Wow! Compared to last winter, this one has been a breeze, hasn’t it? (Knock on wood.) Good thing, too. I don’t think Charlie’s back couldn’t have taken another February like the one we had in 2015. Because even with a plow on your truck, you still gotta snow blow the paths to the shed and the mailbox and for the oil and gas dilivery guys. Then, there’s shoveling off the deck and the steps and don’t forget, raking the roof. Swear to God, I think we still had piles of unmelted snow into April! But this winter, we’ve actually seen the grass between small dumpings of the white stuff. And some days, it’s felt like …

A few weeks ago, my Dad calls me up for a little advice. “Ida,” he says, “a friend of mine wants to sell his condo, and he’s on the third floor. Where does he bury St. Joseph if he doesn’t really have a yard?” “Gee, beats me. Let me do a little research, Dad, and I’ll get back to you.” “Thanks, honey.” You’ve heard of this, right? You want to sell your house, so you bury a statue of St. Joseph upside down in the yard. You do a novena every day for nine days, St. Joseph puts in a word with the Big Guy, and you sell you house lickety-split. We did this when …

Last week, I’m drivin’ back from Bangor where I’d been (what else) shopping. It’s a new year, and I decided to freshen up our bathroom with new towels. You know it’s bad when your husband notices. “Charlie, what’s up with the beach towel in the bathroom?” “Geesh, the ones we’re usin’ are the worse for wear, kind of thin and scratchy, so I thought I’d give that one a go instead.” “You’re right, we do have an Econo Lodge kind of thing goin’ on. I’ve been too busy to deal with it. But things have quieted down. I’ll get right on it. You know how much I love a shoppin’ assignment.” “That I do, dear. …

Public service reminder: if a chunk of something, say a sweet potato, is stuck in your immersion blender, always unplug it before stickin’ your finger up near the blades to clear the gunk away.

Me and the Women Who Run With the Moose not only survived Black Friday, we had a heck of a good time to boot. Nothin’ new there. Though, to be honest, my right arm is still feelin’ a little wonky. Must’ve strained it carrying all those shoppin’ bags and my purse, of course, which my sister Irene calls “the overnight bag.” Even though I try to remember to switch off, I always tend to carry the heaviest stuff with my right arm. Gotta say, smart phones and textin’ have made things so much easier. For a casual shoppin’ trip, me and the girls tend to stick together. But all bets are off on Black Friday …

There’s a couple here in Mahoosuc Mills who are so cheap, they squeak when they walk. They have everything budgeted right down to the penny. And, get this, they have to account to each other for every, single cent they spend. I’m mean, they buy a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, they get a receipt and fess up. I witnessed this very thing at Cumbies over the weekend. This guy asked for a receipt for his pack of gum! I’m all for havin’ a budget, but you know what? I’m too old for extreme anything. Even with the tightest of budgets, I believe you each need a little fun money to spend anyway you want …

My Grandmother, Dora Gilbert, used to freeze her garbage. This was in the days before garbage disposals, so there was a lot to freeze. But she didn’t let that intimidate her. For Dora, freezing garbage was more than just a way to keep it from stinking. It was an art form. I can see my grandmother now standing in her immaculate kitchen, a little Franco-American woman with permed gray hair, full make-up, a house dress, nylon stockings, sensible shoes and a bib apron, carefully wrapping her garbage in little foil packets. ‘Course there’s nothing really unusual about freezing garbage. Not in my family, anyway. We all freezes our garbage. Having a garbage disposal doesn’t really …

Saturday morning, Charlie and me went out for breakfast down to the Busy Bee. Now that Labor Day has passed, the tourists are thinning out, so us locals can actually get a seat. My sister Irene and her husband Jimbo were planning to meet us there. We arrive to find them sitting at an outdoor table, shooting the breeze with Craig Holden. “Hey there, Craig,” I says. “How you doing?” Gosh, Craig must be in his forties now. He’s Snowdell Holden’s grandson. Snowdell’s the former postmistress of Mahoosuc Mills, and reigning grand poobah of the local chapter of the Red Hatters. But that’s another story. Jimbo goes, “Craig’s trying to unload a rooster.” “Would you …

So, I’m working checkout at the A&P, right? When I hear this conversation out of the corner of my ear: two women, voices lowered, talking fast in a urgent sort way. I mean, who wouldn’t listen in? “He wakes me up every morning at 5:00.” “Every morning?” “Like clockwork. I don’t mind it so much on week days. I have to be up for work, anyways. But, it’s the weekends, too.” “You think he’d let you sleep in at least one morning.” “Nope. He just won’t give it a rest. At first I thought it was kind of  cute, you know? But frankly, it’s wearing me down!” “I don’t blame you. Not every morning.” Well, …

Well, we had an incident up to Dot and Tommy’s camp this weekend that was wicked embarrassing. It’s really Charlie’s story to tell, so I’ll let him. After all, he is, by default, the Poet Laureate of Mahoosuc Mills. Stinkfoot, by Charlie LeClair Sunday, Ida, me and Scamp We’re up to Dot and Tommy’s camp All the gang were comin’, too Tommy planned a barbeque His plans, alas, were all in vain When darn, if it began to rain “Bring the food in!” Tommy cried And we were forced to move inside There we ate, and all was well ‘til some of them complained of smell I thought the hubbub was excessive But soon the …