US Marines and served there which prompted me to get active in the politics of protest to end the war.

Through all those years, College was a thread that ran like a major color in my plaid From graduation in 1963 through to my 60's, I was always in college. Since I didn't do the usual 4 year route but went part-time most of the time, the college years spanned all my years including my childbearing years. My first degree was in 1974 from Glassboro State College which is now Rowan University, and my second was in the 1980s from Rutger's the State University in Camden, then even in my 60's due to the benefit of my job as a Lab teacher at the University of the Arts, I was able to get my Masters! The University of the Arts is now gone. I wonder where their records went. The Academy of Fine Arts is gone now too. I wonder where their collection went.

There are 350 hours betwen now and my birthday, almost the amount of day in a year. I guess I will be writing about it a lot since I feel it is such a major milestone. There are 15 days betwen this one and my birthday. Maybe I will hafe 15 entries in this blog and perhaps I will do a 15 page piece in my handwritten journal as well or in my Art Journal - a good place for such a thing! Happy Trails wrightj45@yahoo.com

World War 2 History, up close and personal

Before I get into the reason for sharing this address, let me get this information set up for you: The topic is World War 2 Memorabilia and Honoring the memory of the sacrifices of the everyday men and women who served our nation in its time of great danger. The address below is a museum being set up for that purpose.

Townsend C. Young VFW Post

27 Burlington St., Gloucester City, NJ 08030

856-456-7135

856-456-3412

Ed Whalens

Recently a relative and friend of my Godfather, George Neal Schmidt, known to me as Uncle Neal, got in touch and offered me some personal mementos of his. He had passed away a few years ago. I was happy to have the mementos and to revisit my memories of this most beloved Godfather.

Uncle Neal was an extraordinarily kind, patient, calm and polite man. He was very clean and always wore freshly starched and ironed shirts and Old Spice aftershave. I remember telling him that I wished I could grow up faster so I could marry him. But time isn't so flexible. I grew up and moved away and he moved away and got old.

Neal was my father's best friend and a boyhood through Navy pal. After they came home from WW2, they stayed close in touch and Neal joined us for weekends in our new home in the suburbs of Maple Shade, NJ.

Neal suffered a horrendous tragedy. Both my father and Neal were engaged to be married, and my father married my mother, but the week before Neal's wedding, his fiancee' Mary Cook and her family were killed in a catastrophic accident with a trolley car. They were buried on the day that should have been the wedding. Neal never really recovered from this tragedy and he never dated or got engaged or married again. He seemed to retreat into a quiet, solitary world of records and memories.

A year or two before his death, my father tasked my youngest sister and me with locating Neal and visiting him. He had moved in with the family of his lost fiancee, somewhere out near Shomong, and he was in his last days in a Catholic nursing home called St. Marys. We visited him there. He was his old shy, quiet and kindly self, but very frail. He died not much longer after that visit as did my father.

My sister and I went to Neal's funeral and that is how the distant relative/friend of Neal's, Mary Cravels, came to have the memorabilia she was offering me.

A large brown envelope arrived with photos and postcards and a phto copy of the article about the accident. I ordered a scrapbook style photo book to put the items and and then I began to think about what to do with this in the future.

Soon, in 3 weeks I will be 80 and like my friends, I often ponder what will happen to the family heirlooms and photo albums I have become the repository for. I have my Grandmother Mabel's diary in which she recounts the suicide of her twin, Ella, who suffered from dementia. I have her mother's 100 year old sewing machine and my Grandfather's deck chair from his years as a Merchant seaman. And now, I have Neal's discharge and his carefully saved postcards and cards from his loved fiancee and his wartime buddies.

There have been plenty of articles about "You kids don't want your old stuff" and Swedish Death Cleaning. But I am a history buff and these things tell the story of the lives of ordinary people, and they are irreplaceable historical artifacts. Increasingly, however, our culture is moving away from history and reverence and respect for it. The destruction of the entire East Wing of the White House this week is a perfect example of that, as was the destruction of the historic Rose Garden of the White HOuse.

Antique shops are going out of business. One of my favorite, rather large second hand book stores went under recently, Murphy's Book Loft, and a treasure trove of magazines from the 20th century went with it.

The world is moving into a transient future where everything is trash and easy to replace quickly, so nothing has much value. People lead electronic lives now.

With this in mind, and remembering the fascinating scrapbook kept by Marie Southwick, a member of a Seniors Group that I had founded and run for 7 years, I started looking around for a place that would house and care for WW 2 memorabilia.

Marie Southwick's album was kept by her mother-in-law and it was filled with ration cards, coupons, news articles, photographs and all sorts of evocative items of daily life during the 1940's. She too had wondered what would happen to the scrapbook when she was gone.

My search of google turned up the VFW Post listed above, and I hope to visit there one day soon. There was a news article in the Courier Post about the VFW Post and Museum and I recognized the name of the man I had met at the Gloucester City Historical Society which had at one point been located on Kings St. in Gloucester City and may still be there. I know they fell on hard times. It isn't easy to get volunteers, as I can attest after spending my retirement up until my disability prevented it, in volunteering at half a dozen local historical sites.

I hope to visit if I can find someone to go with me and I hope they can provide a home for Marie's scrapbook and my album. I will let you know what I find out.

Happy Trails, wrightj45@yahoo.com

The Witches Bazaar - a spooky fun event for Halloween

The Witches Bazaar

October 18th | 4 PM - 9 PM

Mill Race Village Shops

Feeling witchy? Then join an evening for adults at the Witches Bazaar in Mill Race Village-Mount Holly from 4-9 PM. No broom required but come prepared to be joined by all kinds of witches and other creatures for the fun. Music, dancing, tarot card readers, food vendors will be on hand too! Don’t forget to enter the costume contest and show your amazing spirt!

I love the Mill Race section of Mt. Holly and one of my favorite restaurants is there - The Robin's Nest. I wonder if the original wooden Travellers Caravan is still parked there. Happy Trails wrightj45@yahoo.com

Reminder 18th Century Field Day at Red Bank Battlefield National Park

18th Century Field Day/Fall Festival

2025 Schedule of Events

10am-Levram the Great Magic Show-Performance Tent

10:30am-Ned Hector-African Americans in the Revolution-Performance Tent

11:00pm-Levram the Great Magic Show-Performance Tent

11:30pm- Battle of Red Bank Reenactment-Battlefield

12:00pm-Ned Hector-African Americans in the Revolution-Performance Tent

12:00pm-Solidiers Life-Battlefield

12:30pm-Battlefield Tour-meet at the Whitall House

1:00pm-SAR Memorial Service-near FT Mercer Flag

1:30pm-Hessian Discovery Tour-meet at Whitall House

2:00pm-Officers Duel-Battlefield area

2:30pm-Battle of Red Bank Reenactment-Battlefield

Ongoing Activities-

Colonial Demonstrations-Glass blowing, Pottery, Spinning/Weaving, Hearth Cooking, Solider Encampments Kid’s Activities-Games, Crafts, Strawbale Maze, Balloon Creations, Farm Animals

Food Trucks

Whitall House Tours

Craft Vendors

Happy Trails wrightj45@yahoo.com

Happiness and the daily details of a humble life

There is a play called OUR TOWN, written by Thornton Wilder, and one of the themes is the immense magic and joy in the most ordinary details of daily life and how people go through them blind and unaware. That play had a huge impact on me from the first time I read it and all the times I saw it acted including the modern version which I think was called The Fantastics.

It has made me aware of those small, humble, ordinary things and moments that stay with us forever and for which we sometimes long. I think so so very often of the mornings in my mother's dining room on Roland Ave. when the other kids were at school and I was somehow home (playing sick perhaps) and the moms, Mary Armstrong, Pat Gilbreath, (the regulars) and one or two others would gather in their housedresses and slippers, menthol cigarettes in their pockets, and drink coffee made in my mother's cheerfully perking away tall gleaming rocket ship of a percolator. Steve the breadman brought the donuts, white powdered, chocolate covered, and the women sat around the coffee table and talked to one another. I can't remember their conversations, and, to be honest, it was the ambiance, the setting, that returns to me now, and I can smell the coffee aroma mixed with the menthol cigarette smoke, and I can feel the off-duty, relaxed freedom that the women friends were enjoying - the magic of it.

There are many such similar settings that I remember in a glow of magic, just like the one I mentioned in a previous post about my brother and I sitting on the carpet in the living room waiting for the magic and mystery of the Shock Theater with Roland on a dark, late night well beyond our bedtime.

And there are more recent moments of magic that I can draw up and smell the fragrance of that brief time, and feel the sense of happiness, the Pakim Pond trail in the pine woods! And I want to go there and feel it again. But I can't. The past is over, despite what FAulkner said about the past never being past. We can't go back, we can only dip into the magic of the current moment.

This morning I did the routine homely things, rinsed and re-filled the pets water bowls, made my coffee, and an egg sandwich for breakfast. I put the final flea treatment of the year on the pets - a task I hate and they hate. I hate to put poison on them, but the fleas are bad this year and they were tormented by them, so we had to do it one more month, but this should be the last time for this year and we only had to do 3 treatments this year. The fleas were so bad, I had them in the sofa and they were biting me! Once I put the Advantage flea treatment on them, within a 24 hour period or two days, the fleas are gone.

Anyhow, to get back to cozy, , my house is puposefully cozy. I am decorated for autumn with lights on the bannister and across the kitchen doorway, hand painted decorative DAy of the Dead skulls are on the bannister for Halloween, and a big grinning pumpkin is on the door of the cabinet facing the sofa. I have a scented candle ready to light and I am drinking a hot chocolate! I LOVE my house, as I have written many times in this blog. It is small, humble, with all the old wood on the door frames and the old windows, and we are embraced by the trees. Snoozing pets fill the atmosphere with their sleep and the moment has magic. I am happy.

Roland 1957

When I was around 12 years old and my brother was around 10, on Friday nights beginning in October of 1957, we would beg beg beg our parents to let us stay up past our bedrime so we could watch Roland and the scary movie show. The theme music was Monster Mash, a number one hit at the time. The movies weren't all that scary, most of them were black and white movies such as Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, or Lon Cheyney in The Wolfman. Also there was Bella Lugosi as Dracula.

It is funny how such as brief period, the show only lasted from October 1957 to September 1958 could make such an impression but it was absolutely scintillating to me! I had such intense desire to see that show. What an impression it made on me. All these years later and I can still remember sitting on the carpet in the parlor raptly watching Roland and waiting for the movie of the night.

For most of my life since that time, at Halloween, I would watch those old movies again in a fright film festival using video tapes, then dvd's. For the past couple of Halloweens, though, I watched the whole series of Harry Potter films. It isn't the same, but it can never be the same because nothing is as intense as anything from that age - the desire for a specific toy, the impression of a particular film, your first albums, that you played over and over again on your first record player, and the emotions evoked! I guess that is one of the things we mourn and feel nostalgia for as we get old, that feeling of anticipation. Roland was portrayed by John Zacharle. It was a pioneering show! Do you remember it?

Happy Trails wrightj45@yahoo.com "The Shock Theatre" was a hosted horror movie show with John Zacherle as "Roland" presenting movies on WCAU-TV Channel 10, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; from 7 October 1957 to 13 September 1958.

The world of nature makes us healthier 12/12/25 Sunday

Yesterday I read an e-mail item that said spending just 20 minutes a day outdoors in nature can make a significant impact on our health both physical and emotional. I believe this. Fortunately, my dog assures me of 30 minutes a day outdoors and we frequent a lovely little park called Martin's Lake off Johnson Blvd. in Glouceter City, NJ.

For many years during my teaching career at Mary Ethel Costello School, in Gloucester City, the computer teacher, the librarian and I used our combined prep periods and lunc periods to walk around the jogging trail on Johnson Blvd. My guess would be that it is about 2/3 of a mile. We generally ent around twice and it really helped us to get through the day.

All of my life, I have been an avid walker and a passionate lover of the outdoors. My love affair began when my family moved from the concrete and brick canyons of South Philadelphia to the green and leafy suburb of Maple Shade with a corn field on the north, a wild meadown on the east, the Pennsauken Creek on the south, and a small post world war 2 housing development on the west.

Our street in Philadelphia had one tree in a small 3 foot by 3 foot square of dirt in the cement sidewalk. I feel sorry for that tree. I feel sorry for the children, who like me are raised in concrete and brick and never know the feeling of fresh new grass on their feet, or the knee high creackle and smoky fragrance of thick fallen leaves.

Every thing in the nature I discovered when we moved to New Jersey amazed me. The giant hard bulb of the thick elephant eared swamp pants that grew alongside the thick gravy like Pennsauken Creek, the thick fog that enveloped the road we drove to Ocean City to visit my Grandmother on Sundays, the forests we drove through that are now gone, turned into shopping malls and housing developments.

But I am not going to spoil this ramble through nature by dwelling on what is gone because so much is still here - the red gems of the cranberry bogs fenced in by the white sand roads at Whitesbog! You have got to go there before the harvest and see the cranberries floating atop the flooded bogs against an impossibly blue sky! Go now in October befoe it is too late!

And go to my great love, Pakim Pond. Pakim Pond was once a part of a cranberry bog operation but is now part of the Brandan T. Byrne State Forest. You will be richly rewarded EVERY season by wonders, pitcher plants on the banks of the pond, mushrooms galore in early fall, falling leaves in autumn and the fragrance of sunshine on the pine needles as your foot presses down on the ehm on the Cranberry trail.

Back in my long ago youth, you could swim at Pakim Pond. You can't swim there any longer but it is a joy to walk the trail around the edge of the pond, and to imagine living in the cabins (they can be rented and winter is best!) that you pass as your complete the circuit around the pond and back to the parking lot.

There are so many wonderful trails and woods to hike in South Jersey, and even small places nearby like Saddler's Woods which will be lovely right now. Soon I think they have their pumpkin hike. Check out the Saddler's Woods Conservation website for more info. on that.

If you are less woodsy and more asphalt path oriented, you may want to walk around Cooper River - 4 miles. Or you may like the Audubon Lake Haddon Park series of ponds, about a mile each pond adn a total of 3 to 4 miles around from Station Ave. in Haddon Heights around to Audubon. And there is Newton Creek in Collingswood and thelovely Knight's Park as well, a great assortment of beautiful trees there and a wonderful picnic shelter where you can enjoy a quiet lunch and a meditation on the seasons.

Happy Trails, my friends, where ever your trails may be - Get Outside - this is the perfect weather for it! Find a buddy, human or canine, and get going! By the way, the picture on my blog is Whitesbog in September.

wrightj45@yahoo.com

Genealogical Society of Salem County - Revolutionary War & Civil War research

The Genealogical Society of Salem County will host a presentation entitled “Researching Revolutionary and Civil War NJ Soldiers” presented by Regina Fitzpatrick on Wednesday, October 15, 2025 at 7:00 pm in the Friends Village Auditorium, 1 Friends Drive, Woodstown, NJ.

There is a wealth of military service records especially for those interested in Revolutionary and Civil War soldiers. Regina Fitzpatrick, Genealogy Librarian at the New Jersey State Library will eplain useful resources related to these conflicts from the National Archives, the New Jersey State Archives, and the New Jersey State Library. This program is free and open to the public. For more information about the program, please visit www.gsscnj.org, email genealogicalsocietysalemcounty@gmail.com, or call 609-670-0407.

Gloucester County Historical Society has some spooky events coming this month, October 2025

On the evening of October 10th at 6:00 p.m. Edgar Allen Poe (Is it really him?) will be reciting his eerie tales and poems at the Woodbury Friends Meeting House on Broad Street in Woodbury NJ . The Woodbury Friends Meeting House is over 300 years old and worth a visit in itself. For more information and tickets please contact Gloucester County Historical Society

gchsnj.org

Civil War reenactor Vince DeCicco looks back at the war's haunted sites, eerie encounters, and tales of apparitions in battlefields and other historic locations

Friday, Oct. 17, 6:30 PM >p/> at the Gloucester County Historical Society Museum

See Full Details, Directions, and Buy Ticket online ($10)

Red Bank Battlefield Field Day

Schedule of Events on October 19th 2025

Am Levram the Great Magic Show - Performance Tent

10:30 Ned Heckter - African Americans in the Revolution - Performance Tent

Chidren's Muster Drill Battlefield

11:00 Levram - the Great Magic Show

11:30 Battle Reenactment - battlefield

12:00 Ned Hector

12:00 A Soldier's Life - battlefield

12:30 Battlefield Tour - Whitall House

1:00 S.A.R. Memorial Service - near Fort flag

1:30 - Hessian Discovery tour - Whitall House

2:00 Officer's Duel

2:30 - Reenactment repeated

Crafts, vendors, walk around and enjoy all the wonderful offerings on this special and spectacular day!

Happy Trails - back through time to the magnificent beginning of our Democratic Republic of the United States of America! Down with Tyrants and Kings - Long Live the Revolution! wrightj45@yahoo.com

El Sidon Cave, Spain and The Social Contract

The twilight of theNeanderthals - Studying the many relatives in the human family tree never gets old. Constantly new finds are yielding new information about our earliest ancestors and our near cousins. Several stories recently hav revealed that there was cannibalism among Neanderthals. We had already been advised that although our near relatives, the Neanderthals, had become extinct, we all (North of sub-saharan Africa) share some of their dna, about 3 to 5 percent. People in the Phillippines share a small percentage of the dna of the other group of humans existing at the same time that we were moving across the earth, the Denisovans. The Neanderthals were throughout Europe while the Denisovans were mostly in Asia and Mongolia regions.

The finidings from the fossils of the last groups of Neanderthals that have been discovered in the El Sidon Cave in Spain is that they both interbred closely causing inbreeding genetic deformaties, and they had been killed and butchered and eaten by a rival band of Neanderthals. So Neanderthals wer practicing cannibalism. They weren't he only ones, however.

Lately several groups of fossilized remains in England and other places in Europe have revealed human fossil bones that show marks of butchering "Cut marks" and bone crushing to extract marrow, as well as the marks of teeth.

This all makes me think about htat most essential philosophical idea of civilization - the Social Contract! The beginning of laws, restraints on behavior agreed upon by all for the better of all. Hence we believe it is wrong to eat our own kind, and we also believe it is wrong to interbreed in our families, among many other taboos or laws.

NOVA (pbs) has a new series on Human origins which is well worth your time. There have been two episodes so far, the first on homo-sapiens migration out of Africa and the second on Neanderthal interactions.

By the way, a not unconnected idea about the evolution of systems is the theme of a fascinating program, also available via pbs "Particles of Thought." We are all familia with the Darwinian idea of evolution through natural selection of biological forms best adapted for their environments. The idea on the latest Particles of Thought program is about the second Arrow of Time,the evolution of systems in response to the funcitonality of the system. Societies, languages, and a variety of other systems may well exist or disappear according to the external pressures exerted on them as desribed in the latest discussion. I strongly recommend this episode!

Happy Trails, wrightj45@yahoo.com

"Quoth the Raven, Nevermore"

The Gloucester County Historical Society features an October 10 performance by retired U.S. National Park Poe House Interpretive Ranger Helen McKenna-Uff in character as Edgar Allen Poe, bringing his macabre tales to life and sharing insights into his fascinating life.

McKenna-Uff was a Park Ranger long assigned to the Edgar Allen Poe National Historic Site in Philadelphia. She has been studying the author’s tortured life and gruesome works since her acting classes in high school, where she became “Poe-sessed” after memorizing “The Raven.”

A professional actress, she’s been performing the author’s spine-tingling tales on stage, radio and television since 1999.

The Oct. 10 Historical Society event will take place at 6:30 p.m. in the Woodbury Friends Meetinghouse at 124 North Broad Street in Woodbury. Light refreshments will be provided.

The massive, 310-year-old log-beam Friends Meeting House is a destination attraction in itself.

PUMPKIN WALK TICKET SALE INFO!

MEMBERS PRE-SALE:Friday 9/26 (by noon)

PUBLIC SALES:Monday 9/29 (by noon)

EVENT DATE:Saturday 10/25

4pm - 6:30pm

(tickets sold in half hour slots, event ends by 8pm) Members will receive an email invitation to purchase tickets in advance. To purchase tickets visit: https://www.saddlerswoods.org/pumpkin-walk

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Funds raised will help restore trails, purchase a new sign, restore the habitat, bring back the goats in 2026 and SO MUCH MORE!

Thank you to our initial sponsors: SwiftKick Web, JGJ Charitable Enterprises, Sheehan Veterinary Clinic, Impact Solar and The Dunn Family. To become a sponsor email Steve@saddlerswoods.org. Sponsor deadline is October 9th to allow for design and printing of shirts and signs.

Next Clean Up: 10/11 9 - 12pm

Volunteers are needed for our Fall Stewardship Day event on October 11th! We will be pick up litter, prepare the trails for the pumpkin walk, and remove invasive plants. This is a great event for environmental clubs and students looking for community service hours. Tools and gloves provided. Please bring your own water and snacks. Limit 30. To register email janet@saddlerswoods.org by 10/8.

Second Sunday Hikes with Naturalist Jeff Calhoun:

10/12 10am - 12pm

11/9 10am - 12pm

Join naturalist educator Jeff Calhoun for a 2-hour tour of our local treasure. We’ll take a closer look at the old-growth trees, wet meadow, and early successional woodland all contained in this 25-acre urban forest surrounded by suburbia. Participants will gain an understanding of the ecology, native biodiversity, environmental challenges, and SWCA’s conservation effort. Children ages 12+ are welcome with a responsible adult. Fee: $15 donation per person, per session. Registration is required. Attendance limited to 20. Link to register: https://forms.gle/ekH5PPzgwvHEfSLS6

Meeting Location: Welcome area of 250 MacArthur Blvd. Haddon Township, NJ 08108 ( meet by the Saddler’s Woods sign.)

TO HELP FUND SWCA PROGRAMS PLEASE DONATE TODAY! Venmo @SADDLERS-WOODS

Paypal PayPal.me/saddlerswoods

Visit www.saddlerswoods.org/donations

Mail checks payable to Saddler’s Woods Conservation Association PO Box189 Oaklyn, NJ 08107

Happy fall, -Janet Goehner-Jacobs

Executive Director, Saddler's Woods Conservation Association

The Redcoats are Coming!

The Redcoats are Coming! to the Conference Room of the Cherry Hill Library on Oct. 8 at 7 p.m. A British Solcier will be portrayed and troop movements in our are aduring the crucial days of the American Revolution will be discussed. Upcoming is the 250th anniversary of the American Revolution and there are many many ways emerging in which we can celebrate this momentous event. for more information:

www.chnj.gov/redcoats

Those of you who have read my blog know that I was once a volunteer at both The Indian King Tavern and Red Bank Battlefield and informaiton regarding the American Revolution has always held a special attraction to me. As this particular event is after dark, I will probably be unable to attend, however, if I can find a ride, you may see me there! Happy Trails wrightj45@yahoo.com

Estrangement

In my newsfeed this morning from The Atlantic Magazine, September 20, 2025, here is a paragraph from an article by a psychologist who specializes in family estrangement. Most families I know have experienced this in one way or another.

This article was featured in the One Story to Read Today newsletter.

Updated at 4:51 p.m. ET on July 28, 2022

"Sometimes my work feels more like ministry than therapy. As a psychologist specializing in family estrangement, my days are spent sitting with parents who are struggling with profound feelings of grief and uncertainty. “If I get sick during the pandemic, will my son break his four years of silence and contact me? Or will I just die alone?” “How am I supposed to live with this kind of pain if I never see my daughter again?” “My grandchildren and I were so close and this estrangement has nothing to do with them. Do they think I abandoned them?”

I have experienced several kinds of estrangement in my family, first my aunts, who were close and were my age and with whom I grew up. We stayed fairly close until my mother died and then we drifted apart. I searched for them on-line last year and found one had died and one was in a memory care unit in Texas.

Of course there is the estrangement of divorce, my ex-husband is still alive, in Colorado. We kind of grew up together since we were high school sweethearts and married when he was drafted in 1965 or so. We were together from my age of 16 to 35, and from his 18 to 38. The company where he was employed moved to Colorado just as we were separated, and we basically never spoke again although we had a divorce decree which I signed and a couple of e-mail communications when his best friend died.

One of my sisters is estranged from the family over a dispute regarding my father's bequest of 'living rights' to his house in W.Va. to our brother. She had a house of her own and he was homeless but she wanted Dad's house too and felt she should have had it, so she has been cut off from all her siblings ever since my father died in 2011. I still send her cards but we don't speak on the phone as she is perpetually angry and embittered.

Then, the most recent estrangement is my daughter. We have had no quarrel but I assume that I am somehow emotionally disturbing to her. At some point, her communication was reduced to one or two word cordialities and answers, such as "busy, working" and "glad you are well." I ran across an article about "gray rocking" relatives that you feel are emotionally challenging/damaging and I realized that was the answer to the mystery of the extraordinary brevity and vagueness of her communications with me. I examined my own communication and realized I always said too much, shared too much, expected too much attention, and that in my own mild way, I am eccentric and spread my emotional state to others. Also, I had been told by my daughter often that I am not a good listener and I do understand I tended to make things about me. Personality is a hard habit to break and I didn't succeed in it in time to save our relationship. So, it is, in fact, my fault. Also there is the "Alice Adams" situation. My daughter is moving up the social ladder and I am permanently planted in our working class past along with my working class siblings who have varieties of addictions and behavior problems. Social class, even in America, is a hard sedimentary level to move from. I became a working class intellectual, lots of college degrees, and proper manners and diction, even a respectable career as a college professor, but inextricably tied up with my working class roots - an over sharer. My daughter was far more comfortable with her father's and step-mother's social and economic class and since they had a child and gave her a sister, that was a more palatable and organic relationship to nurture and hold on to.

One thing love losses teach you in a life as long and filled with love as mine, is how to let go. I have lost my parents, and my best friends to death, my lovers to both death and divorce, and so many meaningful personal attributes like my beauty, my agility, my eyesight to aging, that most greedy and clawing thief of all, that learning how to let go is both a survival necessity and a continuing practice.

My daughter is a city girl, a New York City Manhattenite, a film producer, a young beauty and a career woman. She is indeed busy. And I am a factor of the past without, really, anything to contribute to her future. Also, I am not in need. If I were, I feel certain I could call on her and I have, once when I was in the hospital and when I needed to buy a car. Also, I have a sister who lives not too far away, and she is my mainstay. She has needed me and I have helped her and I need her and she helps me. I pay her to clean and to halp me with errands and we are friends, so our work days are also companionable. My daughter has the comfortable knowledge that I am not alone.

a line from a Catherine Davis poem: "After a time all losses are the same and we go out stripped the way we came."

It dishonors their memory to have not even mentioned all the animal companions I have loved and lost and whose portraits I have painted. They stare at me now and say, what about us? We loved you with our whole hearts! And, it is true, I have learned to deal with those losses as well. I have loved them too. From my earliest childhood these animal companions have been the safest and most devoted of love relationships. They do love with their whole hearts and I am never alone or lonely with their warm company.

Well there is plenty left after the losses, new animals in my home and heart, new friends, and the everpresent gift of the changing seasons. This August and September was the most beautiful pair of months I remember. Every week was filled with cool sunshine days with just enough rain, mostly in the evenings to keep the green world happy! The leaves are just beginning to turn and I have beautiful, peaceful places close by, as close as my own yard, in which to walk and contemplate my life and times. The larger world outside may be in turmoil, but my little world is at peace and it is beautiful!

There is no time for rancor or self recrimination, or resentment. There is only time for love and appreciation and enjoyment of the precious miracle of existence in this dimension. It isn't about what I have lost or what I don't have, not at all. It is all about what I HAVE and what is bountiful around me in the present.

It is certainly true, as the family psychologist explains in his article on estrangement, that the American family has changed and families have become disengaged, but the world has always changed and every family in my history, once lost a homeland, a home, a family, a personal history. It is what happens. What remains is what we need to focus on.

Happy Trails wrightj45@yahoo.com

Cul de Sac, Roland Avenue 1957

When I awakened this morning, this post was writing itself in my mind. This often happens. It seems that perhaps my early years as a book worm have trained my mind into a prose narrative habit. Also, my brother is up here in New Jersey visiting from W.Va. for his 77th birthday and that was on my mind.

We spent our teen years on Roland Avenue in Maple Shade in a brand new hosuing development, so new that several of the two dozen or so houses were still unfinished. Our street was a cul de sac, shaped like a tear drop, one road in. On the South we were bordered by the Pennsauken Creek, and on the North we were bordered by what was left of the orginal farm. Our house was on the outer rim of the wheel and behind us was a tall berm, like a hillside and atop it was a corn field. Our brand new house was two stories with two bedrooms upstairs and two bedrooms downstairs, a bathroom upstairs and one downstairs, a living room, dining room and kitchen with a washer and dryer in one corner. It was a comfortable house. My parents were enthralled with the fertility of the grounds after living in a brick row home in the brick row canyons of South Philadelphia and they immediately began to garden. My mother had a Rock garden, and then my father had a vast truck garden.

Dad built a large pantry under the staircase to the second floor. Every harvest season, my father and mother stood sweating in the steaming kitchen boiling the jars and lids for the canning process. They made stewed tomatoes, pickles from cucumbers, preserved corn and peas, and even root beer! Dad stored the rootbeer in the small side attic upstairs and one summer the heat caused it to all explode!

We had no basement in this house on Roland Avenue. But my father was a master craftsman and built a substantial garage with a woodworking area.

I remember some of our early furniture, a redwood picnic table in the kitchen before my parents could afford a dining room set. We had an orange vinyl sofa that eventually went into the tv room which was the 2nd bedroom on the ground floor.

It was in this house that my parents began the second round of offspring. When we first moved to Roland Avenue, there was just me (in the big upstairs bedroom) and Joe (in the little downstairs bedroom,) and my parents bedroom beside his. Then, after a miscarriage, my mother successfuly brought into the world my brother Neal, my sister MaryAnn, and finally my little sister Susan. By the time Susan was born in 1965, I was gone.

I had been about 12 when we moved to New Jersey, and I was a book and reading obsessed introvert. My early childhood had left a lot of emotional damage and books were my escape in an infinite variety of ways.

At the graduation from my unsuccessful high school experience, but successful in that I did graduate and got a business education and a job from it, I went to work at W. B. Saunders Publishing Company in Philadelphia, at age 17.

But that veers off from what my mind was writing this morning. I was back in the kitchen on Roland Avenue, age 12, hovering as my mother's neighbors and lady friends drank coffee and talked about their pregnancies, their husbands, their homes, their shopping, their ailments and all sorts of topics. They ate donuts from Steve the Bond Breadman and drank coffee from my mother's party sized percolator. They wore housecoats (kind of bathrobes) and slippers and their hair was in curlers, and they smoked - all of them! There were ashtrays alongside the luncheon plates for the donuts, and the coffee cups and saucers. The women had modern problems for istance, our neighbor across the street, Mary, her husband left her for another man. He drove up in a white sports ar with his boyfriend who looked like Johnny Mathis. There she was with her two children and her house in the development and no career and no husband. She did eventually marry again and had a happy life.

All the women in the "Circle" as Roland Avenue called itself, were housewives. At that time, most women we knew didn't work. It was only ten years post World War II and the men had come home and got their jobs back and the women happily retreated to the domestic sphere and got busy repopulating the country. Most of the women in the Circle had at least three children. All the husbands were invisible figures to me. The only time I saw the fathers was on weekends when they coud be seen mowing the lawns. Fathers then loved the role of lawn mowing on Saturday, or leaf raking.

In the early years of our move to New Jersey, which was "the country" to us city folks, our old neighbors came from Philadelphia on weekends in the summer to enjoy the Jersey tomatoes, burgers and hot dogs on the eaborate brick grill my father built in the back yard and cases of beer. They all got hiariously drunk and threw one another into our three foot kiddy pool.

I don't remember what we children got up to. We are invisible to my memory but I do remember the grown ups in large vivid color, Pat and Tommy Taggart, Ella Reily and her husband whose name I have lost, and a couple of other World War II era friends. Later, my father's brothers Bill and Clyde, their wives Marge and Edna, the grandmothers on lawn chairs on the front lawn and sometimes my mother's family from 10th Street in Philadelphia would come for the picnic in the backyard.

Another thing I remember vividly from those times is the relentless domestic labor of my mother. In summer she hung the clothes to dry on the cothes lines in the backyard. She ironed everything! She ironed the sheets, the pillowcases. Things that were hung on the line to dry were very stiff and wringled. After the babies began to arrive there were endless cauldrons of boiling baby bottles being steriized and filled, endless reeking diaper pails of dirty diapers to be washed and bleached, hung out to dry and folded and put away. The youngest three came so close together, two years apart 1960, 1963, 1965, and by then I was in my teens and a sulky malcontent unwilling to lend a hand in the household or help with the childcare. It was then that I decided I did NOT want to become a mother and a housewife.

It must be said however, that my mother loved her sphere and was happy. She loved being a mother, cooking, decorating, and developing her home making skills such as upholstery, curtains and drapery. Every day just about the time I came home from school, mom began to prepare the evening meal. In those days, it meant cooking some large piece of meat, a ham or a big piece of beef, a turkey or chicken, paring and dicing carrots, potatoes, celery, and using some of those preserves. Every meal from breakfast to dinner was a real meal. Breakfast meant hot cereal such as oatmeal, or creamed rice, eggs, bacon, sausages, or Taylor's pork roll. Dinner was always some kind of meat or fish such as turkey, baked and sliced down, two vegetables and a starch. If not potatoes, baked, boiled, scalloped or mashed, then macaroni and cheese baked in the oven. Pot pie was real, made with real pastry dough, fresh carrots, peas, celery, onions, potatoes and diced chicken. We actually shelled peas! Mom had boxes of salted cod which she would soak and then make cod cakes. She had a hand cranked meat grinder that screwed onto the side of the sink drainboard, and into it went all the left over bits of turkey or chicken or ham to make croquets which we all loved with gravy. There were some terrible quarrels around that table however, battles of will between my brother Joe and I and our parents when we were served something we didn't want to eat. In my case it was salmon. I hated it, the hidden bones, the uncooked nature of it. For my brother it was scrambled eggs. He hated the texture. Parents who had grown up in the Depression and survived the World War had no patience for ungrateful children turning their noses up at valuable food! Once my brother kept scrambled eggs in his mouth all the way to Ocean City. He only disgorged them when He got out of the car to pee alongside the roadway. Mainly the tactic was that we would be forced to sit at the table until our plates were empty. We sat there all evening. It was a stand-0ff. My parents were united on this issue of food being wasted and chidren not eating what they were given

It is true and an item of regret to me now that I was indeed an ungrateful child in so many ways. I have to stop now to go to my brother's birthday lunch! I will come back and conclude this evening.

I think my dream and awakening mind narrative was inspired by my brother's visit from West Virginia for his 77th birthday this weekend. Today was his birthday. He, however, wasn't interested very much in talking about Roland Avenue and our childhood, he wanted to watch an action movie on my sister's large tv.

Everything changes and everything ends. First I moved out of Roland Avenue when I was 18 and got my first apartment, then my family bought a beautiful and historic house that had been burned out inside by a fire and my father began the devoted restoration of 19 East inwood Avenue in Maple Shade which took several years. I never lived in that house but all my brothers, Neal and Joe, and my sisters, Susan and Maryann did. My Grandmother Mabel lived with them for a time as well, but when my father retired at age 62, sometime in 1983, he moved to West Virginia and built the retirement home where my brother lives now. The family split up. Mom and Dad and MaryAnn to West Virginia, Neal and Joe to Philadelphia, me to Europe and then to Philadelphia, and then back to New Jersey. My sister Sue lives in Clarksboro, NJ.

People who lived on "the Circle" Roland Avenue still meet and have reuions on facebook and in person. All the young people I grew up with on Roland AVenue have died: Joe McGuigan, Butch Grimes, Diane Judge, Chris Gilbreath, the kids I played basketball with, and board games, and even some of the kids who found us and hung around with us like Art Borget, who was my boyfriend first and later married my best friend Chris. They are all gone.

I used to drive down to Roland Avenue and look at our old house every time I met my friends for lunch at Maritsa's on Main Street, but I don't do that anymore. I would look at our house and the garage my father built and the Pennsauken Creek where we swam, and the houses of those kids I knew who are all dead. After all, I decided not to do that anymore because it makes me sad and I don't want to be sad in these my last years. It is hard enough to stay buoyant under the weight of the degradations of age as I approach my own 80th birthday in a couple months I don't need to invite the ghosts of the past to haunt me. So I say goodbye to Roland Avenue, the "Circle" and turn my mind to the present and to my efforts at strengthening myself for the struggle - tomorrow the GYM and our walk around Martin's Lake!

Happy Trails wrightj45@yahoo.com

Simple Easy ways to boost your energy and your moodFrom t

From the August/September issue of AARP magazine, page 21

1. Drink a glass of water (even a little dehydration can sap your energy)

2. Step Outside for a break (connecting with nature and getting some fresh air)

3. Walk (for every 30 minutes of sitting take a 3 minute walk)

4. Cold Water (the article mentions taking a cold shower, but even a face wash and hand wash in cold water helps)

5. Take a sniff of a fresh fragrance like peppermint or citrus The main article is entitled "Reclaiming your Spark" and they mention talking to someone. Especially for us seniors, it is easy to slip into a kind of solitude beause we don't go to work, often we live alone, and these days neighbors don't get out on the porch or the steps much anymore. My special and most excellent solution to al of the above is what I did this morning - an old friend from my now disbanded Seniors group got in touch recently and we are going to the gym together 3 times a week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday. We work out for half an hour and then walk my dog around a little local park for half an hour. It gives us a chance to socialize along with the incredible healthy benefits of the gym and the outdoors!

Happy Trails! wrightj45@yahoo.com

"Woke" and values war in USA today

The recent shooting of the
conservative " youth leader Charlie Kirk brought to my mind a lot o questions. I wasn't aware of this particular "rising star" of conserfativism and I wondered what exactly he stood for. It turned out to be difficult to find an actual break-down of his points beyond general terms such as conservative.

The terms conservative and woke have changed, even turned upside down in the past ten years or so. As it turns out the Charlie Kirk version of conservativism in summary seemed to be against:

Feminism (equal rights for women)

Civil Rights for African Americans or citizens in the LGBTQ sector

Education that included analysis of the effects of slavery on our society

Birth Control available to women

Freedom of thought for college professors

Ecolongy and environmental protection

limitations on gun ownership

And Woke, was interesting because the term was co-opted by the right wing from a term used by African Americans in the 1930's to mean to be awake to racism, bigotry, and danger

To the new version of conservatists to be "woke" means to be in favor of all the things they are against incouding civil rihts, limitation of gun ownership, birth control, and rampant capitalism.

It is ironic or perhaps predictable that someone who was a fervent supportor of the National Rifle Association and widespread freedom to own and use guns was a victim of gun violence. The rhetoric that promotes a tribal passion against the 'enemy' tribe, or politiacl party, incites the mentally unstable to seek what their unbalanced minds feel to be a heroic action in taking down the bad guy, though often later we learn they arent' even sure who the bad guy is. The previous mentally unstable shooters appeared to lurch from right to left and from tribe to tribe and their enemies seemed to arise and disappear like the visions in a computer game.

We live in a sad and troubled time. Recently I was wathing program set in the 1960's and the background music was filled with early Beatles songs. It prompted me to looke up the shooter who killed John Lennon. John Lennon was a lover, not a hater. He was a brilliant, gentle, funny and kind man. His dreams in song like "Imagine" were beacons of hope to those of us who wish for peace. His killer, whose name I will not type here, stil lives and has been denied parole 14 times. In his pleas for parole he spoke of his motive for killing Lennon. he said he killed him because he sought fame through killing someone who was famous, an icon. He said he was jealous of John Lennons success, and his fame and lifestyle so he chose him to kill.

I would have to say that it is self evident that this killer was mentally unstable. The problem is that guns are so readily available that the mentally unstable no longer are forced to hide in the darkness nursing their rage, they can buy a gun and go out and kill someone. Number one problem - gun availability. Number two prolem the lack of availabiity for help for the mentally ill. That topic is too big for this blog, but I knew a mentally ill man who is able to ead a satisfactory life because of family intervention, psychotherapeutic support in the form of medication and psychotherapy, and supported section 8 housing.

We can do better. We cannot return to the fantasy wild west of the immature mentality of the far right where African Americans are returned to slavery, women are returned to economic dependence through lack of control over reproduction, and gas is cheap and low skill facotry jobs are pentiful. Strive thought they may, outside of a television series, they cannot make this happen and the old men cannot make themselves young studs via the proliferation of testerone supplements, they can only cause their own deminse via prostate cancer.

That version of the past is over and gone - the 1950's will not return. The benie cannot be put back in the bottle.

The proliferation of guns will continue to erupt in a harvest of massacres from school to supermarket to college campus. Perhaps we cannot return to a time of gun control either and this is our new reality where madmen roam the streets wearching for a target to somehow ease the pain of their torturned minds.

Meanwhile, I can practice medicattion on my shady porch and be grateful for my small town of peace and stability, the good fortune that brought me here, my good education and good career that made it possible for me to survive in the humble and comfortable living that I enjoy, a woman who practiced birth control, got a good education, worked in a career that benefited my country and my fellow human beings, and had a union that provided the benefits that allow me to live my old age in humble comfort.

Hidden History

hiddencityphila.org

October is more than Halloween, much more and more importantly it is an opportunity to celebrate and to WITNESS to Indigenous history in THE Delaware Valley.

It is true that we can't bring back the dead or give back the land or erase all that has come from the past to the present but we can and we do make the effort to honor the past. I believe with all my heart that it matters to honor those pioneer of righteousness, to honor the truth of the past, not the myths perpetrated by those whose greed propelled them to criminal acts but who have so often controlled the narrative.

For the autumn seasonal celebration, go to hiddencityphila.org for a beautifully written article about the hidden history of the Lenape people in the Delaware Valley. knowing and ackowledging is the least we can do.

I was fascinated to learn about the many tribal people who still live on their ancestral lands in New Jersey, in particular from Rancocas to Greenwich. There are tribes and tribal centers and even plans for creating places where the traditions can be celebrated and preserved.

The POW WOW is an ongoing moving tribal tradition that criss crosses the Americas continually, stopping here and there in reservations to share and celebrate the continued existence of First Peoples in Aerica. Many years ago, I was fortunate enough a pow wow at Rancocas. At the time there was a tribal center there but I have heard it has since closed.

We Quakers have a tradition of "witnessing" which gives us a way to speak truth to power when other means are not feasible. At least knowing the history and recognizing the trauma and the traditions is a way of witnessing. Check out the excellent essay at hiddencityphia.org

Happy Trails wrightj45@yahoo.com

Sending books out onto the river of life: Cormac McCarthy's Library

The latest Smithsonian Magazine Sept/Oct. 2025, has a wonderful essay about the team of vounter scholars of the life and works of Cormac McCarthy, American author, who are spending their free time cataloguing his vast library of over 20,000 books. His books were in boxes, on shelves in heaps on tables and in no order whatsoever, except as they interested him and he bought and rad them. They were also in rental units!

In case you don't know who Cormac McCarthy was/is, he was the author of a dozen highly regarded novels, one of which one a big prize (Pulitzer?) and three of which became movies and made him wealthy: No Country for Old Men, The Road are two of the ones I remember reading about. McCarthy's scholars are devoted to him and are avid about the annotations in the books he read because they show the workings of his apparently unlimited mind. He was literally interested in everything, and in particular, in scienc, and architecture. Interestingly, ne not only voraciously collected books but also, tweed jackets, cowboy boots, and old cars.

I am not a fan of Cormac McCarthy's work although my experience with it is slight. I met him, didn't like him and didn't get to know him any better. I have no aesthetic interest in the bleak dystopian despair of old men, or the soaking up of brutality. Like broken down old cars, cowboy boots and guns, these material artifacts are nof of my world. What we shared was a reverance for books! And a book collector's apetite. Although where we diverged is in his hoarding and my release, these last few years, of my books back into the world. I have no need for boxes of books in storage units.

I do think it is an interesting detective assigment, connecting the annotations and books to the literary works, mining the influences and the branches and connections between the works the author absorbed and the uses he made of the fuel.

"To peer into someone's library, is to peer into their brain, and here, it seemed was a mind that wanted to know everythin." (pg. 128 "There is an intelligence to the universe (of which we are fractal) and that intelligence has a character and that character is benign. Intends well toward all things. How could it not?" McCarthy is known for the bleak, violent, nihilism in many of his novels, so it was a surprise to see him describing the universe as intelligent and well intentioned. (pg. 80)

By the way, they mention in the essay that the McCarthy collection numbers over 20,000 and Hemingway's collection ran to 9,000. I have read a lot abut Hemingway over the years and I never remember any ention of his library or his literary infuences.

Today, I was pondering how to get the Poetry Collection in a bookcase in the attic downstairs and into cartons for my next donation run. I cannot manage those attic steps any more. I was thinking I might put the dog bed at the foot of the attic steps and throw the books down onto it.

Happy Trails, in the woods, in your mind, on the page. wrightj45@yahoo.com

Insight and meditation - a continuous learning experience

This morning while tidying up a room after a massive (more than 300 books) donation to the Free Library Project in Camden, NJ, I came across several of Pema Chodrin's books. Pema Chodrin is abbot of Gumpo Abbey in Nova Scotia and a practitioner/teacher of Buddhist meditation practice). I credit Pema Chodrin with saving my sanity at one or two of the most difficult/painful periods of my life and what I have disovered over the years is that the seeds planted by the teachings from her books and cd's in the early years grow perrennial crops. I read all of Ch9drin's books as of the period of my discovery of her work which was around the time of the millennium, 2000.

My daughter had quit college in her freshman year and flown to California to become an acress. I was paralyzed by anxiety. I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't control the "invasive thoughts" based on fear - serial killers, pornographers, all the rabid predaors who prey on the naive young girls who think they are grown-up and know the world.

My first attempt at seeking psychological counseling was a disaster, and I had no one to turn to, but somewhere, maybe Shambala Magazine, I had come across the writing of Pema Codrin, so I bouht a 5 cd player and her cd's and all of her books - at that time about a dozen with titles like WHEN THINGS FALL APART, IN TIMES OF UNCERTAINTY, and others, all of which seemed to speak to my condition.

Every night I loaded the cd player and listened for the hours when I couldn't sleep and what that did was it displaced the intrusive fear thoughts with soothing medictation prompts and Buddhist teachings.

Over the years, I picked up more books and cd's of Pema Chodrin's works and they were like refreshers. My experience with her and her works changed my life, saved my life.

This morning, I was thinking of the suggestion "look at your thoughts passing by; don't try to get rid of them, or scold yourself for thinking, look at them like clouds passing in the sky, see them, know that they are only thoughts." That may be one of the mosst powerful recuring lessons I have learned from Chodrin. I meditate throughout the day, on the porch after walking the dog, while walking the dog, or at times of idleness, and that practice has helped to tame and soothe an anxiety tortured emotional creature.

My latest addition to this world of wisdom was a book recommended to me by Friends from Providence Friends Meeting, by author Rex Ambler, a pamphlet book from Pendle Hill Publishers and I think the title is the MYSTICAL ORIGINS OF THE EARLY QUAKERS. In the book, the author describes how Quaker silent meditation is paralell, or related to insight meditation as well as various psychological approaches to exploring our thoughts and becoming more adept at recognizing patterns and allowing us to not be controled by emotions generated by thoughts that are unproductive or unhealthy (monkey mind).

When I donated the 30 or more cartons of my library, I kept out a few books here and there, incuding some of Pema Chodrin's and perhaps in a later post, I will list the title of the few I kept. I hope the ones that left bring some comfort to other tortured souls being ravaged by their own uncontrolled thoughts and fears and the unhealthy emotional fallout from them.

Happy Trails wrightj45@yahoo.com

Family History Day

Red Bank Battleield, National Park, NJ

September 21st | 12 PM - 4 PM

Red Bank Battlefield Family History Day brings the Revolutionary War to life from 12 PM to 4 PM! Step aboard a colonial naval vessel and see how sailors once defended America’s freedom. At 1:30 PM, join a guided tour that uncovers the dramatic story of the Pennsylvania Navy and its bold stand at the Battle of Red Bank.

Twenty years since Katrina devastated the neighborhoods of New Orleans

One of the opening disasters of the 21st Century and a harbinger of disasters to come, was Katrina the category 5 hurricane that drove 25 feet of water into the neighborhoods of New Orleans and swallowed up the homes of half a million people and drowned and killed nearly 2000. New Orleans had withstood hurricanes before but this one was different, and this one was the opening salvo of the barrage of natural disasters to come: wildfires, mudslides, rising sea levels, drought - the consequences of climate change.

The Documentary KATRINA; COME HELL AND HIGHWATER, on Netflix gives a comprehensive picture of the before, during and after events that unfolded when that hurricane came ashore at New Orleans. This is superb docuemtary art - it blends the individual human experience with the wider media contxext and societial conditions to give a more fully informed view of the catastophe.

FULLY INFORMED - increasingly, the concept of being 'fully informed' has had less currency and 'emotionally driven' is the more operant fuel. Once an acquaintance and I were talking about how to know what is real or true in this age of misinformation, and I said that I use mulitple sources and compare. So, for instance, I get news from abc, New York Times, BBC, PBS, Cnn, and even the Guardian! Also, I subscribe to a news magazine called THE WEEK which surveys different news sources. She was a devotee' of Fox news and that was her only source of news bolstered by 'facebook' which in her life, as in many of others I have known, had become almost an addiction. Facebook was filling the lonely hunger for human interaction in lives where family, friends and neighborhood, had disappeared.

The power of Katrina took out the levees and canals that protected the low lying areas where the mainly Black neighbohoods were located and since they were in what was kind of a geological bowl, their houses were drowned in a25 foot storm surge from Lake Pontchartrain. People took refuge in attics and an rooftops, but houses were lifted from their foundations adn floated away tilting and dropping off the roof riders. Houses hit debris piles and tipped over.

The people who evacuated and took refuge at the SuperDome athletic structure were left abandoned, no food or water or medical assisstance. People who were sent to the Convention Center for promised transport out, were also abandoned there without food or water, to die of dehydration, sickness, and lack of basic medicines for their conditions such as insulin for diabetes.

It is no accident that the horror fell mainly on Black families who had lived in those poorer districts, and no surprise that the government that was supposed to protect and save them was nowhere to be found, left in disarray and chaos except to send in troops to stop "Looting" which mainly consisted of people trying to get water and food from stores to bring to their families. Our own troops paid for by our own tax money pointing their guns at their own people during a disaster.

We all remain woebully unprepared for natural disasters which are guaranteed to increase and eventually come to us all as the government is in chaos and those in charge are not only uniformed but willfully ignorant of the impact of global warning. We have seen that at our New Jersey Seashore towns. Willfully ignorant builders are still allowed to put up and sell structures on barrier islands that are vulnerable to hurricanes and that also destroy the natural vegetation that would protect the sand banks without the developments. Like our politicians, these profit seekers place financial gain ahead of everthing else so that they can buy bigger houes, more cars, ostentatious displays of excess wealth.

It is the end of the summer and once again many of us watched the movie JAWS a summer classic and once again we saw the same contest between greed and the safety of people put into contest. This contest between the impulse to greed and hoarding against the impulse toward protection and care for our fellow beings has played out thorughout human history. It appears that currently, Greed and selfishness are in power. Love and care, however, are always to be found and are powerful forces That's where hope comes in.

Note: there are things we can all do - plant trees instead of poisoning your yard to make a perfect lawn which profits no one and poisons our water supply. Think of paying a little more and using bamboo sourced toilet paper and paper towels. Vote down efforts to transport dangerous chemicals through our towns such as the controversy raging over transporting Liquid Natural Gas on our local small town train lines. And even more importanty GET INFORMED AND STAY INFORMED and don't limit yourself to the emotional hook of the propaganda channel Fox (owned by the greedy billionair Murdock). Rich people do not honor the social contract. They don't pay their fair share of taxes and they don't care about their fellow man, they only care about other rich people and their status in regard to them.

Last comment: family, friends and community. One of the things I took from the documentary was how important these three relationships are and in particular in times of trouble. wrightj45@yahoo.com. People banded together to help each other survive, and in the aftermath, to help build new lives. And the most important things lost was the family connection, people were separated from their loed ones and struggled to locate them again after it was over. It reminded me of the lines of dusty foot traffic after the Emancipation in 1863 where people walked from town to town, plantation to plantation to locate their loved ones who had been sold off from them. If there is a moral, it is LOVE - love our earth, love one another, and pay attention to what is going on around you!

Happy Trails wrightj45@yhaoo.com

Broken Hearted Book Lover

Yesterday was Labor Day and also Metereological Autumn. It was also a day when with my sister's help, I let go of over half a dozen books from my vast book collection. I have been a book lover since my earliest days and I even have the first book I ever bought, a begining reader that I bought at Leary's Book Store off Market Street in Philadelphia when I was just old enough to begin reading. Once I began, it was an endless love affair, my longest and most intense.

But like all my love affairs, this one had to come to an end. Each phase of my life was cocooned in a spun collection of books on the subject. Here is one of my early ones: When I was 16, I took my babysitting money to a book store in the Cherry Hill Mall. There was a 'sales' table and for $4.95, I bought an Art book of the lithographic works of Henri de Toulouse Lautrec. I fell deeply in love. Neither he nor I could have imagined that twenty years later, I would be in college studying Lithography as my major towards an Art degree. His lithographic posters were the shining city on a hill, the holy grail, the gold paved streets that inspired my journey. I couldn't help wondering, today, how Lautrec would feel to know that a woman in the far - over a hundred years distant future would be studying lithography because of his poster art. I think he would be astonished and pleased.

The reason I am divesting myself of my huge library is that I am losing my vision to Fuch's Dystrophy, a cornea disease. I can still paint and watch tv on my laptop, and drive, but I can't read without such a struggle (necessitating a magnifying glass) that it has no pleasure. My forlorn collections have sat gathering dust for a decade now, which was surely never their purpose in the world, so I decided to set them free.

Another reason I was divesting myself of my library NOW was that I have a connection with the Free Books Project which was originally located at the Newton Friends Meeting House in Camden when I began taking my books there. They give away gooks for free to anyone who wants them. At the time it was a community charitable venture that allowed Newton Friends Meeting to qualify for an archhitectural grant for repairs to the very very old Quaker Meeting House. The grant required that the building be engaged in a beneficial community program, so The Free Books Project was perfect. The Free Books Project is no longer there. Now they operate as pop-up libraries all over the city of Camden, especially in conjunction with other community events.

Knowing my books were going to such a worthy cause, helped me part with them. I liked to think that someone who didn't have the money to buy a book or access to a book store or a library could have a book to read. So many of my passions were between those covers.

Gone With The Wind: The film had such a powerful effect on me for so many reasons it could be an essay on its own. I loved it so much that I read the book many times, then the biography of Margaret Mitchel, then all the sequels written to follow the characters after the ending of the original book. Then I found a very old copy of the Civil War novel that inspired Margaret Mitchell. I can't remember the title now, something with "Drums" in it and if I remember correctly it was written by the granddaughter of a Confederate General, inspired by his memories of his war experience.

My years as a volunteer at Red Bank Battlefield in National Park, inspired an entire shelf in my floor to ceiling and wall to wall bookcase in my bedroom. First I read all the traditional histories, then novels of the battles, then diaries of the veterans like Joseph Plum Martin, and even two or three memoirs by Hessian soldiers, and I was inspired to seek out the three or four burial sites of some of the Hessian soldiers who died on the retreat after the Battle of Red Bank in October of 1777. And the WOMEN! I read the historical accounts of the "Camp Followers" and the memoirs of loyalists who lost everything, and female spies like Patience Wright (maybe she was a relative, maybe not) who was also a renowned sculptor.

For several years after retirement and during my long love affair with history, I gave talks for the Camden County Historical Society on the Underground Railroad. The Civil War and the Underground Railroad filled another 12 foot long shelf with stories of escape and valor, of suffering and success and led me on many hunts to spirit haunted places in my South Jersey landscape, like Saddler's Woods, or Ambury cemetery in Othello, Greewidh, NJ.

All these friends, companions, fire-starters got boxed up into cartons from a local liquor store and carted off to the Free Books Project. Goodbye to Harriet Tubman and Quakers serving in the Union Army, and Abraham Lincoln and Mrs. Lincoln and her dressmaker Elizabeth Keckley and Ona Judge who was never caught.

On the way home along Kings Highway from Clarksboro, I had a sudden squall of emotional pain and broke down in tears. But, I had to keep reminding myself, what is the use of keeping all those dusty books on the shelf when I can't read them. Surely that is both greedy and sinful.

S, now, the bottom shelf of all my collection of health books of the type of BLUE ZONES, and books on vegetarian cooking, heart disease, and other ailments like diabetes and kidney disease, are all out on the streets hopefully finding their way into the hands of someone who needs them. Now, all my Revolutionary War books are gone, and my Civil War books. And my Irish Literature books are all gone incuding a really old hard back of the works of Lady Gregory which I hated to part with. It was falling apart and I was afraid no one would understand what a treasure it was. I can still feel the damp, wet fog of the Irish night as the prisoner of one of her majesties torturous prisons makes his escape and cautiously ventures his signal to the dark figure waiting by the river, whom he hopes is the fellow rebel sent to help him. That scene is from one of her plays.

My novels went early and I can't even remember when I boxed and sent them on their way down the river of life. They may have been the second offering.

With foreboding I think there may be a bookcase in my dark and dreaded attic with all my poetry books in it. My Women's History went some years ago to the Alice Paul Institute Library.

The last to go will be my Art book collection in the floor to ceiling shelving unit my father buit into the wall at the foot of the attic steps. Those books I hold onto with the hope that the South Jersey Art Alliance will flourish in the Underwood Building of the Woodbury Friends Meeting grounds and that I can bequeath those books to them.

There are still three full shelves twleve feet long with New Jersey history, and a half shelf in the back room with coffee table books on Scotland and Ireland from my trip there and the following years of fascinating with all things Irish (my mother's people, after all, came from there!)

Well, now that I have gotten that off my chest, I feel a little better. I am reminded OFTEN of the Catherine Davis Poem, "After a time all losses are the same, and we go stripped the way we came."

When I left home at 18, I burned my yearbook in my family's backyard 'trash burning can' which we were allowed to have in those days, and when I left Philadelphia for New Jersey, I left all my college art portfolios and sketch pads. When I got divorced, I lost all my record albums and my entire collection of the books and magazines of the Second Wave Feminist Movement, books like The Feminine Mystique and The Female Eunuch and dozens of one-of-a-kind magazines printed on University presses and early copies of Ms. magazine.

Well, pets have died, romances have faded, and even my daughter has grown and moved far away. Grandparents die, parents die, uncles and aunts and cousins die. Old schools close, I have lost my beauty and my agility, my youthful vigor and my vision, and I am losing my hearing. As I approach the toll gate on the last road before the final big adventure, I suppose it is natural that I leave all these things of the material world behind. It is like a sinking ship; who cares for gold and silver, fine clothes and furnishings when the sea is about to swollow you. Still, it is just as natural to mourn the passing of old friends and my books were old friends, really old lovers, and great companions. I wish them all loving discoverers on their journey into the wider world outside my dusty shelves.

Happy Trails - in ink and on paper.

wrightj45@yahoo.com

Respect for the Greek inheritance of Philosophy

August 29, 2025 - I just read a short news item about the Taliban in dispute with the Chinese over oil well drilling in an Afghanistani valley. The Taliban accuse the Chines of reneging on the contract and the Chinese accuse the Taliban of "robbery" for forcible take-over of the oil wells and taking a dozen Chinese oil expert/workers hostage and confiscating their passports.

It is interesting to me in so many ways because the Taliban are, in fact, a lot like a criminal gang in the sense that they make their own rules and do not abide by those established by the outside world. And those rules established by the outside world, I was thinking about that and how much we owe to the ancient world, in particular to Greece and the evolution of Philosophy where thinkers examine and establish the core ideas upon which social governance and behavior get built.

My sister and I were talking about that on the phone and how religion fits in. I would say that religion was an early origin for philosophy in that it is a deal making kind of relationship between people and the outside world. People need something to turn to. After a time, savagery has demonstrated to lead to utter destruction and despair, so savagery must be reigned in. In despair and hoping to find some cause for things and some succor, people created gods, first on the elements: weather, sun, seasons. I will give you something I value if you give me something I need. This basic exchange, it seems to me, is at the heart of everything.

In the Western world we value Christianity because Jesus Christ made a lasting human example of a man so good he put love as the highest power, not lust or conquest. In the Western World we have put education and the value of learning what developed in our ancient civilizations in regard to social governance and human behavior at the heart of our civilization. The Greeks gave us philosophy and the search for the roots and functions of values, and Christianity gave us selfless values and devotion to the greater good rather than selfish savagery.

It will be interesting to see the Taliban trying to interact with the outside world when they have no cultural respect for or system for the learning (since they deny secular education and rely entirely on religious education for boys) of the historic devolopmnet of ideas on social governance and human behavior beyond savagery. They don't have a shared value for the social contract only a reliance on primitive savagery. When savages and tyrants try to make deals.

Respect for the Greeks and for Christianity AND especially for EDUCATIOM - my passion and my career field! >p/> wrightj45@yahoo.com