Boat Day Or Mean Girl (Really Mean Boy) Day

26 April 2026

R. Linda

1155

Have you ever been invited somewhere and not dressed for it? And you were too mortified to flee the scene and stuck it out until the crowd started saying things that you didn't find very nice, or pointing and snickering at you? I can imagine the humiliation having once been … more than once been held prisoner inside an Easter bunny costume! But no one knew it was me, but the few who made me do it. I felt dumb inside that hot thing, but I can't imagine being in something with me whole face hanging out and everyone in attendance knowing it be meself. Begorrah!

This actually happened to an acquaintance of mine at work. She’s a copy editor with a very brusque manner—abrasive, even—and she has a way of speaking that makes you think she flat-out hates you. I’m sure she’s perfectly pleasant outside of work—or at least I hope so—but in the office she manages to get on just about everyone’s last nerve. She’s definitely on people’s radar.

There’s been no shortage of muttering about “getting even” after she’s torn into someone’s copy. She doesn’t just edit—she attacks. Your grammar is terrible, your punctuation nonexistent, and she’s more than happy to tell you so, bluntly and at length.

You’ll go back three or four times to collect her revised version of your work, each time feeling like you’re intruding on something far more important. She treats you as though you’re wasting her time, and you leave a little more deflated with every visit. Sometimes she won’t even bother with the handoff—she’ll just drop the edited piece onto your computer like a bomb. Two sentences in, you barely recognise it, because she’s completely rewritten the thing.

And if you dare to question any of it, she’ll inform you that your run-on sentences made no sense anyway, and that during her fact-checking—something you never asked for, since your sources are solid—she uncovered discrepancies that could have gotten the paper sued.

Right.

Anyway, THAT person got her comeuppance. I will say right now, I was not in on it, I had nothing to do with it, the idea never entered my mind (ok, I lied about that last, it did run through me brain more than a few times), and I was not a party to setting her up. I know you won't believe any of that, but for once it's all true … well, kind of.

Now that you have some background, let me go into how this started. I was minding me own business (yes, I was) at the coffee machine waiting to refill me cup, when the person in front of the person, in front of me, half turned and said to the person in front of me (you getting all this?) that "Boat Day" was coming up and he was in charge of putting it together. 

"This is the time to strike," he whispered over his shoulder, but I could hear him. "I am renting that large sailboat we had last year, but there is a second one that is moored across from it at the wharf. I will take ticket orders, and when that shrew in copy hands hers in, I will get her on the other boat, accidentally on purpose. The names on the boats are similar, they look the same, it's just the dock number that's different."

I knew instantly who he meant and was rather impressed with the James Bond tactic. But the fella in front of me had a question.

"She'll see all of us on the other dock, won't she? Then she'll know she's on the wrong side."

"No, because she will go early and be on that boat before we even show up. Plus, my brother-in-law Shamus O'Reilly is the captain, and he'll know what to do."

Shamus O'Reilly! Right there, I knew this was trouble. I don't know an O'Reilly that can keep their nose out of trouble. At least it wasn't an O'Leary, or there'd be BIG trouble. The O'Leary clan is the worst of the worst when it comes to misbehaving. I should know, I grew up with the O'Reilly family on one side and the O'Learys on the other. 

"But … why wouldn't you give your brother-in-law the business instead?" The fella in front of me whispered back.

"Because Shamus is already booked that day and so … and it was his idea."

I thought so! Whadda I tell ya?

We had been slowly shuffling towards the coffee maker, but it was nearly out, so five of us had to wait for the next brew. This gave me lots of time to get the plan down.

I cleared me throat and injected meself into their covert operation. 

“Pardon me,” I said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your brilliant—and rather devious—plan. Impressive as it is, aren’t you forgetting one small detail?”

They both nodded for me to continue.

“Won’t she realise, at the last minute, that she’s the only one boarding and assume everyone else simply didn’t buy tickets? It won’t faze her, will it? She’ll just enjoy a quiet cruise on her own.”

“Oh, no—she’ll be told to come in costume because it’s a ‘costume party’ on the boat…except it isn’t. So when she arrives dressed like the Revolution is about to begin, she’ll realise she’s the only one in period clothing. The rest of the passengers will just be ordinary tourists on a harbour cruise, and she’ll be standing there alone in full 1700s attire—like a complete nutcase out for a bit of sea air.”

The two of us listening scrunched our faces in mock discomfort. It was simply too delicious to resist.

“But,” the man in front of me cut in, “if none of us is there, she’ll keep her embarrassment to herself. What’s the point of that?”

“Oh, we’ll all be there—just not on her boat. As hers pulls away, we’ll be arriving at the opposite dock. And those two friends she sort of has? They’re being kept in the dark. She’ll ask if they’re going, and of course they’ll say yes—but I’ve arranged for them to meet my intern beforehand for a few drinks.”

“Right,” I said, “but won’t she ask them about their costumes?”

“Probably. But I’ll tell all of them that costumes have to be kept secret—no one knows what anyone else is wearing. I’ll just hint that colonial garb is very much ‘in.’ That way, when she’s on the boat, the tourists will think she’s about to give them a tour of colonial Boston Harbour.” He chuckled at the thought.

“And the other two?”

“My intern will tell them she has costumes ready and not to worry—just come to the wharf pub, and they can throw them on over their clothes. Of course, she won’t. That’s when she’ll tell them the truth.”

“And they won’t text her?” I asked.

“Too late by then—she’ll already be on Shamus’s boat.”

“And they won’t be angry you duped them? Or her?”

He shrugged. “They’re not exactly her best friends. They know what she’s like. Give them a drink or two, and they won’t care—as long as it’s not happening to them. As for her… well, that’s the point. A taste of her own medicine.”

And sure enough, it went off without a hitch.

There she was, dressed like a colonial matron, boarding the O’Reilly sailboat. Later, O’Reilly said she kept scanning the dock for familiar faces, but none appeared. Strangers—dressed normally—filed aboard as her confidence began to falter. People stared. Children pointed. A few even giggled. Some asked if she was “in charge.”

Meanwhile, we were across the way, tucked into a pub, watching her arrival over more than a few drinks.

By the time we made our way to the opposite dock, her boat had already pulled away. We waved and called out to her, asking what she was dressed for—whether she worked for the sail line, whether she was the guide. Some shouted that they would have booked her tour if they’d known. Why had she kept her “other job” a secret?

It was dreadful. It was mean… well, perhaps not entirely undeserved. At least her boat wasn’t very full.

I’m fairly sure she didn’t end up delivering a spirited colonial tour of Boston Harbour. More likely, she taught an impromptu lesson in grammar—pronouns, verbs, the lot—to a rather unenthused group of tourists.

Afterwards, we heard she was furious with all of us—especially the two semi-friends, who were promptly demoted through no fault of their own to non-friend status. She threatened to go to HR, convinced all of us had deliberately put her on the wrong boat. There was talk of resignation, a dramatic exit, and a lesson being taught us.

None of it happened.

She swallowed her pride and carried on as though nothing had occurred, insisting we were all mad. And we, conveniently, were far too deep in our cups to notice that the woman on the other boat… wasn’t her at all.

Um. Right.

Anyway.

Without further ado, a souvenir of the annual "Boat Day." Not ours, hers. Yes, the O'Reilly sails to who knows where.

There she is in Orange giving some poor fella backtalk. Probably informing him that he isn't using the King's English properly or phrasing his sentences correctly.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Well, It Wasn't Wilson Castle

21 April 2026 

1154

R. Linda:

Who'd a thunk it, a ghost hunter in the family. Well, I would have, because I've had me share of strange happenings and even wrote about most of them for you. Well, me eldest, that would be O'Hare Alloysious O'Sullivan, the redheaded genius who is known for his logical thinking, seems to have a quirky side where that logic goes out the window and in comes wild imaginings of ghostly spectres, and such. Yes, indeed, I didn't just discover this side quirk, no, I've seen it coming for a while now, so I'm not surprised.

The young ghostbuster has a group of ghostbusters he does. They have gone to Wilson Castle in Proctor, Vermont, a few times and have got some weird stuff like blinking lights, beeping machines, and bells ringing on their equipment. Oh, and the equipment be top-of-the-line in ghost-hunting circles. There is a bell that tinkles when a ghost touches it or comes near; there is a radio receiver of sorts that lets ghosts answer questions; there are laser lights that detect motion and sound; and I could go on about magnetometers and such, but you get the picture. 

The last venture out was a 7-hour drive to Hinsdale, New York, to the Dandy House, said to be haunted, and, like Wilson Castle, you can rent the place, set up your ghost-detecting equipment, and spend the night! Yes, a wonderful idea. 

Why Hinsdale? It is said that the Dandy family experienced "severe demonic oppression" whilst living there (1970 - 74). There was even a priest sent for who performed several exorcisms, but still the family fled the house, too many bumps and knocks in the night and other crazy things going on, they couldn't take it anymore. 

Unlike Wilson Castle, which is considered the most haunted location in Vermont, it is tame. There have been reported sightings of "shadow people" in Castle Wilson, figures in windows, disembodied voices, music, and cold drafts everywhere (probably because ghosts don't need the heat turned on, and after all, aren't castles drafty?). 

Anyway, after the many visits to graveyards, the visits to Wilson Castle, Hinsdale, was ripe for investigation. Yes, most of the team were up for a long, long drive into the further reaches of New York State; they even rented a car to make sure they got there without any breakdowns. I was asking all kinds of questions, and finally, a frustrated O'Hare said, "Why don't you come with us?" 

Well, why don't I? I had nothing pressing on me plate, so I accepted, which I think surprised the hell out of O'Hare and his team, because I don't think they truly meant the invitation, and me accepting ... well, who'd a thunk it?

Yes, there I was with three young gents, me, the old guy. Now, R. Linda, I do think as an Irish person I have some psychic abilities. I offered these up, and they laughed like it was a joke on me part. I gave O'Hare the "remember the time" stories he's heard throughout his young life, but he wasn't taking any of me history as truth, just blarney. After all, they were the professionals, and I was what? I was a dad who had no wisdom or knowledge like they do. OK.

These newfangled ghost hunters have "scientific" equipment now. They don't go on gut feelings or "seeing things" no one else does, or ghostly voices in one's head with a "message from beyond." 

Cutting to the chase, we started off with one more ghosthunter than I thought was going. They packed all the equipment in the trunk, and I say "packed" because this was a compact car with little trunk room, so they bungied the thing shut (I tell ya, they are creative), not to mention the leg room inside, which I am mentioning. Four in the backseat, and me, long-legged self, in the passenger and O'Hare the designated first driver. 

I could feel the resentment of me taking up space in the shotgun seat by one equally long-legged ghostbuster sitting directly behind me with his knees around his ears. If he had lasers for eyes, he would have penetrated me brain with "messages from beyond," I be sure. The drive was LONG and BORING. The talk was non-stop chatter for about 40 miles, then it drifted off to occasional spurts and finally died. Well, mostly for the snoring in the backseat. 

We all took a turn at driving the ghostbuster vehicle, and finally, in the late afternoon, with the long shadows falling and not without a few rainstorms, we arrived, knackered and unenthusiastic. And why? Hinsdale was not Wilson Castle. Oh no, the beautiful architectural facade of a brownstone castle that these guys were used to was met with this:

1850s  farmhouse. Yup. And I have a picture of this (unknowingly in me house, hanging over the TV)

The picture, similar 

The first thing that was noticeable to me, at least, was the caged-in windows. Was that to keep something inside, or prevent someone like me from getting out in a hurry?

The house was depressing, the weather was depressing, we were knackered and found that depressing. It was like, forget setting up equipment, let's find a Dunkin' and go get coffee and something to eat. But no, we trudged inside and got things set after "walking the house" with a tour guide to see what was what. I helped unload the car, helped where I could, but felt mostly in the way because I was the odd man out. However, I enjoyed watching the equipment being tested, the chatter between ghosthunters, and made meself comfortable in a corner until I looked up and saw this: 

The doll on the right is possessed, it is said

The doll supposedly moves around, but I didn't see any of that. Her friend was placed with her for a spookier effect, and does nothing, supposedly. Anyway, I thought it better not to have me back to her just in case she decided to fly at me face or do something equally heart-attackish. 

At one point, with everyone and everything set, I asked the about-to-leave tour guide about the abode. I was told that apparitions have been seen, things move inside the house, eerie screams, smells come and go, footsteps, and that there are said to have been 7 murders committed in the house. After many paranormal peeps tried to "cleanse" the house of its weird and bizarre activity, the activity picked up instead of disappearing. Oh well, one can try, right?

The kicker is the usual explanation for these things: the house is built over a Native American burial ground. Yup. It became an inn (how? I don't know that's true, it's smaller than a shoebox, but I was given another explanation, which I will reveal in a mo), and awful things occurred during that time. What awful things, maybe the 7 murders? The story goes that the family that lived in it (no names provided or remembered, hum) told travellers the house was an inn of sorts, and they could stop there on their travels and have a good hot meal. But this family would murder their "guests" and steal the goods they had on them. Truth or fiction? I dunno, no one does. However, I was told there are mass graves behind the house. Oh goody.

Well, one of us did feel some kind of touch on his face. Wasn't me, I wasn't "blessed" enough, I guess. There were no indistinct voices floating around; I saw no spectres in the other room, and the haunted doll stayed in place with her companion. No wolf howled outside, but an owl did unhinge all of us for a short time with its hooting. 

After about an hour, the equipment started doing "stuff." Yes, lights blinked, the bell went off, it was like suddenly someone turned on the power because things were "happening." No one got any sleep with all this going on. They did their best to "hunt" down these mysterious occurrences, though. Everyone had been very busy for a long time.

I didn't help matters much when I was out in the first section of the house, where there is no second story, and we all heard thumping above us.

"Let's get up there!" Someone said.

"Uh, pardon the intrusion, but there is no second story on this part of the house." I reminded.

"Then it has to be on the roof!" The same undeterred person told me.

They trooped outside (two of them) and saw, as I thought, notta.

That gave me an idea. I know I should have stayed home because I cannot behave, but they were prime for the taking! As they all went upstairs in the other part of the house with a second story, I volunteered to stay with the equipment downstairs. As soon as I heard them walking around up there, I got on tiptoes and, with me fist, knocked on the ceiling. Oh me gosh, the ruckus that caused. I was down there snickering to meself as they came running down, asking me, "Did you hear that?"

"Well, no, what was I supposed to hear?" I asked, putting on an innocent face.

I will say there were some unexplained happenings that are too many to list and have no plausible explanation. There were times when I felt like I would just go out and wait in the car for sunrise, but I had heard what the tour guide had said about long-gone Native Americans walking the property and how they probably weren't happy to have the house built on their burial and hunting grounds. I found that last perplexing. I don't think Indians would hunt on their burial grounds, so maybe he misunderstood the term, happy hunting ground, which is what Native burial sites are sometimes referred to. 

Early the next morning, just as the sun was rising, O'Hare went outside with the bell and sat by the pond in the back, admiring the countryside (it is beautiful), then the bell suddenly began ringing. He put on his headphones for communication, and someone named Mildred spoke to him. When she stopped, the heavens opened up and drenched him. When she came back, it stopped, and when she left, the same thing. Odd, but I knew downpours were expected; it was just odd they came and went when they did. 

Even the pond water was doing odd things, like a shark was circling closer and closer. O'Hare didn't stay around for whatever it was under the water to get near him. This last had unnerved me more, and I did go sit in the car, yes, the shotgun seat. I knew the other guy was going to be pissed off that I had taken that seat again, but oh welly, as the Weasil would say. However, all the way back I had the hair on me neck rise more than once, as if I felt we had brought back a ghostly presence. O'Hare is very exact in making sure he does not give spirits permission to accompany or possess him, but the other three don't take that seriously, so who knew?

Did we bring back something with us? Well, let me tell you the return was spookier than being in that house. That night in me own abode, I heard footsteps, heard sounds and voices, and there was an owl outside on the porch railing hooting! O'Hare heard nothing, but he was exhausted and slept deeply. Meanwhile, in the next town over, one of the investigators went into his bedroom, and the door slammed behind him. No one in the house but him! So while we got nothing but someone named Mildred at the Dandy House, we sure did bring some leftover activity to our own homes.

OR, so we all thought until they went through their infrared photos and other photos a few days later. Yes, they certainly conjured something, and I'd be glad not to still be at the Hinsdale abode. If you look closely, you will see a hooded figure to the left of the ghosthunter.

Look closely, he's wonderfully oblivious at the time. Can you imagine if he "saw" that thing? 

Would I go on another of their ghost adventures? Nah, I was a fifth wheel and was in the way most of the time, and after that photo, the answer is a resounding NO! I even thought while they were upstairs looking for phenomena, I'd close me eyes and see what came to me, but then I had that brilliant idea to knock on the low ceiling, so glad I did, can you imagine THAT thing standing in front of old Gabe? Well, be a lot of activity goin' on downstairs, I can tell ya that much!

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

The Future Of The Blog

11 April 2026

1153

R. Linda:

As you may have noticed, there are 10 stories on the blog. I took the rest off, because it was getting rather difficult to maintain 1153 stories. I also wasn't getting much in the way of comments of late, but the silent readership has been "reading," so I kept everything intact for them. However, I decided to eliminate most of the bulk, as I noticed no one seemed to notice the disappearing act, but a few "followers" who wrote me privately that they were upset I was purging the blog and said they understood the why of it, but... 

Going through the blog from start to present, I realised how much not only me life but life in general has changed. At the start, the stories are pretty carefree and fun, but as the pandemic hit, they took on a new, more real and worrisome tone, and, up to now, a slightly chaotic tone has crept in. Since I feel I cannot give you, my followers and readers, the carefree and fun experience which was me purpose, it's best to possibly close the blog forever. 

I was told I shouldn't do that, but to continue to chronicle what silliness I could find in such tumultuous times for the sanity of some, who say they enjoy the antics of the O'Sullivan family and friends. I must think this over. The stories of recent date have become less and less frequent. I think that will continue, or perhaps it will pick up; I simply don't know right now.

I have a lot of thinking to do. I have not made a decision one way or the other, but I will let you know what I decide.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Fired Up Over Marshals But Not The Way You Might Imagine

 04 March 2026

1152

R. Linda:

Maybe because all Tonya can talk about is how disappointing the new Yellowstone spinoff Marshals is, that it's on me mind. We both watched it the other night, and I, for one, wanted to run upstairs and turn the telly on up in our room so I could watch Will Trent instead. I was antsy that Marshalls was boring the hell out of me and making me uncomfortable. Uncomfortable, because as a writer, I could see all kinds of "little things" that can come back to bite. 

With Will Trent, I'll be on the edge of my seat, knowing bad things could and do happen, and while I might feign looking away (but really peeking through me fingers), I watch and marvel at how well written that series is and how hooked I am. All the characters are interesting, Will in particular, but every single one has a distinct personality that meshes well with the storylines. I'm impressed.

So watching Marshals was like watching a bad episode of CSI on horseback with lassoes. Too much is going on, too soon. The dialogue does nothing to enhance the actors' roles. Lets start with the two women Marshalls: Both have attitude, and I'm not talking Beth Dutton (if only) I am talking two rather nice looking women (too good looking for me to believe they are law enforcement and I'm not saying law enforcment women are not good looking, but they have a certain hard exterior that these two lack), who have no trouble being abrasive, a little too abrasive, you know the chip on the shoulder, I have a lot to prove kind of abrasive. Ok, maybe they are trying to fit into a man's world, but it isn't a good look. It turns me off. I will say Logan Marshall-Green steals the show for me. He's really convincing as the lead marshal. Kayce is Kayce, and yes, he holds his own, but look what he has to work with. A bad script, a limp storyline, a few bad actors, one who could best him, and no Taylor Sheridan. 

I was hoping for a spinoff on Yellowstone, the same quirk, backstabbing, rotten to the core, inebriated with ambition and power-hungry family and their equally unforgiving cowboys, extended into new situations. Instead, I got CSI Cowboy with a horse. And at least the horse is the same one from Yellowstone. 

My biggest gripe is the teenage son. Obviously, things between Kayce and his son are not good. The kid doesn't talk to him, and when he does, it's begrudgingly. He doesn't tell his father where he is going or what he's into. He's depressed and angry, and it's over the death of his mom (her death, not from complications after the accident she had, but from toxins found on the reservation). She, by the way, is buried on a windy hill by a rock with her name carved into it. Where is the baby boy buried, and why is he not buried with his mom? Odd. A little thing I know, but as a father . . .

Anyway, knowing the teenager had been kidnapped when he was younger and what Kayce and his wife, Monica, went through, you'd think that instead of running off and joining the marshals, Kayce would be nourishing a bonding relationship with his distressed son. The boy obviously has his own agenda, and it's a dangerous one that puts him in harm's way. As a parent, if my kid had been kidnapped, I'd be damn sure that if I wasn't able to be at home, I'd have someone looking after him. Also, the young teen needs therapy, quite obviously, or at least an attempt to sit down and hash out his problems with dad in a controlled atmosphere. This situation could be lethal to the series. Kayce's focus will have to be on either his family member or the marshals. It should be an easy decision, but the title of the show is The Marshals, not Tate finds mental health after the death of his mother and baby brother. It looks like Tate is hanging out to dry while daddy runs off and does his own thing. BUT you know it's Tate who will get Dad into trouble. And this, coupled with the toxins on the reservation, is the crux of the show.

Then there are the cows. Yes cows! Kayce and son are ranchers with a small herd of cows. I wanna know who is taking care of the cows? If the son, Tate, has no interest in ranching and is running off to protests, and Kayce is battling assassins in the men's room at the hospital, who is tending the cows at the mini Yellowstone ranch? I know, it's a stupid point, maybe, but why make a deal about them and then...

This brings me to Rainwater and Mo, whose dialogue is ho-hum. I miss the dynamic duo of Yellowstone. These two are just "there", and while they fit the storyline (such as it is at the moment), my excitement of seeing them first appear soon lost its lustre. Would Sheridan please take over writing from Spencer Hudnut, and give these two talented men and their interesting characters some meat to chew on instead of the crap they have to spout?

Maybe the episodes will pick up. I know it was the first episode, and once things are established, the show might pick up momentum, or not. I believe my true problem is that I expected Yellowstone-type situations, characters, and settings; it says Yellowstone spinoff after all. Instead, I am subject to a monochrome set of dark grey, faded yellow, and no colour. And by colour, I mean the want of colourful characters, colourful acting, colourful lines, colourful situations, the Taylor Sheridan way of making a good show. I miss Sheridan, I would say, the most. Or maybe I should be turning my ire at Sheridan for allowing someone else to take the reins who does not have the Sheridan imagination or the Yellowstone mega-series experience that only he could have.

I will give it one more go when the second episode airs. That's all I can promise Tonya. If it doesn't pan out, I shall be glued to the Will Trent kind of policing, and saying bye-d-bye to the cowboy hats and lassoes.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Cracker Barrel - Great Food If You Don't Mind Eating In A Geriatric Centre

28 February 2026

1151

R. Linda:

Well, I have to tell you, it was an experience last Friday that I don't often have. I had me annual eye exam, and when I was there, they wanted to dilate me pupils. I took Tonya with me so she could drive, and because it was a great excuse to eat out. With the snow, she was off, and I had already taken a personal day, so we left the kiddos with Mam and went to vision care. Drops were administered, no change in eyesight, and we were off to the Cracker Barrel for luncheon. 

As we were pulling up to the restaurant, a small school bus was stopped on the other side of the road, its lights flashing. Traffic on both sides was backed up, waiting for someone to get off the bus. And we waited, and waited, until we were trying to see if anyone was actually at the wheel of the bus. I couldn't see with the dilated eyes, so I took Tonya's word that there was a driver. We continued to wait. I believe we waited a good 15 minutes (all of us) for a grown woman to get off the bus. Tonya was like WHAT? It seemed the woman and the bus driver were chatting all that time, holding up traffic, and in a strange twist, no one honked their horn, but this isn't Boston.

As the bus pulled away and we started forward on our side, I saw the dark-haired woman from the bus walk towards her house (I assume her house) that was nearly at the curb, when suddenly she disappeared, and in her place was a blond woman walking her dog.

"Wait," I said, "Where did the other woman go, and where did that one with the dog come from?

"I saw the same thing you did," Tonya said, laughing, "and I don't have drops in my eyes."

That was bizarre, and neither of us has an explanation. It was a harbinger of what was to come.

We got to the Cracker Barrel Restaurant, and we were both hungry, having had no breakfast and little coffee. Me eye appointment was at 10, and the vision centre was an hour away, so we had sipped coffee quickly and, just as quickly, showered, dressed, and hit the road, leaving us famished! And, we were cold as well. When we first got to the Cracker Barrel, there were two shop girls in the product part of the store. Girls, isn't the right word, both of them were older than me own mother. A couple was waiting to be seated at the restaurant in front of us, asking questions about the menu and trying to decide whether they even wanted to be seated. Who freaking does that?

The hostess was a cheery sort, with crinkly eyes, that when she smiled, all the wrinkles settled on her ample forehead, making her look like someone from another planet. She was more than accommodating in explaining nearly every dish on the huge menu. We couldn't believe we were waiting once again, just to be seated. I even mumbled to Tonya, we were there for the food, so please seat us while these two deadheads make a decision.

Finally, we two hungry people were seated by another hostess (who seemingly came out of the woodwork - it was turning into that kind of a day), and she reminded us of the goblin Griphook from the Harry Potter movie The Philosopher's Stone. Her ancient ears stuck out from her head, and her nose was thin and pointy. We looked at each other, thinking the same thing. We did mention how chilled we were, and she was good enough to seat us in front of a gigantic fireplace.

The large fireplace gave off MUCH heat

As we sat there contemplating the menu, Tonya remarked that everyone in the place had white hair and a cane. I looked around, and from waitstaff to customers, we were the only "children" in the place. Our waitress was the youngest of the crew and a bit of a wit. 

I was handed a menu that I realised I couldn't read because me eyes were dilated. The waitress looks at me questioningly, and I tell her my eyes are dilated from an eye exam I just had. And she says, "Oh, I noticed that, I thought you were on drugs!"

Ok then. I secretly found her druggy remark funny.

Tonya read off the million selections, and I somehow saw the picture of the Nashville chicken dish (which looked inviting), but when I went to order it, I was told it's only available on Saturdays. What? And the waitress pointed to the banner under the chicken that said that. Well, I was disappointed, and when she saw I really wanted that chicken dish, she told me that if I ordered another chicken dish, she'd slip the Nashville sauce in so I could dip and eat. I took her up on it and sat back to wait, wondering why I ordered what I did, which would be the same dish without the sauce, but the sauce was being added. I felt old-person befuddled, I did.

Anyway, she brought us our orders and everything, and I mean everything came at once. The appetiser, the biscuits, the entrees, the coffee, the water. ALL OF IT! Tonya and I were hustling to move dishes to one side so the rest could be placed. I tell ya!

Well, my dear R. Linda, I cut me chicken breast into slivers and dipped it in the Nashville sauce, and I can tell you, thanks to Tonya's observation, smoke was not only going up the fireplace, but was coming out of me ears, nose, mouth and the top of me head, it was! Between the sauce and the fireplace, I was one sweaty mess.

"WOW!" I said. "How can these old people eat this stuff? It be frying me insides and forget me tongue, it's hot stuff there, Tonya."

Our waitress was passing our table when Tonya asked her to substitute the spicy maple sauce for the Nashville, because her husband (that be me), who couldn't articulate because his tongue was a hot mess of swollen taste buds, wasn't tolerating the heat from the Nashville sauce. This said with a bat of eyelashes, which, if our server were a man, might have the desired effect. In this case, the waitress blinked back at her and asked if Tonya was quite alright and if she had something in her eye.

Anyway, after some hemming and hawing on Tonya's part, the maple sauce was brought to me, and I will say that was delicious stuff. I could have drunk it down; it was so good. It at least took me mind off the sweat pouring off me from the fireplace, the inner heat from the Nashville catastrophe, and the suntan I was sure I was getting from the fire across from me. Which, if I had swallowed me overheated pride, would have had me dancing around the joint, it was that HOT!

When all was said and done, the waitress asked me how I liked that maple sauce. I told her to just call me Uncle Herschel. I was good with everything. She did notice I had a small portion of chicken breast left and four biscuits. She told me she'd get me a box so I could enjoy it as a sandwich the next day. I did notice the portions are big (we never finished the delicious onion appetiser or the biscuits; there was too much food ... all at once). I had looked at Tonya, like What the heck? when the waitress left us for the boxes. 

"I think because this place is frequented by the elderly, they know they can't eat all the food, so they box the leftovers for them as a snack for later."

"Oh, you think? And I fall into that category, do I?" I joked with her. Well, being a guy, I do know how much our stomachs come into play when it comes to snacks and food in general. So happily, we boxed out our food stash and left for the gift shop. No snoggers this time, just old timers wandering the short aisles looking at sparkly hats and clothing. I suggested a few cowgirl rhinestone dresses to Tonya, but she had none of it. We left empty-handed, but with food boxes, so we were all set. 

I did have me chicken, not as a sanny, but cut up and dipped into the spicy maple sauce the next day. I really enjoyed it, was SOOO good! I just don't get why this second visit to the Barrel had crazy things happen to moi. What magic trick was the school bus woman's disappearance and magical reappearance as someone else with a dog, no less, perpetrated on me? Why was I made to listen to 25 minutes of "What's this dish?" and "Henry, do you want to eat here, or what?" What indeed. Why was I served hotter-than-hell sauce and placed in front of the biggest, hottest fireplace I've ever seen? Why do I get wits as servers, and a pile of food flooding me table all at the same time, so I can't enjoy each morsel separately? Why am I treated like I be 80 years old or like a child of 7 by people I don't know?

Tonya says, "You're just lucky, I guess."

I hate to say this, but the experience (with the exception that the food is really GOOD) reminded me of our awful experience in Sherbrooke Village, Canada (see Story #586, Sheet Harbour And Sherbrooke Village, Nova Scotia, 09 October, 2010), where we were made to wait an hour to be seated while a busload of seniors finished luncheon, and then were told we could only have the soup with half a sanny each! 

INDEED LUCKY!

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

The Ghost On The Back Porch

16 February 2026

1150

R. Linda:

Me new neighbour bought a home that was put on the market after the elderly occupant died. The family of the deceased cleaned out the home and asked the new homeowner whether he'd like the Adirondack rocking chair on the deck and a few other pieces of outdoor furniture. He said that if they wanted to leave it, that was fine with him, since he had no outdoor furniture from condo living. And so, they left a few things, and that was that.

Recently, the new neighbour moved in, and once he was settled, he decided to invite the neighbours on either side over for a meet-and-greet (something very unusual up here, as most keep to themselves). We, on our side, decided to go, as we are not New England natives, therefore, not inclined to the keep to yourself rule, and the neighbours on the other side also decided to go, as they too are not New England natives and have not adopted the privacy-first mindset. 

A delightful evening it turned out to be. I, in particular, like the man of the house; we have a lot in common, as he is in the business of writing for an advertising firm, and we exchanged some tricks of the trade and much laughter. The kiddos were invited, ours as well as the otherside neighbour's kiddos, and I must say, all were on their best behaviour. The new neighbour has a girl and a boy, both the same age as ours and next door.

Near the end of the evening visit, Ken (new neighbour) told us he had plans for an outdoor fire pit this summer and would like to replace the deck out his back door. The neighbour on the other side, Ron, told Ken that his son, Arthur, was a regular visitor to his new home. Arthur was a volunteer who read to elderly residents in nursing homes as part of a school community project. Arthur would come over to see the elderly gent (housebound) and read to him on the back deck in the summertime. 

"I would read him classics mostly, and we'd discuss them," Arthur said. "I learned a lot from Mr. Adams. He was a cool, funny guy. He made me laugh a lot, and I miss him and the way he loved commenting on what I read to him. He used to sit in the rocking chair out back with his feet up on the small table in front of the chair. I'd adjust the blanket over his legs, and he'd be all set. You still have that chair?" Arthur asked.

"I do," Ken answered. "It's right where he left it."

It was at that moment that Arthur's sister, Sallyanne, interrupted, our commending Arthur for his upstanding character, and told us that Mr Adams was sitting in the chair outside in the snow. That, as you can imagine, quieted the group. We all ran over to the back door and looked out. With the lights off, it looked like a ghost was sitting in the rocking chair. That spooked us all, and someone, I think Ron, muttered, "Son of a gun."

Ken flipped the lights on, and this is what we saw:

Mr. Adams, is that you?

"I hope he's not under there," Ron said, trying to lighten up our spooked feelings.

Here is a shot during the day:

It is odd, is it not, that strange things appear in the snow? Remember the coffin that freaked out the young couple in Vermont I wrote to you about a few years ago? 

Shortly after the excitement, we all went to our respective homes. I did manage to take a photo of said snow ghost, so I could show you I wasn't making this up. No blarney here. 

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Learning The Hard Way - Winter In New England

01 February 2026

1149

R. Linda:

Looks pretty . . . but

The heavy snows of a New England winter can be tough to live through. If you don't have a fireplace (which is rather unheard of in New England homes), and you don't have a generator, you are truly roughing it. 

This problem of having nothing to keep your home functioning happens mostly to the New England transplant from another state. Yes, indeed, R. Linda, they expect the nor'easters, the blizzards, but they don't think ahead on how to live through that sort of thing.

I got a heavy dose of it when I moved up here. I had no power for almost five weeks, and I had to keep warm by camping out in front of the fireplace. I used a handheld blowtorch to keep me water pipes from freezing while I froze doing it. There were no places open for food, petrol, or snow shovels, because no one had electricity. It was rough, cold, and hunger can be a bitch.

There were times I looked at our parakeet nestled in his feathers next to the fireplace and thought about roasting him. But I'd never hear the end of that. And he would have been but a mouthful. Sigh.

I remedied the problem by paying through the nose for a full-house generator, so I would never have to go through that again. So, it pains me when I hear of a new transplanted family finding all this out the hard way. Take the newbies in town. They are from South Carolina; he came up here for a better job in Boston, moved to New Hampshire because it has no income tax, and getting to Boston is a breeze. The family has six members: the youngest, 14, and two older teenage sons and a teenage daughter with a mouth on her. 

Well, the big storm came in, as you know, and the family went out and bought food and shovels, thinking they were all set. The local news had shown residents running out to buy food off supermarket shelves and at the hardware store, piling up salt and shovels. They did all that by paying attention. The local news also gave a warning about petrol-powered generators and space heaters. So they knew about that, but didn't buy a generator, thinking they didn't need one. They did buy a small space heater, not sure they'd need that either, but they'd have it just in case.

The power went out, so the plug-in space heater would be of no use. The home they bought was new construction and didn't have the usual fireplace or woodstove, so as far as heat went, it was gone with the electricity. This situation also turned off the refrigerator, so any meats or dairy would become useless if not consumed within the first day or so. Of course, there was no cooking meat because the stove was ... you guessed it, electric!

Knowing no one, they had no place to go. SO, they got knit hats, heavy jackets, gloves, blankets and pillows from their beds and made a circle in the den, their bodies close together for warmth. Well, it was uncomfortable to say the least, but they had cards and games they were able to play to while away the hours before the electricity was returned, only that didn't happen as soon as they hoped. They also had to put up with a daughter who had no phone service (battery dead) and was, upset to say the least. Can you imagine listening to a complainer all day and all night, and not being able to get away? To add insult to injury, a day of bitter cold came and went, with the promise of even colder temperatures the next day. 

It was a bone-chilling night, but the problem was compounded when the pipes burst, and water poured through the ceiling onto sleepy, cold heads. But this wasn't the end of it. No, no, by no means does this awfulness end, it continued.

Finding a local shelter, the family moved there while the husband went back to the house to get a few things they needed. While at the shelter, the husband had watched local news reports about heavy snow on roofs causing them to collapse and ice dams that were preventing melting snow from draining properly, instead draining behind the walls of the house, ruining walls, insulation and floors. In other words, it ruins the home and becomes an expensive fix. That was all he needed on top of everything else. So while he was there, he just happened to have a trusty blowtorch on hand, and well, he tried to melt the ice dams, only to set the house on fire.

The fire department had a heck of a time trying to quell the blaze, and it took half the house. So much for bright ideas. I suppose their plan to move back to South Carolina was nixed when the snowbomb hit there yesterday. They'd be in the same predicament as they are here. From one big lesson learner to another learning the same lesson, only a worse way of learning it, all I can say is, welcome to winter in New England!

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Storm Fern - Too Much Snow

27 January 2026

1148

R. Linda:

You will be delighted to know we have snow totals over 24". Kiddos shovelled, and I car ploughed, so we are good. However, we had one situation that warrants I share with you. After all was said and done, we were missing O'Hare's car. Then we were missing O'Hare, until I saw this:

O'Hare's legs in the air

Uh-oh. I had to shovel me way over to get him out, and it took a good amount of shovelling, I can tell you that much, but I upended him and asked him what on God's little white acre he was doing. He told me he was looking for his car. And it was no wonder, his car was over near the garage, buried in the snow from Storm Fern. See here:

 

If it weren't for O'Hare's strange behaviour, I'd not have seen it

Well, we found it, and we shovelled, and we shovelled, and we shovelled, to find the back tyre had gone flat. How to add insult to injury, eh?

Well, that was yesterday, late in the day. Today I'd like to say the sun is shining, the air is crisp, and all is done with the snow. But no, it be overcast, and there are "snow people" floating about in that air, still gracing the already white landscape with more of the white stuff. 

I know what you're going to say: this is Greenland getting even with us. But I had nothing to do with THAT. Anyway, back to more shovelling. 

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

He Grows What? And She Sells It?

26 January 2026

1147

R. Linda:

Where to begin? Crazy times make for crazy people and their choices. I live in a state where marijuana is not legal. But if you go to Maine, there are weed shops all over the place. Obviously, weed is legal there. With such a drug problem (fentanyl mainly) in the recreational state of New Hampshire, it is no wonder most are shy about legalising the recreational drug marijuana. So much for recreation. 

Anyway, you can imagine me surprise when, yesterday, in the midst of putting up the Christmas decorations (oh, don't get me started on THAT), the phone rang, and it was Tonya's Auntie Arlene. Now Tonya was in the attic with Guido, and to be honest, if I disturbed the putting away of decorations, they might not get put away. So reluctant to call Tonya to the phone, I told Auntie Arlene that Tonya was WAY UP in the attic, but she could chat with me while I put Christmas ornaments in boxes, and I'd relay any message she had for Missy Tonya. Well, the woman asked about the family and wanted pictures of the growing kiddos since she hadn't seen them in ages. I was thinking she's never seen any of them since they were born, but OK. Perhaps it is age, and she doesn't remember having seen any of them.

In turn, I asked about her not-so-wee ones, both adults and married with kiddos of their own. I was told that neither went to college and that both are doing well as a result. That gave me pause. College age was a long time ago, but OK. When did the subject of college come up? Had I missed something? She was talking about her grown kiddos, not her grandchildren. But if that referral was to NOW, I'd say, yeah, college doesn't guarantee a position anymore, but these people are around me age, which means when we were all college age, we either went or didn't. They did not, Tonya and I did. But to each his own, and I was a little confused as to where she was going with this. Why does that matter NOW?

Anyway, Auntie Arlene told me that her grandson and her daughter worked for the same establishment and had found their dream jobs (in spite of having no college for either (shrugging shoulders here)). I was thrilled for the mother and son. How nice, no college education and they made out anyway, bravo for them. Then Auntie Arlene said, "Yes, Jeffrey's a grower, and his mom sells it."

"What does he grow that she sells?" I asked, curious.

"He is a marijuana grower for the State of New Jersey, and she sells it."

At that time, both Guido and Tonya had come down for another load of Christmas decorations, and as I had the phone on speaker, they paused for a moment to listen. The accent is what got them both. Guido asked Tonya quietly, "Is that a New Jersey accent?" To which she nodded, and then quietly said to moi, "Is that Aunt Arlene?" To which I nodded, indeed, it was, you lucky girl!

Meanwhile, Auntie Arlene was expounding on how both had to take courses to get their certificates to grow and sell weed. This put Guido into fits of silent laughter as he went into the kitchen, unheard. This was all very interesting to him. He whispered so only Tonya and I could hear him, "I didn't know you could become a professional junkie supplier?"

As for Tonya, she was no better, holding her sides to keep from bursting out laughing; she thought it was crazy talk. Well, it could have been for all I knew. Auntie's conversation was subtly peppered with off-subject subjects! I felt like I was on a ride and had no clue where I'd end up. 

Auntie Arlene's daughter, as far as I knew, was a manager at a clothing store, doing very well, since she was a single mom raising Junior. I had no clue what Junior had been up to, but having seen pictures of him dressed rather strangely in high-fashion clothing, I was under the impression that his mother dressed him. I dunno. Was just weird.

To appreciate Tonya and Guido's reactions, you have to know that we are a non-tolerant of drugs family. If it isn't prescribed by the doctor, we don't indulge. We have seen too many drug deaths and been to too many funerals, so we don't see the good in masking reality when a sober reality keeps your brain functioning. Therefore, in experiencing life, we take the hurt with the laughter and appreciate the blessings we have, and instead of hiding from the negatives, we learn to deal with them and try to turn them into positive learning experiences.  

So, this conversation was different, to put it mildly. I wasn't about to hoist our beliefs on Auntie Arlene. If that is the life path chosen by Tonya's cousins, then so be it. No need to debate it. 

Then Auntie announces, "I'm a patriot!" 

I was confused because aren't we all? But then I realised she meant she was a Trumper. Well, OK, there, Auntie Arlene. This just made me realise I live in a different world. No one up here announces their political affiliation; you just "know" from how they talk and dress what they belong to. Then, to top it off, she said, "AND I believe in Jesus Christ!"

What was I, an Irish Catholic, to say to THAT? Well, I don't? Because that's not true. I thought perhaps this was really a one-upmanship conversation (onesided I will admit, as I wouldn't bite). I mean, she's entitled to her beliefs, but she must have decided that because I live in New England, my beliefs are the opposite of her own down in the Mid-Atlantic states? First, college; then weed; then political leanings; and finally, religious beliefs. 

Politics and religion don't mix, I always thought that. Who knew selling weed and college don't either? The worst kind of arguments are among family members over just those things. I gave over the phone to Tonya because I didn't know where Auntie was taking me. To drink most likely, and I don't do a whole lot of that, but now I be thinking because I'm Irish she must think naturally I be an alcoholic. 

I asked Tonya what the purpose of Auntie's call was besides giving me fodder for the blog. She said, "She wanted to stay in touch." 

"Well, OK. I thought it was all a bizarre howdy-do there, Tonya." I laughed.

"Yeah, I don't get the competition thing either, but I do remember when I lived in Jersey, everyone was very ambitious, dramatic and competitive. Nothing like the laid-back, mellow birds up here. So YOU got a taste of Jersey living." She said, laughing at me. 

And yes, yes, she is right. I know when the Dragon descends upon us, that mindset reigns until she leaves. She is always in competition with me little, apple-cheeked, grey-haired Mam when she's taken up residence. 

I have to wonder what I'd be like if I had moved to New Jersey instead of New Hampshire. I get shivers down me spine, just thinking about it. 

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Old Time News Reporting Proving Mathematics Was Not A Prerequisite To Report The News

24 January 2026

1146

R. Linda:

I was looking over me email when I saw my Ancestry.com flash up on the screen with an important hint about a distant relative, whose name I had never heard of and whom I had never known anyway. And for good reason on that last, he was born way before me time. I didn't immediately click on the hint; it took weeks, yes, it did, not from being lazy, but just not interested. However, when I clicked on Ancestry a little bit ago, I decided to look at the hint. It was a newspaper article from long ago. It said:

Six Men Injured in Melee at Shelby, Ind. Crown Point, Dec. 1906

At a dance at Shelby, John and Frank Lafferty were shot and probably fatally wounded. Frank O'Sullivan, who shot them, was in turn clubbed unmercifully and is in a critical condition. Six men were injured in the melee, and the scene in the dance hall was one of carnage. Three of the desperadoes are in the county jail. Two have escaped.

Okay, so let me get this straight: the Lafferty's were probably fatally wounded, Francis O'Sullivan is in hospital along with the Lafferty's. Now, three others are in jail, and two got away. Me math must be off, or the new article is leaving some "desperadoes" out of the mix. Six men were injured in the melee, but only three are accounted for in the article. If they were injured as badly as is indicated, then none of the three are in the goal. Or, does it mean 6 MORE got into it? Three of which are cooling their heels and heads in the nick, and two escaped . . . and the sixth one? Where is he? That's five accounted for, where is the sixth? All in all, there were three named individuals and six(?) unnamed, for a total of 9 personages involved in the melee, possibly. But the numbers don't add up to what the article says!

I be confused there, R. Linda! 

This relative, Mr. Francis (Frank) O'Sullivan, had left the old sod and moved to the land of opportunity in the late 1800s, way, way before I showed up on the scene. Because he moved to America, he wasn't included in everyday conversation back home, so out of sight, out of mind. His name and bad self became a distant memory, if any memory at all. As far as I know, he didn't write home, he didn't send money home, he never came back to visit, so what the deal was, I have notta clue.

I can only think this argy-bargy was nine men in their cups, fighting over either a woman, money, cheating at cards, or a family feud. Whatever it was, it turned nasty and violent, and I don't know the outcome. I have no real clue if the Lafferty's died of their wounds, or if O'Sullivan recovered or succumbed to his injuries, nor if the authorities tracked down the two escapees, or if anyone went on trial for any of that nonsense. I couldn't find a follow-up to the article, which makes me think everyone possibly went their merry way, or hobbled on their merry way. 

This sounds not at all unusual for nine Irishmen (I'm assuming that was the case) drinking together, with one accusing another of something and the rest joining in. I tell ya! There are a lot of good, upstanding, law-abiding O'Sullivans in this world, and I don't have the full story on old Francis here, but that bit of information has done nothing of importance to me family tree, so why? I guess it's a story to pass down, but not all the information is there. So Francis could have been the instigator, or he could have been the victim of something he took exception to. 

It baffles me as to why I needed to know that? However, if I need to read that article, so do you, for no other reason but the knowledge, early reporters did not know their mathmatical equations, OR, they weren't really at the scene of he crime, and so with sketchy information published second hand information that as you see is not too much different from todays reporting of events . . . or anything for that matter. Nothing has changed, has it? 

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved