More work today! Yay, progress. Also, I'm still working on the story, but here is the photo!

 

The Electric Chair (Draft) -- I really need to post this today even though it will be extensively revised and a photo added

By Gina Giuliano (2026)

My mother has been gradually shedding possessions since 2022, when my father died. Recently she moved from an apartment to assisted living. One beloved item that remains in her apartment is the electric chair. This sturdy chair was an important piece of furniture when she was a child, growing up at the Axinn Farm in West Shokan. Mimmie, my grandmother was always interested in True Crime. The biggest story in the 1930s was the kidnapping and murder of Charles Lindbergh's baby. A man named Bruno Hauptmann was arrested and put on trial for the horrible crime. Mimmie never skipped listeneing to the case on the radio, and so my mother and her slightly younger brother Bud heard the details as well. In the evening they would act out the trial. Eventually, he was convicted and sentenced to die by electrocution. In the living room of their house at the Axinn Farm was a solid wooden chair, painted green in Mimmie fashion. My mother and Uncle Buddy would take turns sitting in the wooden chair, tying each other to it with a rope, dramatically pretending to be executed, while the jailer would pantomime pulling a big lever that sent juice through the body. The unfortunate imitation Hauptmann would jerk and flail while tied to the chair, eventually slumping forward, limp. Several years later my grandparents moved from that house where these antics took place and the electric chair was stored in my grandfather's sister’s barn. It stayed there over 60 years, long after my great aunt sold the little bungalow and barn, and incredibly, no-one disturbed it. One day many years later, Uncle Bud explored the old dilapidated barn and was surprised and delighted to discover the electric chair. Remarkably, it was not at all damaged by the leaking roof. On my mother's birthday, Uncle Bud visited her. He went inside and said, “I have something in my truck for you.” She followed him outside, wondering what it could be. He opened the back of his truck cap and there it was: the electric chair!

I don't want to let any more time pass before noting that March 1 was the eighth anniversary of Uncle Bud's death (hard to believe) and the 24th anniversary of the founding of Gully Brook Press.

 Today is the 23rd anniversary of this blog and the seventh anniversary of Uncle Bud's death. Last night I had a dream with a "glimpse" of my father and Sam. I suspect the reason, which I won't share right now, or maybe ever.

Visited the cemetery yesterday. 😢😢😢😢😢
 

 Approaching the 22nd anniversary on Friday of this blog. Usually I forget to post something. Friday is also the sixth anniversary of Uncle Buddy's death. :-(

Last night Daddy made a brief appearance in my dreams (he was young, and wearing a striped sweater - uncharacteristic) and the night before I dreamed of Uncle Buddy, who had two unknown ~10-year-old kids with him, a boy and a girl.

This weekend we got a real snow storm! As Bob said, "it's good to see the Earth is still working."

Friday was Bob's 64th birthday. He wanted to go to Red Lobster. It's kind of a hard place to go for a vegetarian, but they have wonderful Brussels sprouts, and I got a salad. He got an unlimited feast.

This is chilling. It's obvious from current times, but I noticed hints and was disturbed by it among young people 15 years ago in toleration class.

 We got our first snow overnight. It is just a coating. Aside from Elwyn-inspired weather-related news, two other thing to report: First, Uncle Buddy's beloved hound Sally died yesterday. I have many thoughts and emotions swirling around on that subject that I will not share. Second, today would have been Donna's 62nd birthday. I rarely share this sort of information on Facebook and never will about Donna because I don't want a bunch of people clicking crying or caring likies or making comments of the "she's always with you" or "hugs" variety. I don't care much for that kind of thing even regarding someone whose loss has left me heartbroken forever such as my father. I certainly don't want to read it about Donna. I cannot, or perhaps will not, share any sort of truth about her with Facebook friends from high school who recall her as a 15-year-old kid with rosy cheeks. It would just make me seem mean-spirited and I don't need the drama.

 I intended to post yesterday and note two things, but this is a busy week and time evaporated. First, yesterday was the fifth anniversary of Uncle Bud's death. How can that be? Next, it was the 21st anniversary of the founding of Gully Brook Press.

Last night I had another dream with my father in it. He was driving. My mother was in the passenger's seat. I was in the back seat. He was talking and looked to be about 80-85. At first we were driving on a road that traveled through a corn field, and then we were on 28A in West Shokan. We were late for dinner, and my father was quite annoyed by this. He narrowly avoided a head on collision, which did not disturb him at all, but really upset my mother. I was going through a roll of money, pulling out bills to make the ticket price ($15 each).

Today is the 20 year anniversary of this blog. It is also four years since Uncle Bud died. And -- yesterday, my father was gone seven weeks. Years ago bloggers would write up reflections about sharing a journal online on the annual "blogaversary," and sometimes I did too. I wasn't consistent, and many years I forgot the milestone. I don't feel much like reflecting today, except to note that blogger has been an extremely stable free platform for keeping this journal.

It's primary day today!