A Community Newsletter by and for the residents of Copley Woodlands January 2013

This beautiful view of the “Sap Moon” will loom in the woods sooner than we anticipate. As days be-gin to warm, but nights remain cold, buckets or lines appear on the trees to catch the running sap. The sight of these sugar houses in the Vermont countryside, their light creating golden windows on the snow and plumes of smoke curling out the chimneys remind us that spring cannot be far behind. The stalwart folks who must man the sugaring process day and night know all about storytelling, comfort foods and strong coffee. If they are lucky, they will welcome a few neighbors during their long vigils. In our com-fortable homes, we create cozy corners and hideaways where we can curl up with a favorite book. We make forays outside to enjoy “sugar on snow” or the antics of the courting red squirrels. Enjoy this fleet-ing moment between seasons. It is unique to this part of the world. Ann Dwyer

“Sap Moon” by Mary Azarian

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OUR STORIES

“Education is the most powerful weapon you can use to change the world.” Nelson Mandela

SUGARING: A CHILDHOOD

MEMORY

Some of the happiest days of my childhood were spent in the sugar lot with my Dad. We left home early, maybe around seven, with our lunch packed. We always had eggs to be cooked, bread, coffee, doughnuts, baked beans and some-times cookies.

While my Dad got the fire going, the hired man hitched up the horses ready to gather sap. We used a sleigh with a large vat to hold the sap. We went from tree to tree emptying each bucket into the big tub. When it was full, we went back to the sugarhouse, emptied it, and started out again.

Sometimes we had extra excitement when someone fell into the brook. We dried by the fire and started off again.

Lunch was special with eggs boiled in the sap, baked beans, toast, doughnuts and coffee.

My Dad came home every night, completely exhausted, but eagerly anticipating the next day. These were memories of my childhood I shall never forget. My Dad was always special to me.

Sylvia Nichols

NOT WAFFLES FOR SUPPER

When I was growing up, Sunday always meant going to church, then home for a lovely Sunday Dinner. The afternoons were filled with activities of choice, among them, my parents favorite, was listening to the symphony. Mine was putting off the inevitable homework. After hours of daydreaming, it was accomplished.

Sunday evening meant supper. It was a smaller meal, usually served from the tea wagon around the fire in winter. It was a nice ending to an otherwise ordinary Sunday, until my Fa-ther decided waffles would be nice. To my so-phisticated twelve-year-old palate, I protested, "Waffles are for breakfast!" However my Father held fast. I still hold on to my belief.

Ann Williams

AN UNUSUAL CHILDHOOD

I was born in Greenwich, Connecticut and lived there for three years when my parents di-vorced and I went to live with my grandparents in Englewood, New Jersey. I lived with them very happily until I was ten, when my father remarried and we went to live in Manhattan. I never liked my stepmother. She was a profes-sional singer and I am sure, never wanted me either. We moved to Scarsdale, New York when I was thirteen and at fifteen my father reenlisted in the Navy. I went to Gould Academy, a board-ing school in Bath, Maine. Here I met many friends, including my future husband. Many of those classmates remain close to me today. My grandparents were at our wedding. Then my husband and I lived on the GI bill—cheap. So I learned to live very differently, but have had a wonderful life.

Pat Moore

“Time spent with cats is never wasted.” Sigmund Freud

OUR STORIES

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OUTLAWS, INDIANS AND SMOL-DERING ASHES

This is about Quantrill’s 1863 raid on Law-rence, Kansas, the only survivor of the 1876 Bat-tle of the Little Big Horn, and how an Eskimo almost burned down my garage.

Starting in June 1970 I spent over a year in graduate school at the University of Kansas (KU) in Lawrence. It was a good university in a nice small town with nice people and an inter-esting history. Haskell Institute, a Federal trade and high school for American Indians, was also in Lawrence.

During the Civil War there were some mounted outlaw bands that attacked individu-als and unprotected towns. Since those guerril-las were almost entirely pro-Confederate and were raiding pro-Union towns, the Confederate Army did not divert any of its cavalry to polic-ing the bands of bandits. At dawn on August 21, 1863, William C. Quantrill and his gang of al-most 450 mounted men, including Frank and Jesse James, rode into Lawrence. They burned, plundered, robbed and left over 185 men and boys dead. 107 years later, while inside the bank, I noticed bullet holes in their pressed-tin ceiling. When I asked the teller about those holes, she said, “Oh, it was that darned Quan-trill.”

At the Battle of the Little Big Horn in 1876, Lieu-tenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer’s Seventh US Cavalry was surrounded and wiped out by the largest force of Plains Indians ever recorded. Custer ordered his men to form a circle on a hilltop and to shoot their own horses so they could fight from be-hind the carcasses. The cavalry fought to the last man but was overwhelmed by the Sioux and Chey-enne warriors. All the soldiers were killed and all but Custer were scalped. However, when troops from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas arrived later, they found a cavalry horse named Comanche severely wounded but still alive. They took Comanche home to Fort Leavenworth, nursed him back to health, and kept him as a mascot. When he finally died, they gave him to a KU professor in Lawrence, who was also a taxidermist. He stuffed Comanche and put him in the KU Natural History Museum, where he still stands, complete with a cavalry saddle. In 1970 the sign on Comanche’s case claimed he was, “The only survivor of the Custer Massacre.” One morning I came out of class and found myself in the midst of an Indian uprising. The area in front of the museum was full of Indians from Haskell carrying signs with slogans like, “Lots of Indians survived the Battle of the Little Big Horn,” and “Custer had it coming!”

I was an over-committed graduate student, my wife started a business downtown, and we had a new baby. So we found an Eskimo girl at Haskell to clean house for us once a week. She had come all the way from Alaska by bus and said the most excit-ing part of the trip was seeing her first cow. She was from a primitive village but was a good and thor-ough house cleaner. One day she cleaned the ashes out of our fireplace, wrapped them in newspapers, and put them in a plastic garbage can in our garage.

That evening, when I checked the back door I saw flames in our garage. I ran out, opened the door, and backed out the car, which—with its tank of gasoline—was about a foot from the flames on the garage wall. About ten garages, all filled with cars

(continued on page 4) Commanche at Little Big Horn

hard at home sometimes: his mother never let him do anything. He walked over to where Joe was waiting. “Yeah, I just had some chores to do—but I can stay all afternoon!”

The sun was high that warm Saturday in May as the boys walked along the edge of the inlet. A brisk on-shore breeze rippled the surface water. “What d’ya wanna do today?” Joe asked him as they paused to climb over a big rock in the path.

“I dunno—why don’t we just sit here for a while?”

They passed over the rock and sat down, their feet dangling over the side of the bank, and were silent for a few moments. Al twisted the lush grass between his fingers and pulled up a clump.

“Say, Joe—do you ever wonder what you’ll do when you grow up? “Where you’ll live? - things like that?”

“Gee, I dunno—never think about it much.” Joe looked out across the marsh. “Pa says I’ll have to work with him this summer now that I’m goin’ into high school. But I dunno what I wanna do af-ter that.” He turned to Al. “Why?”

“Oh, I just think about it sometimes. I know I wanna get outa this—away from home—maybe join the Coast Guard or something.’” Al tossed a pebble into the water.

“Really? That’d be swell!” Joe looked down at his feet. “I’ll probably go into my pa’s business; take over the hardware store someday. That’s what he keeps tellin’ me I’m gonna do.” He picked up a stone and tossed it from one hand to the other. “But I keep thinkin’ I’d like to do somethin’ on my own—ya know what I mean?” He stood up and threw his rock out across the water.

Al joined him. “Hey ! Let’s see if we can hit that piling over there!”

(continued on page 5)

OUR STORIES

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“You can’t turn the wind, so turn the sail.” Kofi Annan

all filled with gasoline, were connected with common walls so one fire could destroy them all—and probably all the condos also. My fire extinguisher saved all the garages but it was a close call. I told our Eskimo house cleaner to leave the fireplace cleaning to me.

Eskimos probably do not have fireplaces in

their igloos. Tom McKenna

THE OLD SHOE

The ice glistened smoothly, enclosing the blades of dead marsh grass without quite touching them. The sun had come out from behind its cloud cover an hour ago, and while the air was cold, the sun’s rays felt warm against the old man’s face even as they loos-ened the glassy grip that had bound the dead stalks all night.

Joseph looked up. A small flock of gulls huddled together out on the ice. Across the frosty marsh he noticed how the morning sunlight shone horizontally against the oaks, the few remaining dead leaves sparkling. The clear air felt good to breathe; he carefully in-haled, filling his lungs. He looked down at the icy mud at his feet and poked at it with his shoe, breaking up the melting mass.

Glancing along the edge of the inlet, Jo-seph’s eyes settled upon an object a few feet away: a shoe half buried in the frozen mud, its leather torn and dry. He used to wear high shoes like that as a boy, he remembered sud-denly. All the boys did. I used to come down here all the time— here along this inlet! Albert and I used to fish right over there under the rail-way bridge.

“Hi, Al! - got away from yer ma I see,” Joe called out from across the empty log. They had planned yesterday after school to meet there today. Al wasn’t sure he could. Life was

“Yeah— just watch me!” Joe exclaimed.

The old man said it out loud as he tried to throw the rock hard. It hurt his shoulder and didn’t travel more than a few feet.

“Come on, Dad, we’ve got to get home,” a middle-aged woman carrying several shopping bags called out as she approached him standing there on the bank. “Dad—hey are you all right?” she asked, wrinkling her brow. “Gosh, I wish you wouldn’t wander off like that. I thought you said you were going to stay in the car.”

Joseph glanced at the sky—it was clouding over again. He turned. “Oh—Sylvia, I was just lookin’ at the ice. There’s a shoe there see? - right there in the frost.” He pointed down, near his feet.

“Yes, Daddy—come on, now—another snow storm’s coming” She took his arm gently, guid-ing him into the supermarket parking lot, and helped him into the car. “Your shoes are all muddy, Dad. What were you doing out there?”

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“Why do I write? It beats lifting heavy things. I am proof positive that someone

who is totally average can write.” Your Editor

OUR STORIES

“I’M LEAVING ON A JET PLANE, DON’T KNOW WHEN I’LL BE BACK

AGAIN.” (John Denver)

I was discharged from the Air Corps at the end of WWII and used The GI Bill to get my college education at Texas Christian Univer-sity and the University of Vermont. I then began teaching, but continued to brush up with the Air Corps reserves in Bangor Maine for six summers.

The first sergeant at the airbase wouldn’t let

Peter Pindar Stearns

From his book, The Garden And Other Stories

me hang out there. He said, “I don’t want to see you!” I wasn’t so easily dispensed. A teacher I knew had a father in Congress and I soon got a call from Westover Air Force Base in Massachu-setts. Along with a busload of kids and parent chaperones, we headed for Maine. There were ae-rial tankers (for mid-air refueling) that the kids found exciting.

In the meantime, I was taken aside at the gate, outfitted for flight and told what to do and not to do. “DON’T PUSH THAT BUTTON!” That was the ejection button on a plane that ejected down-ward. Not a good idea on the tarmac. We flew to Long Island and out over the Sound, then circled and headed for Vermont. The pilot asked if I would like a “roll-over,” and I said an emphatic, “NO!”

When I returned, we all headed to the Mess Hall for lunch. The kids were impressed when some guards entered with prisoners. A wish ful-filled, a day to remember! Nick Paris

A sculpture of blackbirds ‘singing’ in the snow -

“Do Re Mi Fa So” Or are they just hungry?

Papa Bird conducts with the baton in his beak.

Photo by Agnes Lintermann

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“I keep politics and humor in the same file folder.” An Undisclosed Journalist

OUR STORIES

CHRISTMAS DINNER

Years ago, I watched the newly popular French Chef show on television, where Julia Child baked Beef Wellington--a whole beef tenderloin in a pas-try crust. I decided to make this splendid crea-tion for our traditional Christmas Dinner. For two days the beef languished in our refrigerator in a heady marinade of onions, carrots, celery, sage, bay leaf, allspice berries, peppercorns, ver-mouth and cognac. On the third day there was a preliminary short roasting, to “stiffen” the meat. . Two pounds of mushrooms were finely minced, sauteed in butter with shallots, then bathed in Madeira, and beat together with mousse de foie gras. Into the fridge this went alongside the meat. On the fourth day, puff pastry was baked on a tin to create a “cradle” for the meat and more puff pastry was placed in the fridge for the “big day.” Day five was “creation day.” The meat, swathed in the mushroom and foie gras, went into its “cradle” and was topped with more buttery pas-try and decorative cutouts, before baking. It was received at the table with “OOO’s” and “AHHHHS.” After our boys grew up and left home, son Erik called one Christmas morning and said,” I bought a beef tenderloin. Now how do I make the Beef Wellington?” To which I re-plied, “First you start five days ago!”

Ann Dwyer

Ann Dwyer’s

Beef

Wellington

A WINNING RECIPE

Many years ago when my first two children were about eight and ten I used to try some differ-ent foods and recipes for our dinner. I could only do this when my husband was out at sea as he was a “picky” eater and refused to try anything different, especially casseroles or lamb. (He was in the South Pacific during WWII and had mutton for breakfast, lunch and dinner.) So one day I looked through a new recipe book and discovered “Molasses Meat Balls.” We three liked molasses so I made them and upon serving dinner, one bite was enough (in fact too much). They were aw-ful!!!! We went out for our meal that night.

Fast forward about 40 years — My daughter Anne was coming home from Burlington and lis-tening to the radio. Some DJ asked people to call him with the worst recipe they had ever experi-enced. Anne called him on her cell phone (hands free) and told him about the molasses meatballs. A few days later she received a gift certificate for 2 meals at a restaurant in Burlington. My recipe won first prize!!! Pat Watson

There were more hungry chickadees than the feeder

could hold, so I put some seeds in a clementine box.

Photo by Agnes Lintermann

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“As olde wood is best to burne; old horse to ride, old bookes to reade, and old wine to drinke;

so are old friends always trusty to use.” Oliver Goldsmith

OUR HALLOWEEN PARTY

Our annual Halloween party was held on Friday evening, October 26th in our Copley Woodlands living room and dining room. There were Halloween decorations and plenty of hors d’oeuvres, wine, and punch. It was well attended and most of us were in costume; some fancy, some simple, but all interesting.

Two strange characters showed up. One was a guy wearing a fez who claimed he was from Istanbul. His “fez” was familiar but I couldn’t remember his name. The other stranger was an exotic looking blond. Nobody could guess who she was but she won First Prize for the best cos-tume. Her prize was an apple pie baked by our chef Steve Hemenway whenever she asked for it.

That evening, after dinner, Young Franken-stein, Mel Brooks’ comedy spoof of the old Frankenstein movies, was shown in our meet-ing room. Tom McKenna

ACTIVITIES

OSHER Osher is named after a family in South Carolina who have donated millions of dollars to the pro-gram—two million to Vermont alone. Our pro-grams this year are very diverse, as we try to find something to appeal to everyone. We found that we have succeeded in doing just that this year. Please give us a try. I am sure you will walk away satisfied. We meet on Wednesdays at 1:30 at the Town and Country Motel on Mountain Road. Pro-grams last approximately one to one and one-half hours. Our Woodlands van can drive you to and from the meeting. See you there.

Pat Moore, a long-time Osher member

Tom McKenna and Pat Moore in costume

A CHRISTMAS STORY

Dylan Thomas visited us in the person of our

old friend, Jim Leahy. It seems to be a tradition

now to ask Jim to read the wonderful story

poem, A Child’s Christmas in Wales. It is an un-

forgettable trip into the sights, smells and

sounds of a long-ago Christmas. Jim tells us

that his home is full of returning children and

grandchildren. A grandson and his wife have

moved into the renovated barn, and their baby

was born in the stable with the father in atten-

dance. Ann Dwyer

Hallie, Ann W., Pat W. and Ann D. enjoying

lunch at Fridas. Photo by Cathy Wright

A FESTIVE EXHIBIT

Most residents of Copley Woodlands are familiar with the many lovely wreaths on our walls at Christmas as well as other holiday decorations. Fourth Floor residents know about the varied displays that change fre-quently outside apartment 401. All have been made by Shirley Apperson who lives at Unit # 401.

Shirley is a very creative and imaginative person with a positive view of life, and is also incredibly well organized, and a delightful and informed tablemate when she joins us for meals.

At any time, do go down the ramp from the living room, take the elevator to the Fourth Floor and turn left for a few yards to see what Shirley has cooked up that month.

Woodlands Reflections January 2013 Page 8

“Some luck lies in not getting what you thought you wanted which, once you have it,

you may be smart enough to see what you would have wanted had you known.”

ACTIVITIES

Copley Woodlands hosted a Bridge Social

on October 12, 2012 which was enjoyed by

residents and community members

Photo by Gale Martin

Eleanor Paris helps Penny and Cathy

trim the Christmas tree

Photo by Gale Martin

Members of the Lamoille Union High School

Tri—Music Honor Society entertained us with

Christmas carols on December 19, 2012

Photo by Gale Martin

TEA AND READ

Ten of us met in the living room on Sunday evening October 14th for Tea and Read. Some of us read some-thing interesting or talked about a book we found interesting. Others just listened and enjoyed the discussion, the tea, and a big plate of cookies.

Bob Nielsen read a poem he wrote for his granddaughter Lindsey's wedding to Brian. It was titled "Life is Good" and was well received at the wedding reception.

Eleanor Paris read two poems from A Book of Family Poems, edited by Caroline Kennedy. They were "Happiness" by A. A. Milne and "Bed in Summer" by Robert Lewis Stevenson. Some of us remembered that last one from our childhood:

"In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day."

Agnes Lintermann recommended a new book In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler's Berlin by Erik Larson. It is about William E. Dodd, a history professor rather than a Foreign Service officer, who was the American ambassador to Nazi Germany from 1933 to 1937. The book's title comes from the Berlin Zoo, the Tiergarten, or "garden of beasts" because Ambassador Dodd lived in the upscale neighbor-hood near the Tiergarten.

Pat Moore read an essay "Bra Shopping" from She Walks in Beauty, a book of stories collected by Caroline Kennedy.

Tom McKenna talked about two books he parted with when moving. One was The Fires of Spring, an auto-biography by James Michner about growing up in a Quaker orphanage. The other book was The Collapse of the Third Republic by William L. Shirer about the fall of France in 1940.

Ann Dwyer read two true stories from a book of stories written by former students at Woodstock, her high school in the Garwal Mountains in northern India. One was about a seven-foot long king cobra which Ann's boyfriend shot and the other was about a boy who went for an unauthorized wild ride on the cowcatcher of an Indian steam train hurtling across the plains at night.

Tom McKenna

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“Youth is the time for the adventure of the body, but age for the triumphs of the mind.” Kenneth Grahame

ACTIVITIES

Woodlands Reflections January 2013 Page 10

ACTIVITIES

Residents enjoyed our Annual Wassail Party with friends and family.

Photo by Ann Williams

NORTH COUNTRY ANIMAL LEAGUE PET MENAGERIE

Above left: Marge holds Marissa ~~~~~~~Above right: Shiloh meets Woodrow

We look forward to their next visit on February 13th

Photos by Gale Martin

“Money will buy a fine dog, but only kindness will make him wag his tail.” Anonymous

Woodlands Reflections January 2013 Page 11

“If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man’s life

sorrow enough to disarm all hostility. We are, after all, engaged in a common struggle to

sustain ourselves and find our place in the world.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

WE COME AND WE GO

OUR NEW RESIDENTS

We welcome PETER and MARCIA STEARNS. Both are musicians. Peter is an organist, choral con-ductor and composer, born in New York to a family of musicians. After receiving his degree from Man-nes Music School in New York, he remained on the faculty there for 32 years and was head of the Com-position Department. Marcia was a student there, majoring in Music Theory. Together they have raised three children—an actress, a violinist, and an organic seed producer. They live with two puppies and two kitties, and add much to our Woodlands community. Ann Dwyer

HALLIE BOWSER is the most recent addition to our community. She came to us from Syracuse, New York. Hallie had two sons, Paul Kartluke and Brett Kartluke, who is deceased. Paul Kartluke and his wife Leslie live in Stowe. Leslie, is a registered nurse and has been with Lamoille County Home Health and Hospice for ten years. They have two daughters, Sarah, a student at Notre Dame, and Kelley a student at Montana State College.

Hallie enjoys following basketball, golf and football on television. In Syracuse, she belonged to the Cavalry Club with other sports enthusiasts. She likes a game called Bonko, played with domino tiles. She welcomes any residents who also enjoy that game to play with her. Ann Dwyer

BOB QUINN moved to The Woodlands from Waterbury Center, but his life to this point has taken him all over the world. He hardly seems retired, as he is busy every day taking care of the many proper-ties he owns. He was in the Korean War, has taught English and coached at Johnson State and St. Mi-chael’s colleges. He had a long career with the Japanese ski company, Yamaha. The company sent him, as their sales and marketing representative, all over the world, and to the Olympics. He said that the Japanese were wonderful employers. Bob’s family includes two sons; James, a businessman in Waterbury, and Robert, who lives in North Carolina and works with CBS in the field of sports. He also has a daughter, Mary Beth, who lives in Stowe and is a consultant to new businesses. Bob is proud of his Irish heritage, has dual citizenship, and can tell you much about his fascinating genealogy.

Ann Dwyer

DINING ROOM STAFF

We welcome TREVOR NEWTON to our dining room staff. He is a patient and careful server. Trevor lives with his family in Morrisville near Copley Hospital. Konnor, another server, is his brother. Trevor attends Peoples Academy. His favorite subjects and activities are sports, including soccer and golf, and the Drama Club. He hopes to go to college and is considering the military. Ann Dwyer

Woodlands Reflections January 2013 Page 12

Ann Dwyer—Editor

Gale Martin—Publisher

On the Internet via copleywoodlands.com

IN MEMORIAM

They were good neighbors and will be missed.

We remember PRUE WEBB for her elegance, grace, beauty and her undying love for her husband Don. We enjoyed her stories of an interesting childhood, her piano and her quiet presence.

MARION FESTA will be remembered for her easy smile and hand wave, her big books about his-tory, her chair by the fireplace and her love for her husband Knute and daughters Wallie and Paula. She was a one-woman welcoming committee.

ARLENE OLESEN was as gracious as she was beautiful. She faced difficult times with uncom-plaining stoicism. She was a devoted mother to her sons. She was an artist who reflected the loveliness of the natural world. Ann Dwyer

Stopping by Woods On a Snowy Evening

POETRY CORNER

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep.

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost