Did You Know? Toledo Museum of Art's Community Gallery
By Jeffrey Darah
The Toledo Museum of Art made a significant stride toward accessibility with the opening of a gallery dedicated to local artists, funded by prominent Toledo philanthropists Robert and Sue Savage, who donated $200,000 for this purpose. The 800-square-foot Robert and Sue Savage Gallery was established to bridge the gap between the prestigious institution and the local arts community.
The gallery, which opened in 2022, addressed long-standing perceptions that art museums were elitist and inaccessible. Located adjacent to the museum's cafe winter garden, the space was designed to showcase local talent alongside the museum's world-renowned collection.
The gallery's format features 20-30 works by a single local artist for 12-week periods, with artwork available for purchase. This arrangement gives local artists unprecedented exposure, with approximately 100,000 visitors viewing the gallery annually. Artists are selected based on thematic connections to the museum's main exhibitions.
To see Bernadine Rais's oil paintings, use the QR to see her Instagram.
To learn more about the Toledo Museum of Art's Community Gallery, use the QR code above.
Frigid Memories
Reader Submission: Jeff Ferris
There was no need to speak of unspeakable things. Snowdrifts and winter storms had become abstract nouns to my household. No way would those things appear on our mental radars or on any current weather map. Never could they become a topic of discussion. Not on this trip. Not in this season.
It was mid-July after all. The year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizzards there!"
I laughed and said, "Let me guess. It was January 1978."
When the man confirmed, I told him that the year was 1998—a summer hotter than a burnt pot roast. Sounds good at this time, doesn't it? The hot temps, I mean, not the pot roast. Well, both. But don't burn the pot roast.
The entire northeastern region of the US was smothered in a drought that summer, and there we were, amidst it all—the five of us packed inside our minivan, on a family vacation, touring the New England states.
One of our sleeps was at a bed and breakfast that offered private cottages. In an orchard. In a never-heard-of place called Fairlee, Vermont. Home to Lake Morey. And indigenous moose if you're lucky enough to see one. When we checked in at the cottage and signed the guest registry, the owner—a graying man—became animated with our being from Toledo. Thankfully, he didn't run us off. Or loose a moose on us.
The man said his brother lived in Sylvania, Ohio. The New Englander had visited his brother there once. And he insisted he would NEVER go back to Ohio, ever-ever again, "because of all the terrible blizz