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Columns

  • Let it be told

    By DROLLENE BROWN

    The story of Goethe Forest is, in large part, the story of a man. He was of German descent, but his family had Anglicized (or maybe Floridized) the name, pronouncing it Go-thee, with a soft th.

     One of the first stories I heard about the old man when I moved to Levy County in 1994 was regarding one of his eccentricities. He often went to a local restaurant for breakfast in his pajamas.

  • People do exactly what they want to do

    I am a voracious reader – always have been – and no matter what is going on in my life, I manage to read something every single day.

    Granted I am not reading anything deep or profound. I read escapism fiction. Depending on my mood, I could be solving cozy mysteries in a bakery in a small beachside town, or gallivanting off to the 16th century with a Scottish laird. Occasionally I stay in modern times reading about families more dysfunctional than my own.

  • Let it be told

    I have recently been watching a series on Netflix titled The Great British Baking Show. It goes on for many seasons, but for some strange reason I find I am watching it in reverse order. Season 4, then Season 3, Season 2, Season 1.

    It is a contest in which people compete to bake things to a certain specification within a time frame. Sometimes there are restrictions—you cannot use flour, or you have only two hours, or there must be two dozen samples baked.

  • Let it be told

    BY KIM WHEELER

    Last year my husband and I saw giant solar farms in Texas and wind turbines in Iowa and Illinois. We met many years ago while working for Del Monte in Illinois. He taught me how to drive a tractor with a pea combine.

    That’s another story. On our road trip last summer, we decided to take a detour and see our old stomping grounds.

    The farms were expansive. The fields well-tended and the roadsides clean. It felt good to return. Then across the horizon, we saw the wind turbines: tall, white and majestic.

  • Let it be told

    By MIGNON CRAIG

    Undocumented immigrants are part of my heritage. And they might be part of yours, too.

    Until 1924, all immigrants were undocumented. Some were turned away at Ellis Island, but if they were healthy and would not be a financial burden to the U.S., they were allowed in.

    My parents include a father who was a first generation Lithuanian-American Catholic and a Methodist mother who was eligible for the Daughters of the American Revolution (as well as Confederacy), so I learned to look at history from many sides.

  • Staying one step ahead of chaos

    In the weekly newspaper business there are certain times of the year reporters and editors dread more than others. The end of the school year is such a time.

    There are so many activities going on simultaneously, especially in smaller towns with multiple schools, that even when newspapers had larger staffs, it was difficult to keep up with everything.

    Imagine what I go through here in Williston.

  • One nation

    By Sue Vogt

    Guest Columnist

    I remember kindergarten: sitting in a circle playing percussion instruments, getting our smocks out of our cubbies so we could paint, being told not to eat paste.

    My teacher, Miss Doxsee, tall, curly hair fixed on the top of her head, was quite nice but seemed old and mysterious. She was probably in her early twenties. How perspective changes with time.

    The room smelled of paint, wooden toys, paper. America was fresh and new.

  • You are not alone

    Through the veneer of social media and facing the public with my involvement within the community, most people would never bat an eye of concern for my well-being.

    I have a loving relationship, a supportive family and employment that fulfills me.

    I wear many hats in my life: The friend who wants to make you laugh, the son who wants to make his mother proud, the partner who wants to support a dream, the volunteer who wants the most for the community, and the writer who wants to entertain and inform my community.

  • They're telling it but are you listening?

    Twenty years ago I worked for a newspaper owner who gauged the success of each of his papers by the number of letters to the editor that ran each week.

    If you're not holding letters because you have too many, he told editors, then you aren't doing something right.

  • Let it be told

    By Sue Vogt

    Guest Columnist

    We are all afraid of something.

    As a child, I was afraid of the dark. I was afraid of being home alone in a house that made noises. I was afraid that my mother, a widow, would die and leave me an orphan.

    The Cuban missile crisis happened when I was in secondary school. We had bomb scares. President Kennedy was assassinated. We were afraid of our country being attacked, of nuclear weapons, of violent disruption of the institutions of government.