I’ve written a column in the Cazenovia Republican twice so far. One was an ode to my mom and the other about legalizing marijuana for medical reasons. Both have created quite a stir.
Some say I’m a great writer, some say I’m really “ballsy” and some people think me a bit crazy — but either way it strokes my ego and awakens the old activist in me.
With my big mouth I’m loving the possibilities of a platform and am feeling quite like a big fish in a small bowl.
Not knowing why anyone would really care what I have to say about anything, other than because I’m new and not from around here, I’ve been asked if I’d like to be a contributing columnist weekly by Pierce Smith, our fearless leader of publishing commentary in our small, slightly diverse haven.
I am trying to convince myself that my sometimes skewed or at least different take on an angle might somehow serve to throw a bit of a twist into our Currier-and-Ives existence up here or at least just add another dimension of opinion for people to ponder.
I’m an old hippy from Manhattan. I grew up with a permissive, indulgent, ahead-of-her-time beatnik/Art Student’s League/Maine Summer Stock, Gauloise-smoking mother and a loving but alcoholic, rather emotionally young pal/dad in a 14-room apartment on the upper west side of Manhattan (before it was trendy). We had a live-in black maid, Lena, who we loved like family ... I still somehow silently shudder with the same self-inflicted guilt I felt as I marched on Washington for equality in the 1970s, knowing our maid Lena was at home making me chicken and rice.
It’s amazing what stays with you, isn’t it?
There was a summer house on Fire Island that my parents built, skiing in the winter at Mystic Mountain, somehow once again in my backyard. We vacationed in Europe and Mexico. I attended the High School of Music and Art and college at the Museum School of Fine Arts in Boston. Needless to say I was a very privileged child agitator.