- Breakfast in Bed for Your Valentine: Skillet French Toast Stuffed with Apples & Caramel September 28, 2015
- ‘Savoury and Effortless’ July 23, 2015
- Where is the money for the small farm? July 22, 2015
- A real runner…. July 17, 2015
- This is what a runner looks like July 16, 2015
Claremary P. Sweeney on Breakfast in Bed for Your Vale… Claremary P. Sweeney on A real runner…. Claremary P. Sweeney on Neighbors (Blogging 101) Julia on ‘Savoury and Effortless… stonefit on Neighbors (Blogging 101)
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Blogs I Follow
- nonstop Teacher e-dventures
- Creating My World
- Spiritual Dragonfly
- A Farmer's Wife's Blog
- The English Student
- Scribbles & Musings
- a funny thing happened when I was learning myself
- Around ZuZu's Barn
- Lee's Blog!
- the little things in life
- Thoughts Of a Trainwrecked Pineapple
- Meghan O'Leary
- Vermont Birder
- Ant Pruitt's Mindless Site
- Wander Woman Thea
- CNN Newsroom
The small farm was often identified with place and it has a personality that made it easy to get acquainted. The farm new its place, understanding in the ecological system it was placed.
As the perceived need for farms to get bigger to become more profitable the small farm was not incorporated is was devoured and for ever changed. The small farmer become an employ.
I find it difficult to look on the big farms as Farm. They require so much resource that management requires sophisticated programs. Will be soon be hearing the need for, “Agri Coders?”
I do enjoy living in an area where I can interact with the Small Farmer.
Newton Baker, is survivor, a teacher, a runner and a real athlete. His love of running is only exceeded by his love of children. His focus in life firmly grounds him in place. His visits as he ran across USA left a solid trail of friendship.
Visit Newton Baker.
They run and win…!
This is not a Fitspiration story. There is no before and after photo. No weigh-in or declaration of a new “lifestyle change.” It’s not about how much healthier I am or more attractive I feel. It’s about how I learned a skill and got over some baggage, plain and simple.
I grew up with intellectual parents who never played sports. Gym class was torture. And even though I know now in retrospect that I was of average size, I always felt like the fat kid. Track and field day was the absolute worst. I remember being forced to participate in sprinting races, finding myself winded and in tears within seconds.
I was similarly puzzled when gym teachers assumed that I knew how to play sports. No one ever taught me the rules or any of the…
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“Hospitals struggle to survive in rural area” is a head line of an article that appeared in a local paper here in Vermont. The article is about a rural hospital in Osceola, Missouri. A place that I was once familiar with.
I worked at a Boy Scout camp about 15 miles from Osceola from 1955 to 1960 during the summers. A great treat was an afternoon/evening visit to Osceola. We would shop, walk along the Osage river, walk through the town or take in a movie.
We were not members of the community, just summer visitors. The community was comfortable with us for they new we would be gone soon and most of us would only appear for a few summers.
Exploring the city we came aware of the local hospital and what it meant to the city and the surrounding rural area. One incident that brought home the importance of a community hospital occurred when one of the children of a maintenance worker at the camp became ill. The man and his wife brought the child to the camp nurse. The nurse recognized that the child needed more care then she could provide in her small infirmary.
What occurred next was an orchestration of community members into a team that notified the little hospital in Osceola, readied transportation for the child and provided support for the family.
The transfer from the summer community to the year round community seemed rapid and smooth. The hospital was a critical centre of the community. Reaching out to those in the rural area to those who were comfortable in what others refereed to as rural poverty. Their comfort came from their knowing of place, the place the lived, the nature of the place, the changes in place good and bad. They saw in each other their importance to place.
Their place came under the eye of change, the eye of progress. They Osage valley and its river had potential for others. A great playground for those wishing to escape the big city for the weekend. To have great fishing and big lake recreation opportunity. To have the ability to attract those from afar.
The river was dammed at Warsaw. The valley and hollows were flooded. Those who knew the Place were inflicted with progress. The economy of the land, of the place was forever changed. Those living in the hollow were moved, moved away from place, to become an orphan of their place.
The place, it is a new place, will the summer visitors know the place?
Written Burr Morse of East Montpelier, Vermont
Morse Farm Maple Sugarworks
July 8, 2015
Hello again Maple People,
There are very few places here in Vermont that I have never been but Ticklenaked Pond was one of them up until recently. And the circumstances that led me there were as “circuitous” as the roads I travelled. You see, we needed to talk with Ray Hartson, a retired man who has helped us can maple syrup for years. We only need Ray’s help seasonally here at Morse Farm but with tourist season starting up, those empty jugs beckoned. Ray and his wife Shirley had departed for Ticklenaked back in May to live in their travel trailer. “There’s no cell service there” he said when he left, assuring us that he was ready and raring to can, “but we go over to the P&H Truck Stop, where there is, every mornin’ for breakfast”. And to that I say “sure Ray”! I spent a few days attempting to call and even put out a plea on our local WDEV radio…”Ray Hartson, if you’re out there please call Burr Morse”. Finally, accepting that modern-day phone technology was as useless as teats on a bull, I reso rted to modern-day Pony Express…I hopped in th’old Toyota and drove to Ticklenaked.
First,MapQuest, an integral part of modern-day Pony Express, put me on US Route 302 and a pleasant hour of eastward ho. Just before the New Hampshire border, I turned left on Boltonville Road which led me to one of the most picturesque country settings I’d ever seen…a hillside farm, farmers out in a field haying, and Ticklenaked Pond down in a valley beyond the fields. I even saw from the main road, a small community of travel trailers on the far side of the pond. Another left turn brought me to the trailers. I stopped at the one where Ray’s grey Ford pickup was and there sat Ray enjoying a mid-afternoon beer out on his deck. Obviously “tickled” that I would seek him out the way I did, he offered me a beer, which I accepted, and we sat in the shade and had a great chat. Before I left, I asked Ray and Shirley if they could tell me the origin of the name “Ticklenaked”. I would find that their answer was common throughout the whole Ticklenaked community including Ray’s land lord and even the farmers out in the hayfield…”Gosh, really don’t know”, they all said.
Ray at work.
When I got back home that day, I reached out by email to Marsha Nelson, the town clerk of Ryegate, the town where Ticklenaked is located. She kindly faxed me an article published in the Bradford, Vermont Journal Opinion on May 24, 1995 by Lucy Heath. Although Lucy Heath’s article sheds no provable light on the subject, I came away satisfied of the name’s origin. Ms. Heath wrote: “one theory is that the name comes from the Algonquin Indian name “Tickenecket” which means “the place of little beavers”. Being a Yankee, this made perfect sense to me. You see, Yankees are famous for “tongue-in-cheek” alterations of legitimate geographical names, examples such as: “Mountpeculiar” for “Montpelier”, “Taxachusetts” for “Massachusetts”, “Maniac” for “Mainer”. Although a bit disappointed that Ticklenaked wasn’t the result of an amorous affair between some early Ryegate inhabitants, I was finally sat isfied that my question had been answered.
As I write, Ray has already been here and filled some of our jugs with syrup and, no doubt, will spend many more days here doing the same. As for my hard luck with the modern-day phones, I say “pshaw” to that…I got a very pleasant road trip and a chance to sit with a friend for some good cheer. Better yet, though, this Yankee “Mountpeculiarite” once again found that there’s always a way to get through…if those cussed phones let me down again, I’ll be glad to drive back to one of the most picturesque Vermont settings of all, Ticklenaked Pond!
Some of our neighbors work very hard and do a fantastic job or representing the USA in a tough sport.
Spring is the time for recovery, summer is the time to put in the work, fall is for fine tuning and winter is racing. People are often surprised when we tell them that we do the bulk of our training hours in the summer months. We build a solid foundation of aerobic fitness and strength with long hours of rollerskiing, running, biking, hiking, and lifting. We work hard and we keep it fun.
For over five years, I have spent my summers split between training in Lake Placid, New York with the National Biathlon Team and in Craftsbury, Vermont with the Green Racing Project, my home ski club and a place I love dearly. Since they are only three and a half hours apart I can go back and forth often during the year.
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