Edie Wicks

Edith Ann Wicks, a friend, a girlfriend, and a lover. She was a neighbor and we became romantically involved in my sophomore, her freshman, year of highschool. we broke up twice, (slow learners,) and today I'm here to say, too late, I'm sorry for the way I ended our relationshps, twice. I was a cad, a scoundrel and you deserved much better. Edith Wicks DeConno died on January 6, 2025. She started her journey on the road of life 1 year and 3 months after me. Fate, whatever that is, brought her to the finish line ahead of me, to my chagrin. Many times over the years spent on this journey, I've contemplated trying to get in touch with Edie to offer my sincerest apology for my ungentlemanly behavior in terminating our relationship, but alas, for many reasons, mostly believing that she would not care to hear from me ever again, I failed to act and now it's too late. Some might say; young love is a fagile relationship that often ends as the lovers grow and move on. For sure, that is the case. I have been through many romantic relationships (okay a few is a more appropriate word than many.) that once ended, left me with no desire to revisit. Edie loved me with all her being and each time I left her, it broke her heart. From her obit, it appears that she moved on and married and had a close loving relationship for 55 years, decorated with children and grandchildren and friends. I wish with all my heart that this is true, and that after a short time, she never gave thought to me again. I will carry this regret with me these last few steps to the end of the road of life, which looms closer and closer with each step. Perhaps on the other side our paths will converge once again. If we are in the same place, I pray forgiveness abounds. RIP Edie.

hope

Yes, Barb. Hope is what carries us through changing times. We hope, as our ancestors did, that we will return from the battle fields. We hope for success and happiness for our children, our friends and neighbors. Hope is the child of love. Hope is the antidote for despair. 

As I sit, daily, on my porch, in the wee early morning, I sip my elixir, read my friend's words, and gaze at the flickering candlelight, renew my faith that all will be as it should be. I vow to change the things I can and leave the rest to God... And hope.

Frank C. Larock

Frank Charles (Xavier) LaRock Frank LaRock was born in Ogdensburg, NY in 1879; the 6th child of John Noel and Matilda Farrand LaRock. I have limited information of his early life. However, deducing from birthdates, I know the first 3 of his 11 children were born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I have a photo-postcard of Frank driving a horse drawn hack(taxi) in that city. Anecdotal lore says that in 1910 he was living in Ogdensburg, NY. For an unspecified period of time he worked with/for his brothers, James and Joseph, both of whom each operated a grocery store in Ogdensburg. In 1915 he became the owner/renter of the building, on Main Street in Morristown, NY. where the current Post Office is housed. I’m unsure of ownership because the family resided in a number of homes in the village; Uncle Tom was born in 1916 in the home on Morris St. across the street from Howard Warren’s. My dad, Robert, was born in 1920 in the double apartments on Water St. I have a portrait of the family sitting on the veranda of that home. From 1915 ‘til 1923-24 Frank operated a general store in the building on Main Street. In 1923, Franks wife, Mary Story LaRock died at age 43 of Bright’s disease (nephritis.) At that time the family was living in the apartment over the store. Henry Dake took over the store circa 1924. In 1927, Frank’s oldest brother, Joseph LaRock, operated the store as a dish-ware store until his death in 1937. Gloria Johnson welcomed me and my family to Morristown in 1975 and presented me with a pair of porcelain cups and saucers from a child’s set, that was given to her when she was a child, living across from the store by Joseph’s wife, Nell Dickinson LaRock, as a Christmas gift. ————— ———- ————. ———— ————- ———— ———- ———- ———— ——- Frank went to work as a traveling salesman for the Miller Paper Company. (Chuck Kelly’s Dad, John, told me he worked with my grandfather, Frank, at that time.) Frank remarried a spinster and Village librarian, Ethel Ackerman, they resided in a home across Gouveneur Street from Howard Scott’s. That house has, since, been torn down. Frank died in 1933 at age 54 of stomach cancer under the care of Ogdensburg surgeon, Dr. J. E. Free. Jimmy Smithers (Jane Smither’s dad) told me about the day Joseph LaRock died; at the time Joe and Nell resided in the apartments over the store. Joe scummed to a heart attack. Apparently Joe was a large man of 300 lbs or so. The Morristown fireman had quite a time getting Joe’s body down those narrow stairs on the outside of the store leading up to the apartment. Joesph, it’s said, cheated his siblings out of their inheritance when his parents died. And his wife, Nell, said to have been a prostitute from Oswego when he married her, ran off with all his money with her boyfriend. Joesph is buried in Oswego.

Autumn chorus

 

Good morning, my fellow early morning risers. While many of us relish this opportunity to catch a glimpse of a brilliant full moon traversing the sky or the August Perseid shower or even to just gaze upon the myriads of twinkling star light, I relish the appearance of things closer to my perch on my veranda while enjoying my fist cuppa by candlelight; white tail deer browsing my apple tree drops 20 yards away. This morning, I was greeted by the love songs of bow strings present only in late summer: this cool late August brought the persistent cacophony of cricket mating season! Male crickets in untold numbers are singing; choose me, choose me. For its the female who chooses their mate. Rejoice, it's cricket mating season. Love songs fill the air.

Is it ok to be boring?

A friend posted this on Face Book recently and it got me to thinking, is it ok to be boring? which, in turn reminded me of the time I took my youngest son to work with me in the summer between his high school graduation and beginning his freshman year of college.  Since neither of my older 2 children showed any interest in the healthcare field, I felt I should, at least, expose my last child to the health care field through the lens of my vocation of Nurse anesthetist (CRNA.)

He came to the operating room for the day and was able to observe both a couple of surgical procedures as well as me administering anesthesia.

On the drive home at the end of the day I asked him. "So, what did you think of surgery and anesthesia?"

Now for reference sake; one of the surgical procedures was a rectal procedure.

"As far as surgery goes," he says, "I could have gone my whole life without seeing that and been ok with that!"

"And anesthesia?" I prompted again.

"I don't want to offend you dad, but anesthesia is pretty boring."

He went on to say, "I know you want it to be boring, dad, because if it's not boring then something is going wrong, and the patient is in danger." But still, it's boring.

I went on to explain that the art and science of administering anesthesia requires intense knowledge as how to make anesthesia safe and boring.  A high percentage of surgical patient's greatest fear is the fear of not waking up from anesthesia.  I do my best to have each patient have the most boring and safe anesthetic possible.

And you may ask, what career did my son pursue?  Why, the exciting and dynamic profession of CPA (certified public accountant.)

From time to time, I ask my son in conversation; "what exciting things did you do at work today?"

Reminiscences with an old friend

 

Al Premo

Where to begin?

Spending a good number of evenings at the Iron Horse Grill since they opened here on Main Street, I'm happy/sad to say that on too many nights, the only people I know in a bar full of patrons are the bartender and waitresses.  Happy because it's an indication of how successful this place is, but sad that I've reached a time in my life where my friends and acquaintances are fading away.

It's here, in my doddering years, that on a dozen or less occasions I have been fortunate to become reacquainted with a classmate from our high school years; Al Premo.  Al has a home in Ogdensburg and, also, a place on the river here in Morristown.  When in Morristown, and it's his night to cook, he stops into the Iron Hore Grill to purchase pizza to go.  Most times he'll order a beer, which he rarely if ever finishes, while waiting for his pizza.  I don't think he ever orders ahead.  Last night Al arrived shortly after me and we shook hands and said our; good to see you agains.  He ordered a veggie pizza with extra veggies but no beer, took a seat on the bar stool next to me and, as always, we chatted along easily with no pregnant pauses.

Al was a year behind me in school and we didn't hang in the same social clicks.  We had something stronger; we were both athletes, playing first baseball together for 8 or 9 years and second, we played football together.  So, as you might imagine, we have endless reminiscences to exchange.

Last night started out differently.  Al says, "I've got a bat in my house. I've tried everything to knock him down, but without success. In fact, I almost fell through a window while trying to bat the bat with a broom." After many unsuccessful attempts with various 'weapons' he said he felt like he been through a vigorous workout and was sweating profusely."  Mind you now, Al was an accomplished athlete in his youth and had a long career as a physical education teacher.  I asked him if he'd tried a tennis racket to which he replied, "I bought a cheap one today at Walmart."  I then shared with him a method that my wife discovered back when we had an infestation of bats in our home.  Bats don't want to be in your house any more than you want them to be. They want to be outside eating and ridding the neighborhood of bugs, particularly, mosquitoes.  Shut off all the lights in your house.  Open a door to the outside, and scratch with your fingernails, on the screen or door casing.  the bat will echo locate the sound and fly out the open door.  It works, we did it.  Al said he'd try it after supper.

The conversation turned to long time acquaintances.  Al says, "do you remember a guy named Bill Frazier?  He asked me to say hey the next time I saw you."

I grew-up with Billy Frazier and he was part of a cadre of neighborhood kids who played pick-up baseball in Grove Street Park in Ogdensburg all summer. Corky LaFlair, Donny Powers, Bobby Mills, the Garvey brothers; Dick and Bobby, Bernie Reese, and others who's names I've forgotten for the moment.

Talk about uncanny, just the day before I'd been revisiting my childhood memories and thought, I wonder what ever happened to Billy Frazier.  I even did an unsuccessful Facebook search.  Weird, ay?     Apparently, Billy is doing well, retired from a local utility company and living out on the Heuvelton Road.

The conversation then turned somber.  The reason I'd been reflecting on that "old gang of mine" was the fact that my childhood constant chum, Donny Powers died last week.  I asked Al if he knew that, and he said he did.  We then went on to list all of our former classmates who have gone onto their rewards.  Al knew so many because he'd recently attended his 60th class reunion and the organizers had made a list of those who'd passed on.  I was surprised at a few that I was unaware of.

The grim reminder that we are on the last lap in our life marathon.  Every week there are fewer and fewer of us.

At the end of the day.

 

  The day was relatively unproductive yesterday: skipped breakfast, had coffee and a cigar on the porch and spent too much time on Facebook, Instagram and checking email.  checked on my new Substack subscription and decided to make an entry on my blog.  After a 2 hour session at the keyboard, I completed a blog post; hurray!

By now it was noon, so I walked down to the post office to collect one piece of solicitation mail from Samaritan's purse.  On my return I met up with Cindy Ackerman in front of the Ironhorse grill (she's co-owner.) She was trying to convince her dog to go upstairs to the apartment , to which the dog resisted preferring to check the surroundings for doggy messages.  Cindy and I chatted about dogs, boating, summer and what the grill was having for supper.

After returning home I made a tuna salad sandwich for lunch and I read a couple, or more, chapters in my recent book purchase; John Clark's "Journey to Daybreak. " Because I arose at 3 AM, now at 3 PM I was ready for a nap.  Shortley after awakening at a little after 4PM I received a series of texts from Leigh and subsequently, in short order, a phone call from him asking if I was home in Morristown and if so, was I interested in getting some "wings" at the Ironhorse.  I agreed to meet he and Karen at 5PM for dinner.  The conversation never lags when the 3 of us are together and after a couple of hours of dinner conversation we left and went our separate ways; Leigh offering to keep an eye on my porch, over the weekend, for expected Amazon deliveries while I was away visiting Jacob, Kristy and the kids in Niagara Falls. 

Within a few minutes of getting back to my porch, my phone rang, and it was Matt Menich, with Lynn in the background calling to say how much they enjoyed spending time with me and my girlfriend, Freda in Kingston, Canada a couple weeks ago.  We chatted for 1/2 hour at least.  They are flying east to Halifax later this month with their grandson who is playing in a Softball tournament; they'll be there for 6 days.  We also chatted about the recent Olympic games and farming and just a myriad of common interests.

Shortly after saying our goodbyes, I received a text from my estranged wife saying she and her boyfriend were motoring north on Friday, stopping in Albany to visit our daughter, and would be at Cassa LaRock Saturday or Sunday this weekend to retrieve some of her things.

I told her I was planning to go to Niagara Falls this weekend, but I'm beginning to rethink that and will probably stay here until the first of the week.

So, an inauspicious day ended auspiciously.  "And so it goes."  (Kurt Vonnegut)