Sallie Satterthwaite's blog

Walking sticks

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Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
I have for years been an aficionada of the companionable walking staff, striking out for woodsy walks as a child with one of my father’s tomato stakes in hand. Later I became an admirer of the stout sticks for sale in souvenir shops, but their absurd price tags put me off.

I’d rather pick up a fallen branch when the path underfoot turns uneven, or do without, muttering and grasping Dave’s arm for assistance. Read More»

Memory Lane

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Several summers back our Jean made a trek down Memory Lane to where it turned into Eighth and Green in Haddon Heights, N.J. Her childhood there, in hindsight, appears idyllic.

Family photos affirm this. Here she is in her Brownie uniform, her sisters dressed as a Junior and a Cadet, her mother togged out as a troop leader. Here she is being held aloft on roller skates between her sisters. Here she skips down the brick sidewalk on her first day of school. Read More»

Hey, Cousin!

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Don’t you just hate it when someone else takes your idea for a column? I started this one after reading an article in the AJC, but then I noticed the same subject in an out-of-town paper as we were traveling.

In hopes that local readers stayed home that day, I posit the following – breathlessly, perhaps, because I am neither mathematician nor statistician.
Fact #1: All of us earthlings are more closely related than we thought we were, and,
Fact #2: We have a better chance of being descended from royalty than we thought we had. Read More»

More on Walking Sticks

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A recent column about canes and walking sticks has generated comments from people I meet, all favorable, of course. I still get around without one, although there are days when I wish I’d brought it along. Read More»

Who will say goodbye?

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It was a rough week, last week, when the tribe gathered several times to say goodbye to recent members of the clan. Those left behind look around furtively, wondering, “Who‘s next?” as another generation realizes: They are.
I‘m an obituary reader. Can’t say I read every word of every obit, but I do read enough to recognize a neighbor or a church member. And I‘ve been rolling a thought around in my brain. Read More»

Jean in Florida

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Here’s an account of a few days in the life of U.S. Forest Service fire spokeswoman Jean Satterthwaite in July 1998. She is retired now, but has her name on reserve to manage the complexities of accounting for firefighters on the fire-line, potentially thousands of them when a fire grows as dangerously as this year in Arizona.
She phoned breathlessly from Juneau where she lived, to tell us she was on her way to Orlando.
Orlando? Why in the world would anyone leave Alaskan summertime highs of 76 to go to where the lows start out above 76, and the landscape is on fire? Read More»

Woodsy Neighbors

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It’s been three years since we last saw an armadillo and there they were, three of God’s most homely children, exiting that no man’s land under our back deck.
Those we saw last week could be the same trio, but I think they’d have matured more. This year’s models were a pale leathery brown; I described the 2010 versions as about 12 inches long, with a tapering nine-inch tail. I said they wore a pinkish tan-colored leathery shell, but Dave saw it as gray-brown. Read More»

Wood ducks a- fledging

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Seeing wood duck babies dropping from the sky is mostly a matter of being at the right place at the right time.
When we walked out to the end of the Flat Creek Nature Center boardwalk recently they could not yet have left the nest, or we’d have heard them. But when we sauntered back toward the cart path, a mama wood duck fluttered noisily away without rising from the marsh. “That looks like a diversionary move,” I exclaimed. “She has chicks nearby,” and sure enough, we began hearing the unmistakable shrill peep-peep-peep of baby ducks. Read More»

A spider’s relative

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She lives at the corner of our house where the glass room meets the screened porch, sheltered by the eaves. There she rests, head down and legs stretched languidly while we scurry about our busy lives inside.

Several times a day we stop to admire her plump black-gold-white body and the racing stripes on graceful legs. She seldom leaves the soft mat in the center of her web, except to pick up some (formerly) fast food for her supper. Read More»

The Next Boat Comes Home

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So. We’d found and agreed upon The Next Boat. A Nimble Nomad, she’s a pretty little river trawler, needing only 18 inches of water under her keel and able to run up on a sandy beach.

A 45 HP Honda outboard powers her so quietly you can carry on normal conversation in the cabin.

Which is where the helm is. No more frying in the sun in an open stern, we’ll do our boating in the shade. Or out of the rain. A companionway (nautical for “door”) both fore and aft enables captain or crew to step out into deep cockpits from which to handle lines safely. Read More»

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