Local News & Commentary Since 1890.

Posts Tagged ‘resilience’

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

What Grounds You?

In Uncategorized, Local News, Opinion on May 3, 2026 at 11:27 am

Deer In Headlines
By Gery Deer

In a world that never stops talking, the hardest thing to do is listen for silence. We scroll, swipe, click, and chase, convinced the next notification might carry something essential. Most of the time, it doesn’t. It just adds another layer of noise to an already crowded headspace, another reason to forget where we are standing and who we were before the noise found us.

That is why the question matters: what grounds you? Not in some abstract, self-help sense, but in the real, tactile way that keeps your feet planted when everything else feels like it is spinning. Grounding is not a trend. It is a tether. It is the quiet, stubborn force that keeps you from drifting too far into anxiety, ambition, or the endless churn of digital life.

I have come to believe that grounding lives in the senses. It is the weight of something familiar in your hands, the sound of a rhythm you have known for years, the smell that pulls you backward through time without asking permission. It is not complicated, and that is precisely why we overlook it. We are trained to chase what is new, not what is true.

For me, those anchors are unapologetically analog. There is the click of a typewriter key, sharp and deliberate, a sound that refuses to be rushed. There is the feel of bicycle handlebars steady under my grip, reminding me that forward motion does not require a screen. And there is an old truck, a 1967 International Harvester grain truck, that answers to the name Serenity.

Serenity is not subtle. It is steel and wood and history, the kind of machine that demands your attention simply by existing. But for me, it carries something quieter. It carries the low thrum of an engine from childhood, the memory of time spent beside my father, learning without realizing I was learning. It carries the echo of music played with family, the shared language of rhythm and repetition.

In that way, the truck is more than an object. It is a bridge. It connects who I was to who I am, and it does so without asking for an update or a password. It simply exists, waiting patiently, ready to remind me that not everything meaningful needs to be optimized, digitized, or shared.

I suspect we all have something like that, even if we have not named it yet. Maybe it is the smell of coffee brewing before dawn, or the steady weight of a dog settling into your lap at the end of a long day. Maybe it is a song that hits the same way every time, no matter how many years pass.

The problem is not that these things are hard to find. The problem is that we are rarely still long enough to notice them. The world benefits from our distraction. It profits from our attention being constantly pulled somewhere else. Stillness, on the other hand, does not monetize well. It does not trend. It simply works.

When the noise gets loud, and it will, those anchors matter. They give us a place to return to, a baseline that reminds us we are more than our inboxes and timelines. They pull us back into our bodies, into the present moment, into something real. Without them, it is far too easy to drift, to lose the thread of ourselves in the endless scroll.

So ask yourself the question and answer it honestly. What is your tether? What is the thing that keeps you here when everything else tries to carry you away? Find it. Name it. Keep it close. Because when the storm comes, and it always does, you will need to know exactly what holds you to the ground.

In the end, grounding is not about escaping the modern world. It is about surviving it with your sense of self intact. It is about choosing, again and again, to return to what is real, even when what is real feels quieter than the noise. That choice may be small, even invisible to anyone else, but it is powerful. It is the difference between being carried along and standing firm.

Hold on to it, always.

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Snow Drifts

In Environment, Local News, Opinion, Uncategorized, weather on February 1, 2026 at 1:34 pm

Deer In Headlines

By Gery Deer

I was 10 when the Blizzard of ’78 hit our small farm in southwestern Ohio. Holed up in an 8 by 10-foot room of our tiny farmhouse, with no power and only a small, very 1970s cone-shaped fireplace for heat, the five of us survived because of the experience and fortitude of my parents. 

It was 36 degrees in our kitchen that first morning and, without electricity, we had no water, and no other heat source. Plus, we had to figure out how to mix formula for 14 bottle-fed feeder calves in the barn. The temperature continued to drop, the wind was relentless, and a seven-foot snow drift sealed our back door. 

My father and brother tunneled like gofers from our basement walkout, creating a passable though treacherous path to the barn. Diesel fuel siphoned from a tractor filled nearly every one of our 15 or so antique kerosene lamps. Some provided light while others were placed next to open cabinet doors to warm water pipes. As it turned out, those weren’t the only family antiques that were called into service.

Me, my mother, and my brother’s very pregnant wife, melted snow in large canning pots and used the water to feed the calves – one bottle at a time. It took hours. Oddly, the barn was warmer than you might expect since the walls of stacked hay provided good insulation. Mom also found a way to feed us too. She cobbled together foil packs of vegetables and beef and cooked them in the little fireplace.

On day two, the national guard plowed our quarter mile-long driveway, and my father and brother took one of our farm trucks into the village to get supplies for us and the elderly couple who lived at the orchard across the road. It took them almost eight hours to make the seven-mile round trip. Once they made it back, they didn’t go out again. We had enough challenges at home.

Our electricity was out for almost four days. Over the next year, my father gutted our home’s heating system, replacing the electric oil furnace with a wood-burning version he designed. They also added generators, and a 1905 wood-burning cook stove. They were determined we’d never be so crippled again. 

I still use the lessons I learned during that very cold week and the events that followed. Our electricity was knocked out on a more than regular basis, but we were well prepared for most situations, thanks to my family’s know-how and tenacity. As a different kind of pioneer once said, “Failure is not an option.”

This past week, our small part of the world, as well as most of the Midwest and northeastern United States, experienced a similar winter event. As I prepared our home for the coming snow and cold, I was reminded of every moment during that frigid week on our farm all those years ago. For me, it was like my folks were still here because I could hear their words and see their actions in my mind – the lessons of growing up in a remarkable place with uncommon people. 

Sadly, it seems to me that such self-sufficiency is less common than years gone by. Instead of a calm thoughtful response to something like a snowstorm, people today seem more likely to overreact. Not even those who take preparedness to an extreme level can be ready for everything. But for situations like this, we have more resources, better access to information, and more reliable infrastructure than anything available a half century ago. Still, most people panic, clearing store shelves of bread and milk, while doing little to adequately prepare.  

I’m incredibly fortunate to have grown up at a time and with a family who gave me the knowledge and resourcefulness to look after myself in most situations. Probably like many of those reading this, I take whatever steps I can to manage a situation and try to help others whenever possible. General observers might see my heightened sense of urgency as anxiety, but I’m generally the calm one. Even so, there’s always that thing you didn’t plan on. That’s when improvisation, fueled by experience and common sense, can literally save your life.