One of the problems with winter in my state of exile is the isolation.
Though there are 5,000 people who call this little coastal village home during summer, in winter, it’s less than 700.
It’s 36 miles to my dry cleaner – one way. And Wegman’s the mainstay of grocery for anyone brought up in the ROC is 40.
Makes it hard to get a newspaper.
I don’t have a television. I don’t have cable. And though I listen to NPR on the internet, what I really miss is the Sunday New York Times.
To be fair – I can get a copy at a great store just on the west side of Oswego, Ontario Orchards – where you can get everything from fresh vegetables and donuts, to wine making supplies and houseplants.
But fact is – it is 12 miles each way – a long way to go for a newspaper.
I checked with Tim at Bayside grocery – our local go to “general store” where you can find everything from paper towels to brass screws. But he can’t actually even get the Times delivered to the store.
So he suggested I check out a strange and old-fashioned alternative.
I get it in the mail at the local “old fashioned” Fair Haven Post Office.
Granted, it doesn’t come till Wednesday, when I find it wrapped and carefully stuffed into my tiny brass P.O. Box.
And, even though I don’t get it for Sunday coffee I developed a little game to play. Since it takes me a week to read it anyway, I save the paper I get on Wednesday until the NEXT Sunday. And I look with great anticipation through its cellophane cover toward my Sunday morning coffee.
What’s interesting is that this new routine hasn’t really made me less up to date on what’s happening. Sadly, I’ve come to realize that the news is really quite the same each week.
Trump did something foolish. Another staffer got fired from the white house. There’s still war in the Middle East. A terrorist in France has killed someone else. There’s been another tragic school shooting.
That’s the part that really get’s me. The news is the same. Every week. Never better. Never ending.
I guess that’s another reason I get up every morning. I’m trying to use what I’ve learned over the last couple of decades about electing people to change the world, or at least my little part of it.
But there are many days – like Sunday with the Times, that it seems to steep a mountain to climb.