Soaked in glory

You can pick on my car and my clothes. You can call me any name in the book.
But don’t mess with my music.
The Bethel Woods assignments are like gold dust around here.
I called dibs on my favorites the way I used to shout “shotgun,” then race around the bumper of my mom’s car.
Tripping over my own two feet, I didn’t care what I looked like as long as I beat my brother to the front seat.
I don’t care what you say.
I like my music.
And Bethel Woods has brought it here.
So the food’s like any concert venue, the prices like any summer amusement get-away.
So what?
I shot the allowed two songs each of Kellie Pickler, Taylor Swift and Jack Ingram, and the three songs allotted by Brad Paisley Friday night.
Then I danced back to my seat with my camera in hand to scribble out my notes for the story in today’s paper.
I couldn’t believe my luck.
There.
In the flesh.
Twenty minutes from my house.
There he was - one of my favorite country performers.
Not only that.
It was his second visit.
An unfortunate family emergency kept me from attending last year’s Paisley appearance – despite the two tickets purchased by Jonathan for my birthday.
But he came back.
And Friday night, soaked to the bone and exhausted because of the late hour, I danced beside my husband to Brad Paisley – in the flesh.
They call it the great equalizer, love and feelings and everything in between put into something you can hear.
It’s no wonder.

Whether it was the Goo Goo Dolls rocking out or Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young lighting a fire of protest under our collective you-know-whats, I left every concert at Bethel Wood last year on some sort of cloud.
I waited this year until Paisley came to town before putting in my bid for an assignment, giving the opportunity over to others who hadn’t yet been on the site.
I forgot what I was missing.
Then I went back.
On the site that’s famous as much for mud, drugs, and mayhem, there is still the spirit of rock and roll.
You can’t help but feel it as you wander down the cobblestones to listen to country, classical, jazz or pop.
I gave a listen last week to a promotional CD for the upcoming show by the amazing jazz pianist Dave Brubeck.

Not usually my “thing” – as one colleague quickly pointed out – I still marveled that the man who could create the lilting yet melancholy tones dancing out of my speakers would be in Sullivan County next weekend.
I’m not usually a “rah rah sis boom bah” person, but I can’t help it.
I’m jazzed about Bethel Woods.
It’s brought music to our hills for good – and there are few gifts so great.

All the news they conjured up

There’s sort of an unwritten rule for young journalists.
Worship at the feet of The New York Times.
Even those of us sacrificing the fame and glory (and the money) for jobs in the small town papers drop our voices when we’re talking about “The Times.”
Like Madonna or Elvis, it stands on its own.
In reverential tones, we discuss THE front page, the only front page that really matters.
When someone compliments the Democrat on its old-fashioned broadsheet layout, I chuckle demurely (if that’s possible).
“Well, you know, it works for The Times.”
But build someone a towering pedestal and one day they’re destined to come crashing to the ground.
And Thursday I joined all the Muggles of the world in an echoing “harrumph.”
We journalists all like to be first, but come now… we also like to be best!
And even though I’ve heard the Times’ review of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” was positive and their finagling of the hard-to-find hardback legal, I was cranky.
I wanted to savor my last magical ride from Platform 93⁄4 to the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix and back again.
So it’s not exactly “The Sun Also Rises” or “The Grapes of Wrath.”
That’s exactly the point!

Like that last blueberry of summer or the last Cadbury’s crème egg stored away after Easter, the exploits of one boy wizard and his two best friends have been sweet and exceedingly satisfying dashes back into childhood.
That butterfly-in-your-stomach, watch-at-the-window-for-the-UPS-man feeling is one I haven’t felt since I was 9 or 10, waiting for the Christmas visitor I was sure would be coming with a paper bag full of brand new books just for me.
I devoured books when I was a child, the way some kids race through the levels on the latest video game, thumbs flying over the controller, eyes intent on the screen.
Nowadays stolen moments before bed and the interminable wait at the doctor’s office offer my best chance for solid, uninterrupted reading.
Stories too often enter one half of my brain through my eyes while the other half calculates how much is left in the checking account to cover the mortgage and the car insurance or debates whether it should be meatloaf or hamburgers for dinner.
But not with Harry.
When the Order of the Phoenix arrived in 2003, I smuggled the giant hardcover into work in my bag and dedicated my lunch break to the noble task of getting as far as I could before someone spoiled the secrets at the end.
On maternity leave when the Half-Blood Prince landed on my doorstep in 2005, I gave up my precious naps when Jillian slept, forcing my drooping new-mother eyes to read, read, read.
Harry Potter has been a bit of fun, and The Times and other media outlets treating it as a business tarnishes something imbued with the purity of childhood.
Maybe I’m overreacting.
Maybe I’m just grouchy because my Harry didn’t arrive in time, despite those promises from Amazon.
Or maybe, just maybe, I’m suffering a bit at the feet of my hero.
They got ahold of the book ahead of time, and I didn’t!

Did they really read my column?

Aaachh. My head hurts.
I just got off the phone with Joel Levy, the New York regional director of the Anti-Defamation League.
Mr. Levy was a gentleman.
He had very nice things to say, told me I had a “wonderful message” behind my column of two weeks ago referring to the blatant intolerance of visitors to our beautiful county and their intolerance of both our culture and our rights.
But he still disturbed me greatly.
Six people called him with complaints.
They, not Mr. Levy, branded me an anti-Semite.
An anti-Semite?
Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
If any of these people had contacted me, I would have had the opportunity to set them straight.
Instead, I jumped immediately on my e-mail to tell Mr. Levy (a Sullivan County boy by the way!) that I take that charge very seriously.
I am a lover of people – Christian or Jew, gay or straight, white, black or purple!
As my first column noted, I thumb my nose at those who would disparage anyone because of faith, race, gender… including people who have looked down their noses at me for simply being me.
But I am not sure how to convince six people who wouldn’t talk to me that I am not anti-Semitic.
I am confused, frankly.
Frequently outspoken in this very column about the dire need to protect our First Amendment rights of the freedom of speech, the press and even religion, why did these people skip right over me to call the Anti-Defamation League?
I would argue that they failed to read my column in its entirety.
I would say they read more into it than what was written in black and white on the page.
Mr. Levy and I agreed that there is an unfortunate line dividing faiths in Sullivan County – a line that darkens in the summer when the Hasidim come to represent Judaism in the minds of county residents.
It’s a line that can only be crossed by open minds and open arms.
My column of two weeks ago referred to some people identifiable as a sector of the Jewish community. It also referred to people from Long Island and New Jersey – all of these descriptions meant to show my issue was with out-of-town visitors, rather than an attack on persons of one particular faith.
Mr. Levy said that was clear to him, but not to these six readers.
For that I am sorry.
I admit readily that my column was provocative.
It was meant to create discussion, to remind people that each of the examples listed were direct from life citations of visitors behaving badly and not an indictment of groups as a whole.
I wonder if these readers stopped to consider the real-life situations that occur in Sullivan County. Did they realize, for example, that while the visitors to certain areas are predominantly Jewish, the summer population in others is not?
My references to a Long Islander who tipped poorly was taken as a slight against Jews, Mr. Levy said, by people who told him the words “Long Island” were synonymous with “Jew.”
I confess ignorance in that matter. My editor, a Long Islander, is Catholic. One of my dearest friends at college was Hindu and lived in Islip.
I didn’t know “Long Island” meant “Jew”!
So for that, I again apologize.
I told Mr. Levy that I felt the readers who called him were calling on an army to crush an ant, that someone with strong beliefs should stand up for them . . . themselves.
I confessed I didn’t intend to write a column responding to the only letter we had received here at the paper because I didn’t want to be that Army with an entire column devoted to a subject the letter writer could only cover in a 300-word note.
Then I heard that people were afraid to speak out.
I couldn’t let that stand.
As I believe I should be allowed to write columns citing examples of boorish behavior without being branded, I believe people should stand tall and strong when fighting slights – real or imagined.
So here I am, standing tall.
Please, stand with me, there’s room at my side.

I'm sad that I have to do this, but . . .

I received a letter today from the Anti-Defamation League in New York City unfairly charging me with Anti-Semitism. As an ardent supporter of our Constitution's freedoms of religion, speech and the press, I was appalled and saddened that people would react without first thinking about my message.
I told people not to hate, so they turned me into a target. It's happened before, and will happen again - the life of a columnist! But this one I can't just let slide by.
So I am posting for you his words, and mine. You be the judge! And if you disagree with either of us - let us know!

Your very implication that my motives were innapropriate is evidence that you were quick to judge when reading my column - and possibly did not even read the entire thing. It was provocative, I will give you that. And it was meant to be.
I was speaking out against rude and boorish behavior and against those who would instantly abuse entire groups because of one person's poor actions. I am disappointed that you are grouping me among those "Anti-Semites" who would abuse someone because of their Jewish faith rather than listening to my message.

"To the Editor:
It is unfortunate that Jeanne Sager’s venting frustration about the behavior of tourists and other visitors to Sullivan County played into traditional anti-Semitic stereotypes (“Tolerance: A Two-Way Street,” July 2).
While her frustrations about tourism may be legitimate, Sager’s undue focus on the Jewish attributes of some visitors – by depicting their appearance, dress, and way of talking -- is disturbing. Her reference to the tipping habits of patrons to local restaurants seems to feed into the old anti-Semitic canard about “cheap” or “money-grubbing” Jews. These are the kind of stereotypes that can lead to the vilification of an entire group of people, simply because they are different from others.
Sager may not have meant to offend anyone with her words. Yet, words have consequences. We hope that she comes to better understand why her words were so offensive to some, and why it has resulted in such a strong reaction from her readers and the public.
Sincerely,
Joel J. Levy
New York Regional Director
Anti-Defamation League
605 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10158
For confirmation contact ADL Media Relations at adlmedia@adl.org or (212) 885-7747"

And, and now, my turn:
Mr. Levy
I see that I was carbon-copied on your e-mail, and so I am responding. I wonder
if you bothered to check your own tolerance levels before sending this e-mail.
I referred to examples of summer tourists in Sullivan County, two examples which could be tied to people of the Jewish faith only by examples of a woman speaking in Yiddish or a man with long curls and black hat. The other examples, including the one which you insist is an implication that I believe in "money grubbing Jews" were references to other aspects of our summer community - people from Long Island (who may or MAY NOT be Jewish) and people from New Jersey. I find it ironic that in all the letters I have received, not one person has stood up for the "poor Jersey driver."
Instead there has been a quick assumption that I am an anti-Semite, despite my
comments within this very column to the contrary. I spoke out in my column against people who are rude. People who allow their children to slam carts into people's ankles, who park their carts in the middle of the aisles, who cut off drivers or park in the middle of a busy street, people who tip poorly and abuse the waitstaff. I referred to the people who make a poor example of themselves when visiting another area. Ever heard the term "Angry American"? It's no wonder other countries refer that way to us if this is how we act even in our own country.
I am not nor have I ever been an "Anti-Semite." Personally I find that charge offensive and upsetting. Telling you I have Jewish friends who were fast to
agree with my column will likely not sway you, but I do have to point that. And
I'd like to ask again where I made reference to any Jewish person in a derogatory manner? The "money grubbing" example aside - which was not in relation to anyone Jewish to begin with - I fail to see where you can provide me an example.
Your very implication that my motives were innapropriate is evidence that you were quick to judge when reading my column - and possibly did not even read the entire thing. It was provocative, I will give you that. And it was meant to be. I was speaking out against rude and boorish behavior and against those who would instantly abuse entire groups because of one person's poor actions. I am disappointed that you are grouping me among those "Anti-Semites" who would abuse someone because of their Jewish faith rather than listening to my message.

Jeanne Sager

Dreaming in green

Most of us leave work ready to drop in a chair, our most strenuous task the flicking of the finger on the remote control.
So I relish the days when I leave work inspired, and I cherish the weekends when I can put my plans into action.
Saturday was jam-packed with work for me, starting with the “green” Christmas in July Roscoe Chamber festival, followed by a stop-over at the Sustainable Living Open House at the Apple Pond Farm in Callicoon Center and a foray into my other job shooting a family portrait.
You’ll find I rarely dress up for work because I never know if I’ll be headed from a cow field to the government center.
So two “go green” events in a row? Unheard of.
Of course, they both fell on the same day as the first-ever “Live Earth” concert that was rocking my television as I readied for work.
Opportunity wasn’t just knocking. It was hammering a rhythm on my skull.
So I finally got my hiney in gear.
Already heavily committed to recycling, I chatted up County Recycling Coordinator Bill Cutler at the Roscoe event for the latest on what I can stash instead of trash.
I walked off with the updated county list of “required” recyclables to post on my refrigerator and some new ideas for the big pile of compost that’s constantly growing in my back yard.
When I finally settled down from running across the county, I went online and calculated my “carbon footprint,” the approximate tonnage of greenhouse gases my household is responsible for releasing into the atmosphere every year.
Proud I was well below both the American and Canadian averages, I nevertheless started punching in different options.
If I cut this or switched that, how much could I save?
Then I went shopping.
Jonathan and I stocked up on the compact fluorescent bulbs we’ve always been meaning to buy and just never got around to.
Turns out their use would cut an entire ton off our carbon footprint – according to the online calculator.
You can give or take a few hundred pounds for the errors of a generalized calculating system, but you can’t refute the electrical savings we’re bound to feel.
And guess what?
They’re recyclable.
It costs money here in the county, but Ikea will take all the CF bulbs you’ve finished for gratis.

That was my next step – online to research the greening of corporate America.
When I can’t shop local, where should I go?
More research this weekend revealed Staples will take any computer monitor, printer, fax machine or other big e-waster for a $10 fee – even if they didn’t sell the product.
And the fee isn’t going in the CEO’s pocket – it’s to offset the recycling cost.
I can’t even grumble about the corporation we all love to hate much longer.
Super Power Wal-Mart has told its truckers no more idling those big rigs. It’s a fuel savings for them – in the millions of dollars – and the equivalent of taking 200,000 cars off the road for us.
And thank goodness Jillian likes that Johnson’s body wash because Johnson and Johnson’s earned the distinction of utilizing the most wind power of any corporation in America. They’ve got photovoltaic and geo-thermal too.
But my final bit of Internet work this weekend took me back to work – to a site dedicated to “greening your workplace.”
It turns out; I’m right on track.
Number 6 on the top 10 list?
Work from home.
With three days spent out of the office, I’m on my way.
I don’t just feel good. I feel inspired!

Tolerance: a two-way street

It’s easy to talk tolerance. Tolerance is politically correct.Tolerance is nice. Tolerance is right.
Try talking tolerance on a Saturday night in mid-July when you’ve just walked out of Wal-Mart.
A loud bunch of snot-nosed kids have just used a cart piled high with food as a battering ram and your ankles as the door.
Their mother stands nearby, yammering in Yiddish to another woman, ignoring her offspring as they once again zoom in on your tender tendons.
Not.
So.
Easy.
Try driving down Route 17B in a 55 mph zone, rounding the corner to find a Lexus with New Jersey plates stopped dead in the middle of your lane.
They’re pointing at a deer and her fawn.
You slam on your brakes and veer into the shoulder, narrowly missing their bumper by a hair.
Not. So. Easy.
But it is easy to make mountains of molehills, to lump into groups the people who visit our county every summer.
Somewhere, deep down, we should be proud of our homes.
We are a tourist community because we have something no one else has.
They come from Williamsburg, Brooklyn and Williamsburg, Va. to witness the Sullivan County Catskills.
They crowd into our pizzerias and block the aisles of our grocery stores.
And they bug us because we are so often taken for granted.
Our waitresses gypped a tip by one too many women with that unmistakeable “Lung Guylin” accent finds it harder with each successive customer to paste on that smile and list the specials.
A truck driver cut off repeatedly on Route 17 by men with long curls and black hats finds himself speeding up when he sees a van on the exit ramp, his vehicle fueled by frustration.
I’m no better.
I’ve gritted my teeth in ShopRite, asking once, twice, three times if someone would move their cart from my path finally gripping the offending wagon by the handle and moving it forcefully a mere 10 inches or so to the side.
Rounding the corner to see the same woman’s cart parked haphazardly in the center of the cereal aisle, I don’t bother to ask. I grab hold and drag, the wheels screeching as I yank it out of the way.
Then I barrel past.
I talk a good game, but it’s not so easy.
Of course every summer something forces me back over the line to where I was raised.
An over-the-top salesman hassling a group of Hasidic women for no apparent reason, a kindly old lady with her nasal Queens accent patting my daughter on the head and telling her grandson to knock off his obnoxious behavior.
I’m subtly reminded what it’s like to be judged for something beyond one’s control – as I have been for being a woman, a Catholic, a young professional and – the one I’m most proud of – for being a New Yorker.
As I thumbed my nose at their disapproval, I purse my lips in a Bronx cheer for the narrow-minded.
I’ll lay out the welcome mat.
But I expect my visitors to wipe their feet outside.
I vow to collect my flies with honey, reserving the right to put in the proper place those who abuse my hospitality.
I will tolerate you, if you tolerate me, my customs and my home.
It’s that easy.