I love how Alford has managed to maintain its identity, call it cachet, since the 18th century. With its perfectly proportioned, white steepled church, clapboard town hall and one room school house, it appears set in a time capsule.
Here’s the thing: we have always been prejudiced. What we are prejudiced against does change, but man’s disapproval of man (and equally woman) is omnipresent. The church has always been the arbiter, and the consequences of disapproval have been more severe than being denied a slice with pepperoni.
In keeping with the annual appearance of this trying period that tests our talent for nimble handling of the steering wheel to dodge those pesky chasms in the pavement and to vault the rolling frost heaves, we invite our readers to send us photos of worst pothole they’ve encountered.
I wouldn’t think piblotoq would be too difficult to diagnose in the Arctic, but given this winter extreme cold and dark I think I’ve had a couple of symptoms of the stuff myself.
Winter came in shyly In December, masquerading as delicate snowflakes, but now cabins us in, piles up around our foundation, hangs over us as icicles, dripping melt one minute, a glittering sword to land on our heads the next.
Sure, you remember Bob and Ray, no doubt,
as I do with the soft New England brogue
one of them had. But wait -- who was that rogue
(Three syllables,) the roving racetrack tout?
Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative journalist David Cay Johnston wrote a prescient story last May about how electricity prices might soar if Wall Street succeeds in its attempts to manipulate power supply. New England will be a “test-case” for “Enron-style price-gouging,” which is “making a comeback. Under the rules of the electricity markets, the best way to earn huge profits is by reducing the supply of power.”
Over the past decade or so, Great Barrington has emerged as a mini-culinary capital in New England. Michael Ballon has been at the forefront of our growing culinary awareness, appreciation and practices.
