Sometimes you just need a few days to get away and clear your head. You know, to sort through the vagaries of life in general and get things back in perspective.

It was that need to refresh and regroup which prompted me to head to Connecticut on Sunday. Because I figured spending a couple of days in the company of one of my dearest friends – my old college roomie Liz – was just what the doctor ordered.

For three blissful days, I hung out with Lizzie, her truly amazing husband Kent and their equally amazing dog, Texas.

Liz, ever the meeting and event planner, had the whole trip planned out practically before I hit send on the email, in which I invited myself to her house.

First on our agenda was hitting a few vineyards on the Connecticut Wine Trail. Which I definitely deemed worthy of getting up ridiculously early on a Sunday so I could be on the road by 6:30 a.m. The weather wasn’t exactly what I’d call ideal for a long drive, but I still managed to make decent time.

By the time I arrived on their doorstep, shortly before 11, visions of wine tastings were dancing in my head. And after the lovely Elisabeth whipped me up some scrambled eggs with tomatoes fresh from their incredibly bountiful postage-stamp sized garden, we were on our way to hit the Trail.

It was perhaps a 40 minute drive from the Shipman’s house in Milford, to the first winery on our list: DiGrazia Vineyards in Brookfield, CT. It was a scenic trip, through a series of stereotypically quaint New England towns. We made good use of the time, chatting and singing along to the radio. Kent was good enough not to roll his eyes too many times.

Gypsy, Liz and Kent’s somewhat-outdated GPS, was calling the shots. Which was probably why we ended up taking an even more scenic route once we got closer to our destination. We missed a few turns, too, but that just gave us a chance to explore more of the tiny winding lanes around the vineyard. I loved it.

The skies opened up on us as we made our way up DiGrazia’s long drive. While the rain effectively nixed our plan to have a picnic of sorts under their tree covered arbor, it did nothing to detract us from the task at hand. Which was, of course, to sample the establishment’s extensive list of wines.

If you’ve done a wine tasting before, whether it’s in the Finger Lakes region or elsewhere, you know it’s a mixed bag. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad. And on occasion, it can be downright ugly. Having never before had the opportunity to sample any Connecticut wine’s before, I had tempered my expectations. As it turned out, I was more than pleasantly surprised by the quality of the wine we tasted – at DiGrazia and the other wineries we visited.

At DiGrazia, I found I preferred their whites and blush style wines. Although my absolute favorite was the Blacksmith Port, particularly after I heard the story about the old Italian blacksmith in whose honor the sweet, barrel-aged port was named and whose spirit is believed to linger at the vineyard.

It was Dr. DiGrazia himself who told us the tale of the man, as he took us on a brief tour of the facility. It was a treat to hear the story of the winery from the person who started it all. Especially since he peppered our little walk-through with mythical trolls and memories of his medical training in Switzerland. Now, well into his 70’s, he still practices medicine and oversees the vineyard’s winemaking operation, he told us. Adding that the key to longevity was to do what you love.

Which didn’t give me pause, until I learned his specialty was gynecology.

We’ll just say that made for an interesting discussion as we returned to the car, our arms laden with purchases.

We gnoshed on our picnic lunch en route to the second winery on our list: McLaughlin Vineyards in Sandy Hook, CT. After a couple of more missed turns, and a jaunt down what could only be described as a cart path, we came upon the rustic 160 acre property. Marked, not by a CT Wine Trail sign as we had expected, but rather one for fresh eggs. Who would have thought.

We were looking forward to the live music the vineyard hosts each Sunday – which was supposed to be raggae that particular day – but unfortunately it had been canceled as a result of the weather. We didn’t let it dampen our spirits, though, and got right down to tasting the 6 wines on offer. This time, my favorite was the Vista Reposa, a peppery red, of which I, regrettably, only purchased one bottle.

We chose not to linger, despite the idyllic surroundings. But I did manage to snap a few pictures of the vineyard on our way out. It really was a gorgeous setting. And for once, my paltry photographic skills actually did them justice.

From Sandy Hook, we headed to Shelton and Jones Family Farms. It’s a favored destination for Liz and Kent, for berry picking and cutting down their Christmas tree. They hadn’t yet sampled any of their wines, however, and our goal was to rectify that. And I can assure you that, now that we have, we’ll make it a point to go back. Because, quite frankly, we loved everything that we tasted there – the whites, the rose, the reds and even their dessert wines – which come in raspberry and black current.

My favorite, though, was without a doubt the Strawberry Serenade – a sparkling blend of chenin blanc grapes and fresh strawberries which was nothing short of inspired. It was pure poetry in a glass. Honestly, I would be quite happy never to let another liquid pass my lips.

While we sipped, and heaped lavish amounts of praise on everything we tasted, the skies opened up once more. As a result, we were forced *ahem* to linger over an extra glass of wine. I, of course, selected the Strawberry Serenade.

By the time we returned to Milford, we were worn out and – at least in my case – a little bit tipsy. We spent the rest of the day lounging in front of the television, watching the food network, sipping some of that wine we bought and playing Scrabble. Yep, absolute bliss.

There was less wine on Monday, but it was no less enjoyable. Liz, Tex and I spent the day hiking at a lake in nearby Fairfield, then watched The Blind Side (which I highly recommend) while we waited for Kent to come home from work. Then we took walk around the neighborhood with my new best friend Tex, imbibed a little more of that wine, whipped up some homemade pizza with more of their backyard-grown bounty and played even more Scrabble. It was a good day. Followed by another one with more good food, dog walking and lots of quality time with Lizzie. Who tells me she now prefers to be called “Elisabeth.” As if.

I dragged out my visit until Tuesday afternoon. But by then I had to face facts – it was time for me to go home. My heart was heavy as I packed my car and said my good-byes.

As I settled into my 4-hour drive, I couldn’t help but marvel at the clarity just those couple of days away had given me.

Not to mention all those bottles of wine, tucked away safe and sound in my trunk.

Yep, I think a return trip to Connecticut, and a few more stops along that wine trail are definitely in my future.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa.

Days like today – with the sky a clear blue and the kind of heat that sinks lazily into your skin – remind me of Colorado’s Western Slope, where the Rockies meet the High Plains Desert.

I made my home there, in Grand Junction, for several years returning to New York. And on mornings like these, my thoughts always seem to drift back to the time-worn vistas which mark the region.

The landscape in that part of the country is the antithesis of the rolling hills and lush greenery of Central New York, and at first I struggled to find its beauty. Eventually, I discovered it – and something akin to inner peace – while hiking among the stone monoliths and box canyons of the Colorado National Monument.

I spent many an hour, and covered an untold number of miles, trekking in and around the park. In fact, I traveled my favorite backcountry trails – Liberty Cap, Monument Canyon, Old Gordon, Black Ridge and Devil’s Kitchen – so often that I can still see those vistas when I close my eyes.

I retreat to those memories at times, when I long for solitude and serenity. Because I’ve found there is still comfort in the remembered feel of sliprock beneath my trusty hiking shoes, the echo of the pinyon jay’s piercing call and the joy of exploring a landscape of ancient rock, shaped by the forces of nature and the elements.

There is an old Native American legend, or so I’m told, which says visitors to Grand Junction are destined to return, unless they take the time to gather soil from the formations which mark three points of the compass around it: The Bookcliffs to the North, so named because of their resemblance to so many tomes on a shelf; the Grand Mesa to the Southeast; and the Monument.

It is something I failed to do when I returned home to New York, 2 1/2 years ago.

On days like these, when I feel the pull of the sun and the sky, I can’t help but wonder if it is in answer to the call of those ancients spirits, trying to lure me back.

In homage to those spirits, I offer this, a poem I wrote about one of those favorite trails:

Devil’s Kitchen (2007)

Battered sneakers covered
in red dust carry me
down into the valley.

Scrubby juniper mix
with spiky Mormon tea,
desert sage, pale Indian

rice grass and a few
scattered prickly pear,
magenta fruit hosting

globules of marshmallow fluff
waiting to turn scarlet
between my finger tips.

Rich soil rises like cities
in miniature, plump and black
from the recent rain.

I breathe deeply and savor
the sweet crispness
of the Spring air.

The trail forks before me,
but I worry not which way to choose.

I will lose my self in the clear
blue of the sky.

And find my self in this sacred, sacred place.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa.

I made my way to the fairgrounds on foot this morning, making my final mental preparations for the cotton candy and funnel cake-fueled chaos which always accompanies the arrival of the Chenango County Fair.

While most of the Evening Sun’s reporting staff spends a lot of time at the fair, each of us is assigned a particular day at the fair – meaning that it’s our day to suss out a feature-worthy story among all of the day’s happenings. Today – opening day of the 163rd installment of our county’s longest running event – was “my” day.

I was tossing a few ideas around in my head as I trekked down East Main Street, but as the main gate approached, I decided not to force it. Instead, I thought, I’d let the sights, sounds and smells of the fair lead me to a story.

At 11 a.m., vendors and exhibitors were still scrambling to set up and the Ferris wheel and other rides were making their rounds empty of fairgoers, as the last inspections were made. A few harness racers had taken to the track for what I assumed were practice rounds. The mingled scents of sausage and peppers, funnel cake and other fair food was already heavy in the air. Giant Percheron horses were stomping in their temporary stalls adjacent to the 4-H poultry tent, the occupants of which were also making their presence known.

As I listened to the ruckus, I couldn’t help but wonder if they were registering their displeasure at the proximity of the Two By Two Zoo across the way. In particular, the black leopard pacing back and forth in it’s cage. And the albeit lethargic alligators lounging by their little kitty pool.

Next door, the large pen of ready-to-pet goats looked a little nervous, too. And I didn’t blame them.

I turned back before the 4-H show ring, deciding to leave the rest of the animals for another day. Instead I grabbed lunch with my friend Julie. (Sausage and peppers, of course).

After we discarded the detritus of our hastily consumed meal (ugh, the heartburn!), we headed to the Exhibition and Floral halls. Which is where I found my story. (Don’t worry. You’ll get to read it tomorrow.)

I headed back to the office around 3, thoroughly drained by the one-two punch of heat and humidity. I relaxed in the air conditioning and gave Jeff a thorough debriefing of Day 1. After my recap, I’ll admit I was dreading the thought of having to return tonight.

But then I thought of the parade. The pastel pink and blue chickens I’d seen in the poultry tent. All the Evening Sun temporary tattoos burning a hole in my pocket. The promise of a zipper ride with my Relay partner-in-crime, the amazing Chris Greeley. And, most importantly, the funnel cake. All that cinnamon and sugar coated, artery-clogging, deep-fried goodness calling my name.

And realized I couldn’t wait to get back to the Chenango County Fair.

See you at the fair!

Follow me on Twitter …@evesunmelissa.

On Monday I learned my favorite Arlington establishment, the Clarendon Grill, had closed its doors. Temporarily, so its owners claim. But whatever renovations they have in store will wipe the slate clean on a place where my fondest memories of living in Northern Virginia were created.

I don’t remember the first time I walked through the CGrill’s glass front door. But I can guarantee, if it was a weekend, I’d been queued up around the block for no inconsiderable amount of time. Because when I moved to Arlington in the late 90’s, the Clarendon – or CGrill as we called it – was the place to be and be seen on any given Friday or Saturday night. The line would stretch around the block, and once you made it inside, you still had to fight your way to the bar. The dance floor was sure to be packed, as well, hen on to the dance floor. If you were lucky, the Greek goddess of the hostess stand, Nicki, would grant you a table. As long as you were willing to wait for that, too.

The CGrill’s décor was not what you’d expect from such a nightspot. The theme was construction, a salute to the engineering past of the owner Pete Pflug’s family, if I remember correctly. But it worked.

The custom table tops displayed a mix of blueprints, paint chips, saw blades and other hardware store finds. The bar itself was a series of dioramas, featuring Tonka trucks pushing gravel and the like. Five-gallon buckets served as lighting fixtures. The brightly-painted ends of 2×4s contrasted against the remaining primer-painted walls, hung with the colorful work of local artists. The menus were done as architectural drawings.

Contrasting with the rough-hewn look of the place was the menu, created by Kevin Weeks, the chef Pete hired away from the Red Sage, one of DC’s premier restaurants. Sure, there was the requisite burger – the Jackhammer, or the Jack*@# as Kevin called it – but even it was topped with red pepper aioli, caramelized onions, apple-wood smoked bacon and the like. The salads were of the nicoise variety, topped with seared Ahi tuna. A jicama slaw was one of the offered sides. The trout was served, intact, shall we say. The lamb shanks were braised; the pork chops, seared. Brunch was a personal favorite of mine, with eggs forestiere and huevos ranchero being my top choices.

In those days – over a decade ago, now – I was applying my economics degree to somewhat good use working in market research for one trade association or another. I waited tables on the side, both for extra money and the social life. Quite frankly, my 20-something self considered it a blast.

This was a few years before developers moved in and turned Clarendon into a high-rent district. Before Mister Days even opened up across North Highland Street. Before the Clarendon Ballroom. Before Barnes & Noble and all the other big box retailers had moved in.

I worked first at Whitey’s, an Arlington institution known for its “broasted” chicken and half price burger night. Okay, it was a dive bar. But I made great tips.

It didn’t take long for me to tire of the place, though. And after a few I decided to hang up my apron there and look elsewhere.

Where I looked, was the Clarendon Grill.

My interview took place in a booth a few steps from the previously mentioned dance floor, where just that weekend I myself had spent some quality time listening to Gonzo’s Nose.

My interviewer was Nick Freshman, CGrill’s most junior manager at the time, who had only recently been elevated from server status himself. Tall and lanky, with an easy grin and thick golden blonde hair, he made all the ladies swoon.

Which probably accounted for the nervousness I felt as I slid into the sea-green banquette, trying hard not to get tangled in the ridiculously long legs already clogging the space.

Gradually, I started to open up as Nick peppered me with questions about my experience, and then about myself. We’d fallen into an easy camaraderie, chatting about our lives, when he finally broke it to me that there wasn’t a position open.

I thought he was just letting me down easy, so I was rather surprised when a couple of weeks later he called to offer me a job.

I had the somewhat dubious honor of being the first CGrill employee to be put to the test in the establishment’s new training program. It involved 5 shifts, 3 of which were on the floor, 1 in the kitchen and the last as a food runner on a busy Saturday night.

Being as I was accustomed to juggling 10 tables during Whitey’s famed Burger Night, when burger-hungry patrons flocked from far of wide to enjoy their specialty at half price, my first three shifts at CGrill were a breeze.

The fourth, however, nearly did me in.

I turned up as instructed on a Saturday to help prep for the evening’s dinner service. With my first assigned task – to clean a boatload (okay, exaggeration) of calamari – I knew the name of the game was going to be “how can we gross the new girl out.”

Much to their chagrin, I passed that first test with flying colors. (I did, after all, gut my first deer when I was 13. Give me some credit.) They’d thrown their worst at me already, and with each additional task – marinating chicken, cracking umpteen dozen eggs, cleaning crab meat – I could see their disappointment mounting. No fun would be had at this girl’s expense, I thought, as I chuckled to myself.

But alas, my celebrations proved premature. With their final challenge, they stumbled upon my greatest culinary Achilles heel: Olives.

Yeck. Just the briny smell of the things is enough to make me want to retch. And these people wanted me to pit them! Oh, the agony.

The all-male kitchen crew, most of whom hailed from Mexico or Central America, found this hysterical. Especially given my imperviousness to their previous efforts to gross me out.

I did get through it, of course. And managed to earn the respect of the kitchen staff in the process. Or at least I think it was respect. Because I never did learn how to speak Spanish.

From then on out, Clarendon Grill became my second home, and my co-workers my other family. Jeanette, Nick, the other Nick, Erin, Heather, Danny, Dave, Justin, Chuck, Jeff, Kevin, Penny, Jen, Thomas – and a dozen or so others whose faces are vivid in my memory, even if their names are not – all the rest played prominent roles in the next couple of years in my life.

I’ve lost touch with most if not all of them now, but I still trot out memories of those “good old days” on occasion. (Much to the chagrin of my current crop of friends, I might add. Poor darlings, they never had the pleasure of knowing Clarendon in its hey day.)

In a moment of nostalgia, I did a few Google searches a couple of years ago, to see what happened to some of my old Arlingtonian crew. My heart broke when I learned Kevin had been killed in a tragic car accident. The others I found, however, seem to be doing well. Pete has increased the size of his Clarendon restaurant empire, with the help of another former CGrill veteran, Dave Pressley. Nick Freshman, too, has his own place, called Spider Kelly’s.

And, until this week, Clarendon Grill has continued to occupy the same location at 1101 N. Highland Street. It really is an end of an era for me.

Farewell, CGrill. Thanks for the memories.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa.

Anyone who went through high school earth science has at least a passing knowledge of plate tectonics, the scientific theory concerned with the movement of the Earth’s crust which both causes whole continents to shift and triggers all those frightful earthquakes along the faults.

This blog, however, has nothing to do with that. My concern is with the shift of another type of plates entirely. License plates, actually. And those issued by the State of New York in particular.

When New York first made the switch to the new, obnoxiously gold tags a few months ago, I was as horrified as every other resident of this great state. It wasn’t so much the fee increase, that I could stomach. It was the aesthetics, or more precisely, the lack there of, which I found most unsettling.

I was fully prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt, I really was. I tried to write off my consternation about this new, unpalatable color combination as just an aversion to change. It’ll grow on you, I tried to tell myself.

But I was wrong. I’m every bit as repulsed by New York’s new license plates today as I was when they were unveiled. More so, really, since I’m now forced to view them with greater regularity.

Who chose this particularly garish shade of gold, and then paired it with midnight blue? That’s what I really want to know. Who made this decision, and for the love of all things holy, why?

I want to know if this was a cost saving measure. I mean, were there vats of that school bus-esque color left over from the mid-80’s? If memory serves, that’s when New York made the switch from the old yellow and blue plates to Lady Liberty. (Which I loved, by the way.)

It’s even crossed my mind that perhaps color-blindness was a factor in the decision making process. Because I just can’t fathom why our state would choose a color combo sure to clash with just about every vehicle color on the market. I fully anticipate the number of white cars sold to double in the next year, as it is the only color which doesn’t look appalling with the new plates.

It’s all just rampant speculation at this point. All I know is that, in this instance, going “retro” with the colors was ill-advised.

Just think of the implications: Permanent retinal damage, the long-term effect on the children of our state (all those parental lessons on matching colors wasted!), and it could actually cause the Empire State to lose businesses.

As if the high taxes, energy costs and over-regulation weren’t enough, here we are scaring people away with these obnoxious things. Whole industries, especially those fashion or art related, could be at risk.

And what about tourism? How can that not suffer, given the fact that our scenic highways just got decidedly less attractive. All eyes will be on those hideous plates, rather than the passing landscape.

And forget about attracting new residents to New York. Sure, the design of a state’s license plate wouldn’t be a major factor in such a decision, but it could very well be a deciding one. All things being equal, if it came right down to it, would you chose a state represented by a scenic mountain landscape , or gold and blue monstrosity?

If you said gold and blue, I know you’re lying.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa.

No one sets out purposely to offend the golfing gods. But unfortunately, sometimes it just happens.

I’m very conscious of staying in the good graces of these capricious demi-deities. I try to pay homage to them, by sacrificing more than my fair share of (usually new) golf balls in at least one water hazard at each course I play. Making my obeisance in the sand is a ritual part of any trip to the links. Tees, I donate by the dozen.

But sometimes, no matter how hard you try to appease the golfing divinities, you still manage to get on their bad side. Like I did last night.

Thursdays, as you may remember, are my golf league nights. Those evenings, when I get to spend a few blissful hours out swinging my clubs in the company of the always-entertaining lady Gofers, are my favorite night of the week. My partners in crime for last night’s outing were Belinda and Lisa, and I was indeed looking forward to the occasion.

I arrived at Canasawacta at the pre-arranged time (4:45 p.m.), ready and raring to go. Unfortunately, it was already pretty backed up at the first tee, as the rest of our league jockeyed to get out at the same time. Thankfully Belinda, who had arrived before me, was on top of it. She’d already cleared it with the helpful young man in the pro shop for us to jump ahead to hole 5, thus circumventing the congestion. And as soon as Lisa pulled up, we were off.

My drive off 5 was picture perfect. So perfect, in fact, that I should have immediately sensed something was drastically wrong. But I chose, instead, to revel in my far-too-infrequent fairway shot. I finished the hole well too, just further lulling myself into a false sense of security. After an almost equally beautiful drive on 6, I was feeling no pain. In fact, after my second shot put with me within sneezing distance of the green, I was ready to start gloating.

And that, my friends, is when it all fell apart.

I couldn’t sink a put to save my life. It was so bad that for a moment, I actually considered someone had played some slick jokes with magnets. But no. It was just me. And the golfing gods.

And, it only went down hill from there. I saw parts of that course that I never new existed. Most of them wooded.

The saddest part is that I dragged Lisa right down with me. Personally, I think she was trying to make me feel better. Honestly, I don’t think there was tree on that course that one of us didn’t hit. Thank goodness wood nymphs are only a myth, because if they did exist, they wouldn’t have been pleased.

Belinda, on the other hand, found it hysterical.

Of course, she wasn’t hitting any trees.

She did refrain, however, from making any “tree” wood jokes in my presence, for which I am eternally grateful. Although that was, obviously, the only club I had in my bag last night.

By the time I got back to the car, I’d decided it was high time I stopped relying on the fickle nature of the golfing gods.

Perhaps, instead, I’ll make use of those golf lessons my mom so generously gifted me for my birthday.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa.

About a week and a half ago, I received an email from Sue Reymers, Director of Development for the Chenango SPCA. She had a proposition for me. My mission, if I chose to accept it, was to help judge the SPCA’s first ever “FUR-ever Pet” photo contest.

Why not, I said. After all, there are worse ways to spend a lunch hour than looking at pictures of cute and cuddly pets.

Sure, secretly I wondered why Sue had picked me. While I’m inordinately fond of Lulu, my formerly-feral feline, I’m hardly an animal lover of the same magnitude as some in the community. And lets face it, I’m not known for my photography skills. (Although I like to think I can at least recognize a good photo when I see one, even if the taking of one escapes me.)

But I do love to give my opinion on things when the opportunity presents itself. Based on that alone, accepting the invitation was a no-brainer.

Only after I RSVPed, did I realize Sue’s motivation for requesting my assistance probably had more to do with the fact that I was sure to blog about it afterwards. And here I am, proving her right.

Oh, how I hate being so predictable…

But that didn’t stop me from presenting myself at the Chenango SPCA at the designated time to do my part in determining Best in Show for the all-too-cute photo contest. Sharing my judging duties were none other than Dr. Al and Mrs. Marilyn Kochersperger, and the shelter’s operations director, Lisa Teller.

Sue was there as well, serving as a facilitator of sorts and helping us keep focused on the task at hand. Which was definitely a good thing, since it was far too easy to fall into oohing and aahing over each one of those cutesy photos. Forget about the whole judging thing.

I was truly impressed with the applicant pool. I think there were something like 90 submissions in all, and as I said, each one more adorable than the last. I was pretty pleased with myself for being able to narrow it down to just 5 within a few minutes.

Granted, I’d spent close to an hour looking at them all the previous day, and there were some great ones we weren’t allowed to consider. Those being ones  entered by members of the SPCA’s board and others affiliated with the shelter.

All of the pictures were great, but I do have one thing I’d like to say to pet owners the world over. I mean no offense, but the next time you’re tempted to accessorize your beloved fur-covered friend with a hat or, heaven forbid, sunglasses, please reconsider. I’m speaking on behalf of the animals here when I ask you – beg, you – to resist. Just say no. Trust me, your pets will thank you for it.

But I digress…

Being more of a cat person myself, felines outweighed their canine counterparts 3 to 2 on my short list. If you had a chance to peruse the list of competitors, I’ll tell you that Muddie, Toven, and Zeke were my feline favs. And Bo and Picha out-dogged the rest of the pack, in my opinion.

Alas, none of the above appeared on the list of the dog-loving Kocherspergers and I had almost despaired of ever finding a middle ground, until Lisa rattled off her picks.

I rejoiced to hear Toven (or “Kitty in a Sink,” as I like to call him). Also on her list was Shamrock, a favorite of the Kocherspergers.

It didn’t take us long to decide to split the Best in Show distinction, in order to recognize both of these photos.

I would be remiss if I didn’t recognize two other photos, and the dogs featured in them. Sophie and Oscar were right up there, in my opinion. But because their owners  – Leslie Bernardi and Ann Coe, respectively – are both CSPCA board members, they weren’t eligible for the Best in Show prize. Both were front runners for the grand prize, though, which was determined by online “votes.” Also known as donations.

Zulu, however, pulled off a last minute victory in that regard. Coming from a distant fourth just 10 hours before voting ended, to come out as top dog in the end.

All three winners received some great prizes from the CSPCA, as well as recognition on the organizations website and at the shelter. To view the winning entries, visit www.chenangospca.org. They will also be published at a later date in The Evening Sun.

The good news for the rest of you pet-lovers out there is that the CSPCA is already talking about next year’s FUR-ever Friend photo contest. So get snapping.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa.

As much as I hate to disappoint you, my dear readers, I’m about to. Because I know you saw the title of this, my most recent blog, and greedily clicked on it, eager to hear some salacious tale involving that highly flammable, high-octane booze which has no doubt sparked all kinds of drunken debauchery: Bacardi 151.

Sorry to disappoint, but this epistle has nothing whatsoever to do with partying it up Bacardi style. In fact, it’s about the biggest anti-party of all: work.

You see, this marks my 151st blog for the Evening Sun. That’s right, I’ve now penned 151 of these suckers, in which I’ve pouring my heart, soul, hopes, dreams and a whole lot of bs into the blogosphere.

Without a doubt, this opportunity to shoot the proverbial *$#^ with our online readership is one of my favorite parts of my job at The Evening Sun. A job at which, I might add, I celebrated my two year anniversary yesterday.

371 days after the fact, I still vividly remember my first day at this esteemed paper. I got to sleep in that morning, since I didn’t have to present myself until after deadline. Little did I know it would be the last weekday (other than a holiday or two) when I’d get to do that.

Since my first (admittedly uninspiring) brief  – about the Oxford PD’s acquisition of a new Durango – over 825 articles have appeared under my byline. Which averages out to roughly 8 per week.

I know, you’d think I’d have gotten better at it by now, right? Yet here I am still agonizing over every word and sweating out each deadline.

Perfection takes time, I keep telling Jeff, explaining my philosophy on writing as a craft. But he just looks nonplused and tells me what time it is.

Some days it feels hard to believe I’ve been at this desk typing away for two years. On others, the number the calendar provides feels like a far too conservative estimate. It feels like decades, for example, if I’m recovering from a string of school board meetings.

School board meetings. *Groan.*

Attending these meetings is something of a necessary evil for me. I have no idea how many I’ve gone to in the last 24 months, although I feel safe to say it is more than any human should have to endure in a lifetime – unless they are elected to do so, of course. But important stories come out of them, so I have to be there in order to do my job to the best of my ability.

If my job was a spaghetti western a la Clint Eastwood, school board meetings would be the Bad AND the Ugly. But luckily there is the Good to balance it out.

Columns and blogs definitely fall into this category. And I really love the hands-on stuff, like the Punching the Clock series we used to do and Delivering Christmas around the holidays. Just meeting people I don’t know and hearing their stories is a thrill for me. And it’s always a privilege to, in turn, tell that story to our readers.

Sure, you could say that makes me a nosy busy-body. You’d even be right. But in this job, it serves me well.

There are times when I have my doubts about my chosen field. There are long days, late nights and far too many weekends covering fairs, graduations and the like. And lets face it, being a reporter isn’t exactly one of the highest paid professions. So why do I keep doing what I do? Why do any of us, for that matter?

For me at least, it’s because I love to write, and I consider it a privilege to be able to make an albeit meager living doing it every day. And in my heart I feel I am doing good by being here – whether it’s by raising awareness of issues, highlighting positive points in our community, or keeping people informed about what’s taking place in town and school board meetings.

It also feeds my needy little ego. Because all it takes is for one person to tell me they were touched by my words – or that a humorous column gave them a much-needed laugh – to make it all worthwhile.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the last two years as much as I have.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa.

Since my coverage area is firmly rooted in the Southern most provinces of Chenango County, it’s not often that I venture north. But on Friday, I did just that, making my way to the Earlville Opera House to address a group of the non-profit’s “Roving Reporters.”

Unfortunately, I was held up at the office, and was therefore a few minute late for my designated 15 minutes with these intrepid young people, who were eager to ask questions about what life is like as an real-life reporter. (Really, they were.)

So instead of launching into my carefully prepared talk on the ins and outs of being a small town reporter, I decided to start with a caveat about how, no matter how meticulously you plan your day, a reporter always have to be prepared to drop everything to pursue a breaking story or whatever else may arise.

What held me up fell solidly into the latter category, relating to my need to do our web update in Jeff’s absence that day. But they didn’t need to know that. I figured it was better to leave them with some illusions as to the glamour of my position. Rather than bore them with the all-too school board meeting-laden reality.

That’s okay, the students’ chaperone (Jacque Roys, who originally hails from Oxford) told me, explaining that the kids had spent the time watching the fire trucks go by, and speculating about their destination.

Hmmm, I thought, fire trucks. As the students – who were all members of the Oriskany Falls summer rec program – began to pepper me with questions, I tucked that little tidbit away for later. We talked about “beats” and “bylines,” and lots of other newspaper-related topics in the remainder of our time together, which passed entirely too quickly for me to impart all of my pre-rehearsed words of wisdom with them. All too soon they were being ushered away by EOH’s unflappable and thoroughly wonderful executive director, Patti Lockwood-Blais.

As I hiked back to my car (my late arrival meant I had to park about a half a mile away), visions of those fire trucks danced in my head. Sure, I contemplated returning directly to the office, but it was short-lived. After climbing behind the wheel I headed, not back to 12B, but East in the direction I’d been told the fire crews had gone.

I didn’t have to go far before I encountered a member of Earlville’s fire police directing traffic away from Borden Road. I introduced myself, and after a few moments spent trying to raise the chief on the radio the kind gentleman waived me through with instructions to seek out Earlville Fire Chief Bob Tracy on the scene.

A mile or so up the road, I found the Chief and the Earlville squad, stationed in front of a soot-stained farm house, watching as other volunteer firefighters worked at removing the tin roof from the structure. Many had been there since shortly after 6:30 a.m., when the fire was first reported, and most were in sweaty t-shirts, with their fire gear pooled around their ankles.

In the skirt, blouse and wedge sandals I’d worn to address the kiddies, I felt more than a little overdressed.

Chief Tracy didn’t hold that against me though. In a matter of minutes, he updated me on the situation. The Madison County fire investigator had already visited the scene, he said, and determined it to be electrical in nature and linked to the brownout which had deprived the area of power for several hours the night before. While the front of the house appeared largely untouched by the flames, the interior was totaled, he explained.

“If you had your fire gear, I’d take you inside,” he added, with a pointed look at my footwear.

“I don’t have any fire gear,” I admitted, with an aw-shucks shrug of my shoulders. Ardently wishing for a moment that I did have such a thing stashed away in my trunk, for just such an occasion.

“We could lend you some,” he said, eyes smiling.

Not wanting to appear over-eager, I suppressed my desire to jump up and down with glee.

A few minutes later, I was sliding my feet into the size 12’s only recently vacated by Mike Doyle, the young Earlville firefighter who so generously volunteered his gear.

Of course, I did this only after ascertaining that he had no foot fungus I should be aware of. And tried hard to ignore the fact that they were still warm from their previous occupant.

While I was able to accomplish the boots on my own, I required assistance with getting the pants properly secured and donning the coat, say nothing of the helmet.

Once I was suited up, I allowed them a hearty laugh – and a photo for posterity’s sake – before heading inside with my two escorts: Captain John Fontaine and Jill King. One stayed ahead of me, the other behind, the entire time, making sure I didn’t take any false steps.

Even getting into the house was a challenge. The steps were wet and slippery with soot, and let me tell you, it was tough maneuvering in those size 12’s. There was also the weight of the pants, coat and helmet to contend with. Not to mention the heat. Thankfully, Friday was a bit cooler than the rest of the week. And I knew I was getting off easy, since I wasn’t also loaded up with all of the equipment these guys normally carry into a fire.

We entered into the kitchen, which even though virtually unscathed by the blaze itself, was still a scene of devastation. Soot was smeared across every surface, the walls smoke stained and water pooled on the floors. It was worse in the living room, which was directly below the room where the fire had started. Here, the water damage was more severe and part of the ceiling was gone.

Next we entered the narrow stairwell, and mounted even slipperier steps as we made our way to the second floor. The wall that greeted us was so black, I couldn’t tell what color it had been before the blaze. Hanging before it was a hunk of melted plastic John informed me was the smoke detector. Behind it, mounted to the wall, was another melted hunk, which looked to have one time been an iron.

As we exited the stairwell, we looked straight into what had once been a child’s room. As I stared at the blackened bunk beds, I said a silent prayer of thanks that the three kids who had lived in the house were away for the summer and far, far away that morning.

I said another prayer when we rounded the corner and the upstairs bedroom where the blaze had started came into view. Thank God they woke up in time to get out.

I’m sure I was chattering away nervously the entire time we were in the house, oohing and aahing as I felt I was expected to. But I was truly shaken by the experience. Seeing the true extent of the damage wrought by those flames was something I’m not sure I was prepared for.

When, after exiting the house and removing my borrowed gear, I met the two tenants who were asleep when the fire started, I was almost at a loss for words. Smelling of soot and having just seen the devastation they would face as they tried to salvage their home, my questions sounded flat and incomprehensible even to my own ears.

But I sucked it up, and did my job. Because it is telling stories such as theirs, and the responders on the scene, which make this job worthwhile for me.

My heart felt condolences go out to Jen Brown and Carrie Hartz for the devastating loss they suffered in Friday’s fire. May they find comfort in the fact that no one was harmed in that horrible blaze.

And I must, again, express my heartfelt gratitude to the Earlville Fire Department, not only for giving me the opportunity to walk in their shoes for a brief moment, but for all that they – and all those in the volunteer fire service do – to help area residents in their hour of need.

I spent some time in the Norwich Fire House this weekend, helping out during registration for the Gus Macker tournament. There is an inscription over the doorway leading to the bays where the fire trucks are stored, which I always pause to read.

It says: “Through these doors pass God’s greatest guardian angels.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa.

The beef industry must love the Fourth of July.

I won’t even hazard a guess at how many steaks, burgers and (hot) dogs were slapped on grills this past weekend, as Americans from coast to coast celebrated the birth of our great nation the only way they know how: With a barbecue, of course.

Because, really, what says “Happy Independence Day” like a healthy assortment of grilled meat with a fireworks chaser?

For those who eschew the wonders of red-meat, please feel free to substitute the poultry or non-meat option of your choice. But me, I love a good burger, especially one cooked over an open flame.

In my family, there are burgers and there are my father’s burgers. Yes, they are a category unto themselves. And they are only for the most adventurous of eaters.

I should start by saying that my father is not a cook, nor does he have any desire to be one. He is more than happy to let someone else don the apron and slave away at the stove or grill.

There are but two exceptions to this rule. The first are his pancakes, which only the privileged get to enjoy. The second, his signature burgers.

What separates his version of the American classic from your basic burger?  Probably the fact that his recipe includes basically all of the major food groups. While most recipes include just a few seasonings, my father is inclined to include copious amounts of fresh chopped onion, half a loaf of white bread, and generous heapings of pepper, salt and enough garlic powder to keep even the most gregarious of vampires at bay.

There may be a few other seasonings in there, too, which he’s keeping to himself. But that’s not what makes my dad’s burgers truly unique. What does? Raisins.

Go ahead and take a moment to let that sink in, and for your gag reflex to subside.

Raisins have their place, don’t get me wrong. I consider them a wonderful addition to any lunch box, and particularly endearing perched on the top of a peanut butter laden celery stick in the classic after-school snack known as “ants on a log.” No Irish soda bread is complete without them and, even though I prefer chocolate chips, I am not averse to them in an oatmeal cookie.

But in a burger? I think not. Frankly, I believe it crosses all kinds of lines of acceptability, and would fully warrant a visit from the burger police, if such an agency did in fact exist.

My father didn’t always sully his burgers in this way. No, once his burgers were perfectly palatable. But that was before an ill-fated trip to his Uncle Louis planted the idea in his head.

Uncle Louis, husband to my grandmother’s sister Florence (a.k.a. Aunt Flo), was 100 percent Italian. And trust me, he was no culinary amateur. He made some of the best sauce I’ve ever tasted (even though he insisted on calling it gravy), and I’m pretty sure his pasta fagioli was the one that made Dean Martin’s stars drool in That’s Amore.

What he was thinking when he added raisins to a burger in my father’s presence I will never know. But my dad took it, and ran with it.

I’ll never forget the first time my father made what would become his signature dish. I was probably 12 or 13 at the time, and impressionable. I indulged his culinary whimsy and tried the burger as offered.

It wasn’t half bad, I’ll admit. But when I asked him what his secret ingredient was, his response spoiled them for me forever.

“Are they raisins?” My adolescent self queried.

“No,” he replied. “They’re dead flies.”

Needless to say, it was the last of his special burgers to ever touch my lips.

He, however, makes them any chance he gets. And my mother eats them, too. I suspect she’s just humoring him in some vain hope that he’ll take a greater interest in cooking and thus relieve her of kitchen duty at least occasionally.

This, alas, has not been the case. Not that he doesn’t experiment in the kitchen, on occasion. These experiments, however, are limited strictly to new burger creations. You see, the raisins were kind of a “gateway” ingredient for him. He has since blasphemed burgers cranberries, apple pieces and who knows what else. I, for one, try not to pay attention.

I think of it as plausible deniability in case those burger police ever do show up.

When he heads to the kitchen to prep his now-infamous burgers, I make sure to specify that I want mine plain. And well done.

I try to ignore the eye roll.

Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa.