Every time local television stations air reminder notices of their required switch from analog to digital programming in February 2009, I think back to our first black and white television in the early 1950s.

My retirement statement arrived in the mail yesterday. I chose not to open it when I saw that it came enclosed in a sympathy card, a very cheap sympathy card.

One of the few good things I can find about this time of year is that with Thanksgiving coming soon we begin to see cranberries everywhere. Now that may not mean much to most folks, but I love cranberries. Yes, I love cranberry sauce with Thanksgiving dinner. The taste is wonderful and provides a perfect complement for turkey and dressing.

The common image of a senior retiree features someone rocking gently on a sunny porch while holding a tall glass of lemonade. At arm’s length is a stack of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and several magazines or novels. In the distance, another retiree is climbing into an RV with fishing poles and scooters strapped to the back. Nothing could be farther from the truth for most Southwest Virginia retirees.

On Sept. 13 at the Rural Retreat Fairgrounds, I participated in a free tour of the Messiah’s Mansion, a series of five tents that served as an attempt to replicate the Mosaic Sanctuary that God asked Moses to build during biblical times.  The conception of this life-size model sanctuary was the brainchild of Clayton Leinnewebber, who successfully executed his idea of combining lessons of the Gospel message and the plan of salvation with authentic-looking visual aids.  These include detailed symbols such as sanctuary furniture and models of ritualistic garments and jewelry that were likely to have been worn by citizens and religious leaders of the time.  Each of the details was designed to represent the events that would later occur such as the birth, baptism, ministry, crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus.

It’s gotten to be something of a routine. I plunge some sharp object – Sunday night it was a knife – into some part of my body – Sunday night it was the webbing between my thumb and pointer finger. By now I know when it needs stitches, when it needs a band-aid and when it needs to be ignored, because you know sometimes bleeding appendages will stop bleeding if you just pay them no mind. A few weeks ago the same spot on the same hand got laid open with a hatchet. Yes, a hatchet, and yes I was being reasonably careful, but obviously not quite careful enough. It required a couple days of band-aid therapy. I knew that one was minor, after I made quite sure my thumb was still there, still working and still willing to help grab things like hatchets to fling through the air in pain-induced rages.
Sunday I knew without looking that stitches would be a requirement. When a knife slides through skin to the hilt, if pocketknives can be said to have a hilt, you can be pretty sure stitches will be required. The prospect of reconstructive nerve surgery crossed my mind.

I once heard about a wealthy man who was dying. While his life was full of many good things, including a wife and children, money meant the most to him. So important was this man’s wealth, he convinced himself he could do the impossible and take it with him.

It is October and officially autumn. To paraphrase Charles Dickens’ opening of “A Tale of Two Cities,” it is the best of times, it is the worst of times; it is the season of Light, it is the season of Darkness.

The girl who sat behind me in 10th grade history once told me I’d make a pretty girl.

Women of the world, you have my sympathy.