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 …

Summer’s startin’ to rev up, here in Mahoosuc Mills. The last couple of winter’s have been something else, huh? Which makes me appreciate these long, hot, sunny days even more. Insects buzzin,’ bird’s singin,’ flower’s bloomin’, their colors eye poppin’ against the green of our lawns. The clothes on lines, with their bright colors flappin’ in the breeze do my heart good. It’s always such a hopeful time, isn’t it? The world filled with promise. Graduation season is upon us. I love seeing the kids in their prom dresses and tuxes, posin’ for photos in their front yard. The boys still look like boys to me, but the girls? Man, oh, man! I can’t remember …

Now, as many of you know, a women’s relationship with her hair stylist is a special one, and mine is no exception. It’s a bond born of loyalty, rooted in trust. Heck, no one knows your head like your hair stylist. The way I see it, you’re on a journey together, through the ever changing seas of style. Some storms you weather better than others, but you don’t just jump ship on a whim. Gynecologists come and go, but let’s face it: with hair dressers, you’re in for the long haul. I’ve been going to Pasty since she graduated from Bangor School of Cosmetology and opened Hair Affair some twenty-five years ago. Always on Saturday …

You know how we tend to confide in our hairdresser or bartender? As a cashier down to the A&P, folks tend to confide in me, too, even if they don’t always know they’re doin’ it. ‘Cause checkin’ out a person’s groceries is more intimate than you image. You know who’s drinkin’ a little too much, who has a Doritos habit and who’s addicted to the National Inquirer. You see the same folks once a week, minimum, and you can kind of sense whether they’re feelin’ their oats or not. So I’m workin’ register 3 per usual, cashin’ out Roberta “Bobbie” Robbins, makin’ conversation, like you do. “How’s that cute little dog of yours? Blah, blah. …