I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

Well, I hear the Chinese have developed remote control pigeons. Seems they've planted electrodes in them and can direct them where to fly. Some people are stumped as to the purpose of this. But not me.

I hear George Bush is planning to visit China, sometime in the near future. Hope he's wearing his cowboy hat.

George Bush:

I ain't easy, bein' an idjit. I try but...

Well, they just put a sold sign on the building...one more thing to be anxious about--will the new owners change anything? Will they decide to turn the building into a bed and breakfast and kick us all out? Will they raise the rent? Tell us no pets? Keep things as they are? I hate my life.

Well, I get to keep my social security check. At least for the moment. So the rent's taken care of--the internet and utility bills, I think are manageable as well. Food--well, we'll see...

Off to work--doing 4 to 10 shift tonight. Yuck. Calling more rude prigs, lovely.

I think many of us have grown so far away from what is true, what is real, what is simple and good. It's a bit sad. It's the progression of humanity, I suppose--but I think we've left something important behind in the transition.

We've forgotten our sense--it the noise of modern life--the sounds, the whirling and changing bustle of everyday living--we've lost something essential to our humanity.

The calmness, the inner stillness of nature, has left so many of us. We are no longer content to simply walk under the sky, or feel the breeze or smell the morning rain. To hold a moment--a fraction of quiet beauty---in our heart and spirit and soul, and allow it to give us joy.

It's left me, often enough, these days--and God, don't I mourn it.

The earth is a living, breathing poem whose lines, rhythm and rhymes are continually changing.

What happens when your pet bird watches one too many Tweety and Slyvester cartoons.

After feeding the dog table scraps, this is how you really know when you're a bad cook.

The used horse dealer sold Tex a rubbish horse--but threw in some really neat accessories--including a killer sound system inside the stirrups.

Actor David Tennant is caught off-camera, consuming the magical crisps that instantly turn him into a sex god.

Feeling...inadequate in front of his girlfriend, Billy Bob decided to buy a really big gun.

Vermont farmer Jerry Rig, called his wife "an old cow" so many times--she finally became one. He professes to be pleased with the change. "Well, I get more work outta' her, she's doin' somethin' useful--and two more tits--there's the real bonus, ey-yeah."

Well, I've decided to lay off all the doom and gloom stuff for a bit. I'm personally beginning to feel like some spoiled and whining prat--not a good feeling.

Not much going on today--sitting about waiting for a call from social security, on whether my monthly cheque will continue next month. If not, I'm in for an interesting time--think I'll make the rent and bills okay, with what I have put by--but food's another matter. Ah well--that's what community food pantries are for.

So, I'm sitting here, messing about with my daft ol' play--dark one..never wrote a dark one before...don't know why I'm writing this, other than to give myself something different to write. It's nothing much, just a very short one-act with only two characters--at least, so far. Never going to show it to anyone, but it's giving me something to occupy myself with.

It's making a feeble attempt to snow, here. A gray and gloomy day. We've at least 4 to 6 more weeks of winter--possibly much more, possibly less. One never knows, anymore--the weather patterns are so messed up now, the seasons just aren't what they used to be. It may be weeks--or a month or more--till we see the bare ground again, or we could have an early spring, and see the bare ground by the first or second week of March. Snow's melted enough so that it's just below my knee, now...still 1 to 2 feet deep on the open ground, where the sun's melted it--but the shadowed places are yet 3 feet, or higher, where there's been drifting snow.

I've got Charlie on my shoulder--takes up the entire back of the rocker--it's very much like having a furry soft overstuffed pillow behind one's head. I'm thinking about having him stuffed with he offs it--would make a comfy head-rest, ha-ha.

Well, nothing much more to say--I'd love to say something witty and amusing--but just too tired today, after pulling the Sunday shift--it was one of those workdays where it's only 6 hours--but feels more like 12. I feel like I've hiked up to the top of Mount Marcy (NY's tallest peak at over 5000 ft.) and back--absolutely knackered!

So, I hear that Doctor Who's back in his jim-jams for part of one episode! They'll do anything to push this guy as a sex god, won't they? Still think he's a extrodinary actor--a bit handsome I suppose, nice smile, seems pleasant, etc..etc., but still....the man just looks like a normal skinny guy, to me.

But the Doctor's grown up, it seems--now that he's got a supermodel looking companion--I hope to heaven he keeps it (okay, I promise, I won't go there anymore) in his pants--it is a kid's show for pity's sake.

But, thinking back to the Christmas Invasion episode: Just who did change him into those jim-jams, ey?

But he's got nice jammies, really. Better than my old flannel PJ's, that's for sure. I've not bought new jammies in well over a year. Over here they cost more than a blinkin' pair of jeans!

It's Sunday, the dull winter sun's pouring through my front windows, the cat's are alternately washing and napping, and I'm sitting here typing...what?

Haven't much to say. Wasn't even going to bother blogging today. Seems rather pointless, some days, when I've nothing to say.

It's funny, my life before, was like a paper full of scribbles and jumbled notes and cross-outs. Now, it's just...blank. And I seem to be stuck in the writer's block of life. I've no clue what to do, where to go, or how to even begin. It's not a good thing, for me, who has a tendency--after I'm done freaking out or being all depressed about it--to just take the bull by its proverbial horns and wrestle with it 'till something happens--good or bad. Problem is, I can't even find the bull right now--so no horns to mess about with, even.

Have to work today--12 days in a row, by the time Friday rolls around--with only next Saturday off, before I have it all to do, all over again.

My job is so pointless--but then, have I ever held a job that wasn't? I am in the place I never wanted to be in--and I sometimes wish I'd never tried to make things different--If I'd just faced the facts about who and what I am, 20 years ago, I probably would be a lot happier now--and a lot better off. Now I can see why my dad was such a miserable SOB--and I'm becoming just like him, it seems.

I sometimes crave human contact--but at the same time, shy away from it with a passion. I don't want to involve someone in my topsy-turvy life. And, I can't see anyone wanted that, either. I always get the impression that my presence makes people uncomfortable--I don't know if that's an accurate impression or not, mind. It's just what I perceive. But it's true--I'm afraid. I am scared that I'll get close to someone and he or she will one day walk out on me in anger or disgust or just...give up on me. And that's one hurt I simply cannot bear--so it's better for me, inside, to be alone, in the physical sense.

The road of my life, will just have to remain empty--and there's no changing that, that I can see.

So, the latest Doctor Who rumor: the last episode of series three is titled "Zog." Yeah. Great name--sounds like a bad 1950's film, or some hip new kid's slang term for snogging. Well, I won't criticize the thing until I've had a look--it's probably good, most DW episodes have been exceptional, so far. But "zog?" I dunno'...hope it's a working title.

And, speaking of snogging, I also hear Martha's going to snog the Doctor. I guess even male Time Lords go through a middle-age crisis, ey? At least he hasn't turned the Tardis into a Ferrari, is wearing gold chains or promoting Viagra...thank goodness for small favours--or in tennant's case, "teninch" one's--sorry, couldn't help myself.

Had a weird dream, last night. Dreamed that I was just walking along in some little garden, somewhere--and then....nothing. I was in a completely blank space. It was white and there was nothing else---totally empty. I was trapped in a void.

That'll teach me not to watch the Doctor Who "Doomsday" episode before bedtime.

But I'm left wondering:

What would I do, if I were trapped in a void? What would any of us do?

Well, being a manic-depressive, I could always just start talking to myself--actually, I sometimes do that already, a bad habit I've carried for years, "thinking aloud," since I was a teen--but you know, being the way I am, I can sort of get away with it.

Yeah, I try real hard not to do it in public--not always successfully--but for years, I really have had an annoying tendency to speak my inner thoughts. This began when I was a teen.

I got hooked on antique bottle collecting--found an old bottle in a ravene, and mum ordered a book from another library, called "Bottle Collecting in New England." And of all things--my bottle was listed in it! I was estatic, to see something I'd found listed in a book. The book also gave information on finding old bottles and how to clean them, as well--thus my first true hobby began--one that would last over ten years. I even became a docent (volunteer guide), and, briefly, temporary acting secretary, at the National Bottle Museum, in my mid-20's.

Anyway, while crawling around--sometimes literally, when I had to worm my way through a tunnel of heavy brush--the various ravenes in my area, going over old dumpsites looking for bottles--made some other interesting "finds," as well---I would sometimes, when faced with an especially tough route to traverse, would start "talking it out" in my head--puzzling out the route out loud, while trying to figure the best way to reach what looked like a great site, without seriously hurting myself. It was potentially dangerous, sometimes---there were piles of seemingly bottomless deadfalls, gobs of blackberry and other thorn bushes, broken glass and sharp rusted objects (can you say "tetnus shot?), sudden drop offs, hidden holes, poison ivy...it wasn't really dangerous, but the potential was always there for an accident--and I usually worked alone--except for our two dogs, that is...and sometimes the cat.

I would stand there, and scan the best route, and actually "talk" myself through it, puzzle it out, sort of. Dunno' if it helped or not--but I never once ever got hurt.

Now, sometimes, when I'm trying to make a decision--like deciding the best buy on meat in the store, or choosing a book to read, or planning my day---I sometimes find myself "voicing" my thoughts. Recently, I was trying to decide if I could afford some stew beef, and noticed a man edging away from me, giving me an odd look--before I realized I'd been doing my ruminating out loud.

So, if I was trapped in the void, reckon I'd have it all over "normal" people---at least I'd have myself to talk to."

America is a big country...big land, big cities, big cars..big boobs...big ideas...big brains--whoops! Did I say brains? I meant trains--we have big trains here--very big trains.

One of my night supervisors was telling me about an ordeal college was--something I could relate to--seems we both have Swiss cheese memories. Anyhow, she took a psychology class, and the first day the professor said, "I want you to memorize this table--I want it etched into your brain! We're going to use it in an upcoming exam." So, my supervisor goes home, and memorizes the stupid table of all these various emotional disorders--goes to class the following week: no exam. Well, she thought maybe she had it wrong and the exam was the next week. So, she studies the table even harder.

Well, it's into week three, and still no exam on the blasted emotional disorders table. So, she goes and corners the prof. "When's this exam on the table, she asks? I thought we were going to be quizzed on it?" The professor looked at her and replied, "No, you only had to memorize the page it's on--it's an open-book exam."

Yes, boys and girls, that's the American education system for you.

CATSKILL MOUNTAINS, NEW YORK

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote: "God works in moments."

Many appreciate the sun--most especially in the winter or spring. But how many take joy in the rain?

The rain can be a magical thing. The drops hanging from leaf or branch, like diamonds. The sound of the rain--individual raindrops singing a massive chorus. The feel of it--and the warm glow you have, when you've come out of the rain, into the snug comfort of your home. The smells the rain releases--smells hidden from our dry weather noses--the smell of the hot pavement, after a sudden summer rainstorm, the scent of old leaves and pine and flower, heightened by the wet days of early spring.

The trees are amazing as well, even in the dead of winter. the buds are dormant--but life is still inside that tree, waiting patiently to bud at the first hint of spring.

Everyone loves the autumn colours--but many never realize that the colours of autumn are ALWAYS there, in the leaf. They are just waiting for the right weather to tell them to change. How do the leaves know when to shed their green pigment for the brighter colours? What genetic process has wrought this? It's a miracle that goes unnoticed--like the stars in the heavens.

Emerson once asked us, what would we think of those nightly stars in the sky, that we so take for granted, if they only appeared once every hundred years? Every thousand?

It's something to think about, ey?

Oh gee whiz, now that George Bush is being strongly opposed in the now Democratically controlled congress, guess what?

They've found a chemical weapons factory in Iraq.

Yeah, right. You notice they didn't "find" it when the Republicans were in control of congress. Uh-uh. Now that Democrats are trying to convince Bush to withdraw---which he will NEVER do, someone finds the mythical weapons factory.

Hmmmm--the CIA has been busy, it seems.

Wonder what they'll "find", when the mentally ill George DUH-baya decides to invade Iran, and people oppose him?

I was a stablehand, I used to shovel manure for a living--and believe me, Ol Mad George reeks of the stuff.

THE REMNANTS OF GEORGE BUSH'S LAST SPEECH

Well, I'd ordered a book back in early January. Just got a notice is was out of stock and won't be reordered. The notice was printed or whatever in mid-January, according to the date on the sheet, but it wasn't mailed until last Friday. I was rather looking forward to it, too--a Steven Saylor book I've not read, yet.

It's snowing a good clip, here. Guess we're supposed to get another 2 to 4 inches--no big deal. Will make it harder to see the patches of ice on the sidewalks, tho'. Hurt my knee slightly, last night, slipping on some ice. It was warm enough yesterday to melt some snow--not a lot--now, instead of being just below the waist, it's just above the knees. But it left some slick ice in many places on the sidewalks, when the temperature dropped, last night.

The landlord's agent is showing the apartment tomorrow afternoon--have to make it a bit spiffier than it looks, at present. Oh joy, can I stand the excitement? I get to clean the apartment on my afternoon off!

A co-worker tells me I should "get a boyfriend." Yeah. With my looks? Ha! Not around here--besides, if you'd seen most of the guys in my building, and hanging around the local laundromat--you'd shudder, girls. Besides--haven't dated in over 10 years--and never really even been properly snogged, no that I think on it. No. No dating. I meant it when I said I give up. I mean, I don't see the point of going out with some guy--just to go out.

I mean, I want to be able to talk to the guy--or not talk, if we're really simpatico, to share, to...just enjoy each other's company--the problem: Almost every guy I've ever dated, either only wants to shag (and I can't), or, is showing me off to his ex, or is just dating to say he's dating. For many women, that's perfectly acceptable. For me, no. NMS--not my style. It's just not me. Now--find a guy who'll share the housework, and help me bring the groceries upstairs...eh, I'll think about it.

Well, really bummed out over the notion that they'll be no more new Doctor Who for a while. It's the only real joy, I have anymore--aside from communicating with my internet friends, that is, and playing with the cats.

No Doctor Who. Well, Went years without it before--but, had other distractions, back then. Now...more repeats. Yahoo. Ain't life just grand. But, I guess if they have to, they have to. But two years seems a helluva long "holiday" to me.

God help those people who make Doctor Who-- if they ever had to live in my world--no offence to them, but they wouldn't last the week out. We work just as hard, and we don't get breaks. I've not had a holiday--a proper holiday, since January of 2004...not unless you count the couple of months last winter, when I was living in my unheated caravan in the dead of winter, jobless, virtually pennyless, reduced to living in one room--the only room my little electric fire would heat, in minus 20 C weather at times, without benefit of hot water. That was a a grand ol' "holiday," yessiree bob. I'd clearly rather face a dozen Daleks than do that again--ever. After that, I could eat Daleks for breakfast, ha-ha.

And, they're ending my other favourtie TV series, the American version of Queer Eye. That was a fun show. Those guys always managed to crack me up. And, sometimes gave me decorating ideas, in the bargain--not that I could take advantage of them, but, hey..I might win the lottery one day. Yeah, right...dream on.

Still, it's a good job I decided against the expense of getting cable television. I haven't had TV in a couple of years now, so not missing much--except when my friends discuss TV shows, and I'm clueless. Well...it's sort of that way with music and movies, too. I've not been to a movie in nearly a year and a half, and only just bought my first music CD in years, the other day. (When I say I'm isolated--I ain't kidding.)

I really like Queer Eye, though. The guys can be a bit..well, rude, sometimes--but they're so cute and funny, one can forgive them.

I'd hate to see what they'd say about me, and about this dumpy ol' apartment. Ouch!

I feel a bit like the painting above. An unfinished fence, waiting for completion--for purpose.

I'm blessed with some very wonderful long-distance friends, whom--'tho we'll likely never meet, have given me so much that I feel I can never truly return. A year ago, I had virtually no one. It's a warm feeling, knowing there's someone out there, that acknowledges my existence. I am only alone in the physical sense.

I don't seem to have a use, anymore, though. I don't--really not--I don't mean that in the sense that I'm feeling woefully sorry for myself. I mean that in the real, practical sense.
I just don't know what to do with my life. I got turned down--tho' not totally rejected--for the freelance offer at the local paper--writing's "very good, but.." I "need to work more on (my) journalistic style." As rejection letters go, it was actually very nice--constructive criticism--which is actually helpful, sort of. I was asked to re-submit at an unspecified "later date," whatever that means.

Reckon I needed to study my newswriting stylebook a bit harder, I suppose. My portfolio was a bit lame--I'd only managed to recover one of the four feature stories I'd written for the college, and had to submit mock-ups, mostly, and some online articles.

But really, it's hard. Knowing--and again, this isn't an "oh, poor me" thing--it's sincerely difficult, going through life, with the very real knowledge that no one actually needs you. No one. Not even my employer. If I suddenly couldn't work--nothing would happen--they'd fill my spot and life goes on. I've no one to care for, but myself and the three cats--and I have no illusions--given enough love and attention, they'd not be missing me long--animals are even more resiliant--mostly--than many people.

I miss having something to actually DO. In school, there was continually something to do, at home, mum needed care. But they're gone. The apartment's so small--even when it's a total pigsty--like at the mo'--, it takes less than two hours to be made nearly spotless. I have no real skills, to speak of--good phone presence, or so I was told, but so what? So do a lot of other people--and everyone now wants a bunch of computer skills, and...just not gonna' happen. I can get by, with a computer--but things like Excel and Photoshop and Quark, and stuff---beyond me. I've tried--I've taken Excel 7 times, and bombed out, and Photoshop classes twice, and totally suck at it. What use is it to read well and have an okay speaking voice, be an average writer and be someone can file and do research virtually in my sleep--all nearly useless skills in the 21st century! Trust me. I've found this out the hard way.

They don't even use file clerks anymore, research is done either by student interns or people with PhD's, receptionists now have to know fancy computer programmes...I came to the coldly real conclusion last year--that I have no real useful job skills, anymore. I don't fit into the work world of 21st Century. I am employable only as a drudge. Mind you, there's a whole lot of us out there, in the same boat--the S.S. Titanic.

Which leaves me wondering--what good am I? Where is my place in this world? Do I even have a purpose, anymore? I've no answer to any of that. I never thought I was special--but somehow, never really thought of myself as anonymous, before. And that's a rather somber realization. Just another weathered old fencepost by the roadside.

I was asked, recently, if we're getting into spring, here. The reality is, that if all is normal, weatherwise, we're about halfway through our winter. If--and the weather has been especially wonky, this year---if, all is back to normal in the weather department, Spring won't arrive in these parts until mid-to late April...and not truly here until mid-May. We've been known to have some serious blizzards in mid-March--up to a foot of snow or more, so Spring? Long way off yet, sadly...tho' there have been years when it does come early, in late March--there have also been years, when it barely comes at all--we have Winter (with snowfall in early May)...two or three weeks of Spring---then jump right into Summer.

but I have my memories of Spring--especially when I had my tiny little garden, slongside the house--very much the same size as the one in the photo.

Our soil, due to the fact that we were a bit under half a mile from the Hudson River, was a mixture of clay and rich earth--you could grow just about anything, without much help from fertilizers and such.

I used to plant green beeans, tomatoes and onions. Sometimes Boston lettuce. Gave up on the corn--there wasn't quite enough sun where the garden was, to encourage corn--and if I tried to put my garden closer to the sun, in the backyard--I found it was too close to the woods, and the wild critters would eat the stuff faster than it could pop up out of the ground.

I loved the Spring--especially when I first turned the earth, after a long cold winter.

I'd sit out there, alongside my newly dug garden, enjoying the setting sunset, an orange glow lighting up the pine grove out back.

The warm zephyr breezes of spring, would tickle my hair, as I sat on the newly grown grass--so new, it virtually glowed emerald green--and admired my garden.

I'd pick up some earth in my fingers, feel the soothing coolness, smell the rich soil--a sweet-sour smell. Dark Chocolate with a tinge of lemonade. Silky smooth, comforting.

In the trees, a robin would cease it's cheery song, and preparing for night, would begin to slowly and contentedly softly chirp.

A deep sense of peace would come over me. I'd feel the caress of the wind against my cheek, the serenity of the robin's chirping, the promise of the newly turned soil. And a broad sense of total gratification--that just for that one moment--all was truly right with the world.

A GROVE OF EASTERN WHITE PINE--SIMILAR TO THE SMALL GROVE BEHIND OUR BACKYARD--AT SUNSET

Somehow, when we were growning up, I don't think my slightly older sister liked me very much.

Why? Well...one time she and her friend went up into the woods out back--I was about 6, at the time, and had never been allowed there, alone. I followed her and the neighbour girl. My sister sat me under a tall pine tree, and told me to "wait there, and don't move "till I come back." Being the polar opposite of my evil sister--I didn't wander off. And I waited, and waited...and waited. Finally, God only knows how long--I'd begun to cry, as it was getting dark, and I'd no idea where I was--'tho in reality, I was in sight of home--if somewhat distant. Sis finally trudged back for me, and yanked me home--mad as a wet hen.

Okay, story aside--do hens really get mad when they're wet? I should think "mad as a wet cat," would be more appropriate. Or, rather, "Mad as a soggy Moggy."

Meanwhile, seems dear ol' sweet sis went to the neighbour's house, and spent the afternoon listening to records. (remember those vinyl things with the holes in the middle, that got scratched if you so much as looked at them funny?). Yup. Dear ol' adorable sis completely forgot about me.

But...heh-heh-heh, I got even, eventually.

We had a bowling alley down the hill and literally across the tracks from us. One day, I borrowed sister's bowling bowl (I didn't have one), and went to bowl a few games. Well, about halfway through, I went to retrieve my ball from the chute--and there was only half a ball there. "So that's what the inside of a bowling ball looks like." I thought. Management not only refused to replace the ball, they were quite put out with me--not having a parent there to back me up, and the owners being absolute prigs about it. Went home, and sis didn't talk to me for a few days---Oh what blissful days they were, too. Incidentally, the management couldn't find the other half of my ball.

In my teens, around 1978 or '79, I didn't have a bicycle of my own, either, so I had to use my sisters--she absolutely never used it herself, as she was living away from home, most of the time.

I took that thing everywhere--a ten-speed Icarius was what I was--thought I could fly on that thing--used it just like kids here in the north country use their mountain bikes. Over woods, roads, fields--anywhere and everywhere.

One day, I noticed the handbrake was coming loose--told my dad--got the usual, "Don't worry about it," or "So what?" I don't remember--just that dad wasn't inclined to fix it.

Anyhow, I rolled down my driveway one day, on a ride, and soared down the street--and my handbrake fell off and landed in the spokes of the front wheel. I tried real hard to steer my bike on to the grass of my neighbour's lawn--and that's the last thing I remember, until I came to my senses--on the opposite side of the road where my bike had landed--with a load of blood filling my mouth and running down my throat. Scared the hell out of me, that did. But it was okay. I'd landed on my face.

Got 4 stitched in my ripped upper lip--still have the scar, and a few more in my left eyebrow, but no harm done--was a bit hard to eat, for a few days, tho'.

The bike did have to be put down tho', as the front wheel and frame were a total loss.

And believe it or not: Sis is still mad about it--over a bike she never used!

(This blog entry has been edited by the author. If you'd like the full version please contact the author.)

A nice thing did happen to me today--I found a really cheap copy of a Proclaimers CD and got it. My one and only music CD--wow, I really am getting to be a hip old maid, he-he.

Anyway, a long night at work. Boring meeting about scheduling changes--I now have to work 5 hours on Sundays--back to the ol' 6 day work week. Oh well, at least one day off is better than none.

My cubicle neighbour got some guy on the phone---we were doing state-wide opinion surveys at the time--anyhow, the guy says to her, "I ain't got no opinions." What is he, an Auton? Or a neo-conservative republican? Same thing, isn't it?

One of the jewels of New York's Upper Hudson Valley and Capital Region, is Saratoga County. Located on the northern border of Albany County, Saratoga County extends from the broad Mohawk River in the south--near the confluence of the Mohawk and Hudson Rivers--, to the southern Adirondack mountains in the north.

ORIGINAL ERIE CANAL

In the southern part of the county--full of suburban commuter communities and posh housing developments, Southern Saratoga County still has it's share of attractions. One is the original Erie canal. Built in the 1840's--dug by hand by mostly Irish laborers--the Erie Canal spanned western New York state, from Albany on the Hudson River, to Buffalo NY, in the far west. It was the gateway to the western US for many immigrants, and was truly the catalyst for westward expansion.

In Vischer's Ferry, one can walk along the original Erie Canal, and view a dry dock and an original lock--an awsome sight, the sheer size of the blocks of stone is amazing.

One can fish in the Mohawk River, visit an apple orchard, ride a horse, take a river cruise, plus dine and shop in a number of suburban shopping centres.

PHOTO: A MODERN-DAY ERIE CANAL LOCK NEARLY IDENTICAL TO A CHAMPLAIN CANAL LOCK.

On the banks of the Hudson River, lies the small town of Stillwater. Here, one can see a few nice examples of Victorian-era mansions, as well as a couple of old factory buildings on the river. Crossing the NY state Champlain canal bridge, is Canal Park.

At the park, you can actually stand on a metal walkway, over the huge lock and watch it in operation. The lock is designed for oil barges coming in from the Atlantic ocean in the south and the St Lawarence Seaway to the north. These huge barges are something to see---they clear the sides of the lock by barely a 12 inches, and take up nearly the whole large lock.

The bulk of lock traffic--both on the Champlain and Erie canals---is recreational. From canoes to moderate size river cruse boats, to ocean-going yachts and motor boats.

At canal park are really nice picnic areas, and short hiking trails, where one can walk down to the banks of the Hudson River. One can speak to the friendly lock tender, if he or she is not busy.

Stillwater is also the home of the Saratoga National Historical Park. Located north of the town, in the rolling hills bordering the river, it is the site of the two battles, known as "the turning point of the American Revolution."

Sorry, my British friends, but the site celebrates the first decisive American victory over British forces.

The park--open year-round-- features miles of well-maintained hiking trails over rolling fields and farmland, historic reenactments and demonstrations, and historic buildings, markers and equipment. One of the most unique markers, is a monument of a single boot--marking the spot where hero-turned-traitor Benedict Arnold was shot in the leg.

Nearby, to the north, are the towns of Saratoga, Victory Mills, and Schuylerville.

Saratoga is the home of the new Saratoga National Cemetery--honoring war veteran's and their spouses. My dad's buried there. There's the newly re-opened Saratoga Monument--and soaring plinth, that one can go inside to the top of, honoring soldiers of the revolution. There's also the Saratoga Apple farm--which offers a nice variety of fresh fruits and veggies, homemade cider and donuts, honey as well as hay rides to the orchard, during apple picking season.

Victory mills is a small village--it contains an affordable antique shop, and is a nice example of an old factory town.

Schuylerville is a small town on the Hudson River. It has several nice shops--antiques, art galleries and crafts. There's a canal-side park here, as well as a cruise boat on the Hudson, and some small eateries. Just outside of town, is the restored Schuyler farmhouse, home to American General Phillip Schuyler--who's colonial mansion is also open to the public, in Albany's south end. There have been periodic archaeological digs at the farmhouse.

HISTORICAL REENACTMENT, SARATOGA NATIONAL HISTORICAL PARK

The heart of Saratoga County lies in the city of Saratoga Springs. I could devote an entire page to the city. It can compare with some of the trendiest small cities in Europe. Chock full of history, even George Washington went on holiday here.

Mineral springs and baths and posh spas, a number of museums--two of them national--a major performing arts centre, drawing nationally and internationally famous recording artists, as well as classical concerts. Dance--most notibly ballet, is popular. An award-winning state park, nationally famous golf course, a Victorian-era city park--with a museum housed in a Victorian mansion, beautiful gardens with original statuary--and the highlight, a 1900's restored handcarved carosel (one I used to ride in a now defunct local amusement park when I was a small child).

Saratoga's main street, Broadway, is full of trendy shops, both big and small, plus many fine and unique resturants and outdoor cafes (summer only).

Saratoga was THE Victorian-era summer resort for America's elite. One of the original grand Victorian-era hotels still exists on broadway.

What did they come for? HORSES. Thoroughbred racing at one of America's oldest tracks, historic Saratoga Race Course. Saratoga is all about horses--well the arts, too--but mostly horses. There is also world-class polo, and harness racing as well, at the Saratoga Gaming and Raceway (my former employer). Saratoga Gaming and Raceway has night Standardbred horse racing several nights a week, most of the year, and is also home to a video lottery (fancy name for slot/fruit machines) machines and a off-track betting palor. It sometimes hosts musical events, as well.

The thoroughbred track is the real star. Running from late July to the end of August, Saratoga Race Course, is a place to see and be seen--with nationally famous race horses running there--including Kentucky Derby and Triple Crown winners.

Around 1990, a movie was shot here--my boss at the stable's boyfriend was an extra--and got to keep his 1930's attire. The movie was Billy Bathgate, I think. Also shot here, more recently (and again, aquaintences of mine were used as extras) were scenes for the movie "Seabiscuit."

CONGRESS PARK

Saratoga Lake is a broad lake outside the city. It's home to fisherman and rowing regattas. Mostly developed, there's few places for the casual visitor, but the views are fantastic.

North of Saratoga Springs is Wilton. There one can visit the summer home of General--and later US President, U. S. Grant. Access is limited though, as it's located on the grounds of a state minimum-security prison.

As you continue north, on state Route 9, there's many unique resturants: A "Florida" restaurant, featuring Southern BBQ and, yes, alligator. There's Italian, American, French and Western BBQ/ Southwestern cuisine, as well.

Further on, in the town of Moreau, is a small state park, featuring camping and a small scenic lake. A national PBS (Public Broadcasting Company)documentary--I think on Benedict Arnold--was shot there, just this past November.

Also found, in Moreau, are Hudson river canoe and kayak access areas, wild hiking trails, river fishing and a view of the huge Speir Falls dam, built in the early 1900's--as well as some of the original small quarries used to supply rock to the dam.

Corinth and Day and Hadley are in the Adirondacks. Corinth, 25 minutes north of Saratoga Springs on state Rounte 9-N, is a former mill town, a small blue collar (chav) American town. Featured here, is Pagenstacker Park on Palmer Avenue, with views of the last pallisades on the Hudson River, Palmer Falls, and magnificent old growth trees. Corinth hosts many local events: parades, field days and an Independence Day celebration in July features fireworks on the scenic Hudson River and is attended by thousands of people. There's a public beach on the river, and snowshoe trails outside of town. Corinth fields an excellent snowshoe team, which often competes in the state's winter Empire State Games. Outside of town, near the Sacandaga Lake, the opening scene for the Robert Redford film (the part where the girl falls from the horse) "The Horse Whisperer" was filmed.

It also has several unique Adirondack craft and art shops, and antique stores as well. One of the most unique buildings in Corinth, is the "snowshoe house"--decorated with weirldly shaped wood and tons of real snowshoes.

Day is located on the beautiful manmade Sagadaga Lake and Resevoir.

Hadley is home to an old train station, a unique "bow" bridge, an original mountain fire lookout tower (which can be hiked to) and Rockwell Falls. In Hadley, you can soon be able to catch the scenic train to North Creek station--and this same train once a year, features such things as a fake robbery (with cowboys, but who cares about accuracy?), as well as a weekend of golf, rodeo, and other activities at a local dude ranch. In Hadley one can also book a white water rafting or river tubing trip--traveling downriver in a blown up rubber tyre innertube. There's also a supposedly "haunted" bed and breakfast/resturant, as well as a quaint soup and sandwich shop frequented by local residents. The nearby town park hosts events like an antique car show and sometimes fireworks.

ARTISTS RENDITION OF ROCKWELL FALLS LOCATED ON THE MAIN ROAD OF HADLEY, NY

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THE LINK BELOW ISN'T FOR SARATOGA COUNTY--IT'S A TOWN NEAR WHERE I GREW UP, AND SOME OF THE PHOTOS (TRAINS) WERE TAKEN JUST DOWN THE TRACKS FROM MY VILLAGE) IF YOU WANT A GLIMPSE OF THE SEEDIER SIDE OF MY OLD CHILDHOOD TOWNS, FOLLOW THIS LINK:

http://www.jericsmith.com/hiddensub.htm

I sometimes get a little peeved when people in other countries--and even here in the United States, believe it or not--think that all Americans are "rich." Yeah. Pull the other one.

Latest stats: (and these are just the one's that were actually able to be counted, the true figure is very probably much, much higher): In 2005 there were counted, here in the good ol' USA, 744,000 homeless--40 percent of which were actually living on the streets, and not in a shelter or temporary housing.

Experts attribute the number one reason for this: lack of affordable housing. Number two reason, was inadequate mental health care, number three reason was drug and /or alcohol abuse. Number for was lack of jobs and /or living wage jobs in many areas. Number five reason: sky-rocketing healthcare costs driving many people--including the elderly--out of their homes. We don't have NHS, and the USA has some of the most expensive healthcare and medicines of any industialilzed nation on earth. No joke. These are just some of the reasons--the reality can be much more complicated than that, of course.

STATE ROUTE 9, LOUDONVILLE, NY. If you turn right, go about 3/4 of a mile, you'll happen upon the street I grew up on--literally the last street on the left on 378. This is where NY Route 378 begins--or ends--depending on whether you are traveling east or west to or from the Hudson River. In this case, it would be east. The riding stable I mentioned in my "Horse Crazy" post, as well as the polo field, were just up the road from here, on NY Rt 9.

Ah, growing up did have it's trials and treats, when I was a kid.

The treats were often small delights for us kids: For a few years, the ice cream truck made it's stop, obnoxious kiddie tunes blaring, up our little dead-end street. Of course, we kids had to shout the equally obnoxious ritual chant: "I scream, you scream, we all scream for Ice Cream!" Poor guy, having to listen to that all the time. My sister favoured the red white and blue icy "Bomb Pop"--flavoured like cheery, lemonade and blueberry. I went for the Italian ices--either cherry or lemonade.

Then, for a while, we had the "Fruit bus." No, it wasn't a busload of gays--'tho that would probably have been more fun. It was a beat up rickety old school bus, with the seats taken out and bins put in--filled with all kinds of fresh fruit. I am not particularly fond of fresh fruit--usually just bought apples or an orange or tangerine. The Doctor would have been disappointed --they don't sell satsumas here. Mum and sis would buy bananas, or grapes, as a rule,and sometimes cherries or pears.

But these weren't our only culinary treats, not by a long chalk.

Whenever we'd BBQ, there was always a bag of marshmallows handy. Us two girls--and any neighbour kids that were handy--would dash off and grab sticks from the nearby trees, jam our marshmallows on to the tip of our sticks, and toast the white chunks of fluff over the glowing charcoal briquettes, until they were golden brown on the outside, and nice and gooey inside--tho' sometimes they'd unhappily burst in to flames, and all you'd have left is black charred white goo--which we often ate, anyway.

Sometimes--not very often--we'd eat the tops of the "onion grass"--wild onions, that looked like scallions. The onion part was buried deep, and hard to uncover--so we might just eat the "grass," which was plentiful--it had a serious bite to it, 'tho, so I didn't like it much.

Our favourite summertime activity, was picking blackberries. This wasn't as easy as it sounds. As you may see by the photo, blackberry bushes have thorns--loads of them. We often came home from the overgrown fields with scratches on our legs (if we were wearing shorts) and arms and hands. Not to mention loads of misquito bites. Oh, what fun. Scratched, itcy, with a margarine tub or coffee tin filled with berries most us and our parents didn't eat---without loads of sugar, they tended to taste a bit like, what I often thought of, as slightly sweetened ink.

One time, one of the boys stepped on the far end of a small well-rotted log. It flew up and caught me in the cheek--I never felt a thing--was truly scared when everyone looked at me all horified, and pointed to my face---apparently, I was bleeding profusely and didn't even know it. Seems the broken off tip of the small log, had left a deep gouge in my cheek--I really never did feel anything--which I learned later is not a good sign...it's sometimes when a deep wound doesn't hurt, one has to worry.

So I went home and it was off with mum to the ER of Albany Medical Center. I spent the remainder of the afternoon--totally terrified out of my wits. They stuck me next to some kid who was also up for getting stitches--a lot of them, apparently--without the aid of anestetic. The boy just screamed and screamed. And there I was, waiting...and waiting...and waiting for the doctor to show up and stitch my right cheek (still have the scar, by the way, 'tho it's very faded). About ten days later--actually, I think it was only about a half hour to 45 minutes--the doctor comes in. I tense...."Well, he says, we'll just put a bandage on that, and you can go home, okay?" Oh, the happiest of happy news! I felt like hugging the man! Seems the would was too jagged to be stitched or something like that.

The next day, I was out picking berries again, being admired for my bandage.

SOME NEW YORK STATE LITTLE KNOWN TRIVIA:

Photo of Black race track writer, John Fitz Gerald. He is unofficially credited with first calling New York City, "the big apple--a name he picked up from an unknown groom in New Orleans. New York's nickname "The Big Apple," took off in the 1930's in the African-American communities of New York City. Although others have attributed the popular city nickname to black jazz musicians, the first "official" use of the name, does indeed appear to be in the 1920's racing news of Fitz Gerald. John is Buried--mostly forgotten-- in my old hometown, in Albany Rural Cemetery, in an unmarked grave. He wrote a column for the New York Telegraph called, "Around the Big Apple."

It's true, what I wrote a few days back. If I were to die without warning (not that I'm planning to), no one would know. It's sobering to know this. I think it hit home to me, a little, when mum died. She died early on a Tuesday morning, and Friday morning, we were there, beside a mound of freshly dug earth, a pale blue pauper's casket, raised above the muddy earth, resting on a sheet of fake plastic grass, six of us and the local Presbyterian minister--the new one--who was gracious, but clearly uncomfortable, officiating. No one else, but the respectful workmen, manning the near nearby backhoe.

The snow had come and gone, the rain had held off. No one came to her funeral. She'd lived in that village for over 25 years, was the school secretary for several years, before I was born. She was the village's librarian for over 15 years, a member of the Presbyterian church from wence the nervous lady minister came...and no one bothered. Just two anuts, an uncle--from dad's side, mum was pretty much the last of her family, me and my slightly older sister, and the nephew I love, but rarely have seen.

There was just us, the workmen and the silent, dripping woods nearby. We stood in the deep mud, while the minister read some prayers. I read a passage, and some lame poem I'd written on the fly. No flowers. No wake in some posh funeral parlor. After, everyone got into their cars, and went to Friendly's resturant for lunch. Just another day. There is no marker for mum--I still have yet to pay for the funeral, entirely--owe about 435 dollars, yet, I think. It's just a mound of earth, atop my grandfather's grave.

For me, I know, there may not even be a proper burial--not unless I miracuously land a good-paying job, or win the lottery, and on both counts, I've a better chance of being hit by comet falling to earth. So, like mum, I've no insurance. And, with the burial of mum, there's no more room on the last family plot. So it's Potter's Field and a pauper's grave for me, as well. And few if any mourners--likely less than mum had. It's a lonely feeling,knowing that. Sad and lonely.

You start to realize, when you get to thinking like this, how really small you are, in the scheme of things. Oh, there's loads of people with big or closely knit families, or loads of friends, or who are well-respected and/or famous. Those people will long be remembered.

But people like me...we're forgotten almost instantly. A leaf that falls in the autumn woods, perhaps picked up by some passerby, pressed between the pages of a book, and then left there, unremembered. A drop of rain, falling in a pond. The circles radiate outward--then..stop. They disappear forever.

Is that me?

Probably so. No one comes here, to my place. No one much talks to me, except in passing--a conversation of the moment, soon forgotten. And that's my life, now, isn't it? This is all there is. E--mails, and PM's and letters--but very little physical human contact. I'm am truly the drop in the pond, the leaf in the forest. I will be acknowleged for that one brief moment--and then...forgotten.

I'm not really so feeling sorry for myself, when I say all this---I am merely publicly admitting to something I've known for a long time. And I accept this. It's my reality. It's just the way things are. Maybe how they've always been, and certainly very likely--unless something occurs that seems impossible now---it's very likely this is how it will always be.