One Thousand: Big Whoop

 
I admit it.

The number definitely got in my head. "Just write the darn thing already," my friend, Joan, said. It's just a number.

One thousand blog posts.

Yikes.

And me...still not an international writing sensation and/or a ka-zillionaire. The last thing that I had officially published was a eulogy. And I don't think I even qualify as a thousandaire. I rushed my husband to the store the other day because the printed-out $1.75 reward coupon was about to expire. 

It gets a girl to thinking.

Fun fact:  The QWERTY keyboard was designed over 150 years ago NOT to promote typing efficiency but to prevent typewriters from jamming.

 According to my three seconds of research, this inefficient design has never been upgraded due to a lack of incentive to relearn. I laughed. And then I stopped laughing because AI was funnier than me. And AI was (inadvertently? Amy pauses in her laborious letter-pecking to look around suspiciously) a little too close to the mark here. Did I really need a thousand posts to realize that only a small handful of friends bothered to read my inane (Spellcheck keeps changing inane to insane. Wow. Soften the blow a bit, Too-Technical-For-Me--World.) musings with any regularity. There are, of course, the slightly-more-shallow-than-me acquaintances who actually admit that they only read posts if they're featured in them. 

Is the one thousandth post mark a cause for a celebratory self-high-five or a sad realization that I should have stopped 999 submissions ago? I once made a New Year's Resolution to write a haiku-a-day for a year and successfully completed it. I felt more satisfaction in reaching that goal than limping over the finish line here (until my friend deleted them all...paper and pencil, friends...paper and pencil.). 

Perhaps I had vaguely set my unvoiced, not-clearly-thought-out, unrealistically-impossible expectations too high. I'm not sure there even exists a Nobel Peace Prize category for blog submissions. 

I guess there isn't a finish line here. It's not a race or a resolution. It's a journey. I can wander off the path when I want to...put my shoulder down and wrestle my way forward when the hard winds blow...describe a daisy in minute detail...pour out my feelings when the storms come. And laugh...a lot. I lack the talent or incentive to knit or crochet so I spin yarns instead. I'm a writer. And...when you are here...you are my reader. And I am ever so grateful.

See you at post 2,000.

Maybe.

Wow. Two thousand is a lot.

"Just write the darn thing, Amy."

Austin Adventures: Part 5- Otterly delightful

Three-quarters of the Mosiman household had gone radio-silent as my departure to Austin grew closer. I had been adamant about my intentions...or rather, LACK of intentions. I planned on being suction-cupped to Savannah's couch the ENTIRE time...brain turned off...fueled by cheese strings, fruit gummies, and peppermint patties. I wanted only to be an emotionless-mass beached beneath warm cozy blankets.

But the emanating wave of silence was speaking volumes. I knew something was up but I didn't know what. Through the good grace of God, I had survived January but then February arrived with its own host of debilitatingly sad challenges. Finally, one late night phone call put me completely over the emotional edge and my family decided that it was time to play their trump card:  While I was out in Austin, I would be swimming with otters. No, this didn't solve all the problems of the world but it sure provided me with a bit of a lift.

I am no stranger to a fun animal encounter:

Penguin #1

Penguin #2

Almost a capybara

Whale-watching camel

I've swam with manatees in murky-water, touched a turtle in Mexico ("Only once," warned Brad Mosiman, who JUST THEN decided to follow the dictated rules. "Did you see the men with guns patrolling the beach?" Brad hissed at me when it looked like I was going to go in for touch number two), hand-fed carp the size of small cars, had a herd of deer tackle me for an empty ice cream cone, tossed mini-marshmallows to bears bellowing below me, had an elephant extract a full-sized marshmallow from my hand, and made a fist-to-finger exchange of Fruit Loops with a monkey.

All of these experiences were delightful...albeit morally questionable.

Finally, I could focus on something fun rather than wallow in the misery around me. Bring on the otters.

I immediately began searching for the perfect meet-the-otter outfit. I learned, late in the game, that your wardrobe, surprisingly, can really up the experience. My black and white ensemble may or may not have contributed significantly to a penguin becoming enraptured with me. With the otters, I was leaving nothing to chance. To cover my bases, I bought a matching shirt for Savannah. I'd wrestle her into it myself if I had to. I considered buying a can of fish oil with which to slather myself but my research revealed that these little guys can be quite the vicious carnivores and I didn't want to risk my encounter going awry with an unprecedented otter attack.  

Like all good things in Texas, this place was in the middle of no-where. Savannah nervously eased her Mustang over a questionable, rickety, old, one-laned, wooden bridge. Our expectations were LOW. As we waited by the mini-Jurassic-style entry gates, we could see a turkey with some cows in a field. Sweet. The gates opened and we drove in...and immediately started squealing:  "Look! A giraffe! Zebras! Mom! There are kangaroos!"

Two Saint Bernards came to meet us as we parked.

Our guide threw us in a side-by-side and drove us across the amazing property. Giraffes unfurled their legs and raced beside us. Savannah and I were enchanted. Our guide was much more based in reality. Motioning to one in particular, she explained that Jeffrey can be quite an ass. 

Wonderful. A giraffe that is an ass!

We heard the otters before she even turned the engine off...a mixture of birds and cats.

A friendly giant pig with an unfortunate underbite welcomed us to the otters enclosure.

"There are eight otters today," our guide began and Savannah and I mentally filled-in-the-blank regarding the rest of her sentence..."and you will be meeting ____________ today."

NO!

We would be swimming with ALL of them today!

Yee-Haw! Just fill my fists with Talapia and call me right on time for an otter's dinner party!

Savannah and I were eager to believe that otters mimic cats in that they do their business in a specific part of their enclosure and NOT in the giant otter stew that we were being added to.

This could not be happening.

But, yup. There we were...boiling away with a bundle of chirping, cheerful, energetic otters who slid, eagerly, in and out of our arms in the most wonderful Amy and Savannah soup you can imagine.

They were so happy.

I was so happy.

Pure, unadulterated joy.

We gobbled up our Tilapia. Extracted ice cubes from a cup and played with the floating glaciers before they melted. Dove and danced. Spun, spiraled, shimmied. They LOVED Savannah in the water and I seethed with jealousy. "I'm the one who got her the shirt," I explained to them but apparently ALL otters have ADHD so none of them slowed down to consider my words.

But then it was time to dry off.

On the land...they were MINE!

We were captivated as otters wiggled on their backs along the carpet. Savannah and I, wrapped in towels, sat among eight otters and their assortment of toys. A small maraca and an over-sized toothbrush were obvious favs. I realized, when I raised one towel-covered knee up that my sleek, furry friends loved my inadvertent fort. They quickly disappeared beneath the covers. Savannah and I did not have enough hands to rub the backs and bellies clamoring for attention. 

It couldn't have been more delightful.

We had more otters than you could shake a stick at (and they would just have a ball playing with it). We were given ample time...more than we could have hoped. In fact, WE called it because, two towels aside, we were still cold.

It. Was. So. Much. Fun.

The otter enclosure was spacious and clean. The animals were well-socialized, healthy, and seemingly very happy. It was an experience that you could just feel good about.

I am so grateful to Savannah for arranging this wonderful experience. Face it, there is NO bad time to swim with these sweet, playful creatures but swimming with them when you are in the midst of a bad time is therapy like no otter.

Austin Adventures: Part 4

My plan to fly to Austin and simply sit on Savannah's couch was being thwarted at every turn. My eldest daughter could not abide the idea that her mother not be engaged and enriched every moment of the blessed day.

"What would you like to do today?" Savannah asked.

As if she didn't already know.

I had been VERY clear.

"There's some sort of tulip farm not far from here," she said, moving to interrupt my locked gaze from her large television.

Darn it.

"That just popped up on my Facebook algorithm," I admitted, begrudgingly.

Apparently Facebook knew I was in Austin. And was also intent on enriching me.

I sighed. I guess picking a posy wouldn't kill me.

We broached the subject to my younger daughter, Sydney, who typically adores photographic opportunities. Turns out that, for Sydney, a forty-five minute drive wasn't worth the experience of frolicking in a field of flowers. By Wyoming County standards, forty-five minutes is a mere blink of an eye so I buckled up for this blossom-based adventure.

Texas does NOT disappoint. 

Drive to the middle of nowhere and you will, inevitably, find something.

A two-story tall shovel sculpture, for instance. I believe Sydney Linda arranged that particular excursion (And where was she now?).

Savannah and I finally came upon the tulip farm, yes, in the middle of nowhere and realized, immediately, that we had not done our research.

We didn't have time to explore the lovely barn packed with farm-related animatronics, fudge, backed goods, and gifts galore because we were racing to reach the miniature baby goat pens that stretched, a mile long, behind the barn.

Again...I tip my two-gallon hat to Texas. If it weren't for your three-digit summer temperatures, I'd happily embrace the notion of "Go west, middle-aged woman!" A cute little chain hooked each enclosure and anyone could go waltzing in to kick-back with the kids. Savannah and I danced right in.

Want to pick up a miniature baby goat? Go ahead! No snooty lecture or list of regulations required. 

Want to kiss and hug a miniature baby goat? Go for it! No animal rights group was picketing these pens...just families buying feed or bottles to nurse our happy little friends. The area was clean with ample shelter for each creature. A waterline ran the length of the pens. It wasn't fancy but SO MUCH FUN!

But we weren't done!

We had a MAP!

We had two complementary tickets to shoot apples out of an air-compression cannon but, in my excitement of blowing giant bubbles at the giant bubble blowing station we encountered on our way to the air-compression cannon BEFORE looking for the miniature Highland calf that we never actually found because we got waylaid by the racing pigs before contemplating zip-lining through a forest to land on in-ground trampolines the size of a basketball court, I lost one of the tickets. NO-OO-OO! I sacrificially gave the remaining ticket to my daughter and the young man, in charge of apple distribution, was so moved by my selfless gesture that he grandly gave me an extra apple! 

And Texas just trusted that we would just know how to operate this insane (but delightful) weapon that annihilated apples. Lock and load, baby!

We did finally make it to the tulip field. 

Beautiful.

We agonized over each choice as we filled our container.

I imagine that a tulip field in Holland would be like walking into an Impressionist painting. Walking into a tulip field in central Texas is like slipping under the cozy cover of a velvet painting depicting Elvis playing poker with a group of cheating dogs. "Savannah, climb on top of those wooden shoes (bigger than her car) so I can take your picture." 

"Do you think we should try over by the grand piano parked in the patch?" 

"No...that's a high traffic area. Let's try over by the windmill and the bicycles." 

"Are there more tulips over there?"

"At least we know there are a few pedals!"

Savannah and I were big fans of the tulip farm!

Austin Adventures: Part 3

Y'all know I'm a country girl. Dirt roads for miles. Up-rooted railroad tracks that run wild in both directions. Fields in which to frolic...woods to ramble...all there for the taking should I ever muster the energy to get off my couch. 

My daughters have both relocated to well-known metropolitan areas where one must drive to experience a centralized-pseudo-nature planted within the pastures of parking lots and pay-toll roads of the cities they currently inhabit. 

Savannah, fortunately,  landed in a nifty little neighborhood that has gated access to a small forested area buttressed by a slowly-flowing river. She and Lisa dubbed it "The Hundred Acre Woods" and enjoy it daily with their dogs. 

Despite its reference to the gentle children's story, "The Hundred Acre Wood" is fraught with danger and peril. Savannah has been attacked by red ants.  Sydney tested (and failed) the siren's call of an alluring rope swing coil dangling like a hypnotic pendulum over the gentle water. And...most terrifying...after a rare flood of the river...Savannah and Lisa came nose-to-extended-nostril with an out-of-place alligator. While Lyle, Lyle Crocodile (also a comfortable city dweller) could, quite plausibly, fit into this "Hundred Acre Wood" setting, my girls, fleet of foot, did not stick around to find out if their new neighbor could sing or not. 

So, imagine my delight when I am dragged to this den of danger and disaster almost every day of my visit.

To their credit, my children know that I am equal parts distractible ("Look! A butterfly!") and manipulable. Lisa assigned me the "important" task of getting a cute picture of their new foster dog, sweet Anne Bonny...left, neglected and abandoned to her own devices...pregnant and frightened...did not fare well on her first crossing of a sea of traffic. She lost an eye and crushed a rear leg for her efforts but saved her puppies.

Anne's four off-spring, treasures, all...found homes easily.

Poor Anne, a beaten and battered-down vessel, is having a tougher time. Her exterior, while not warm and cuddly, does tug, like an incessant wind on the foremast of your heart. Her interior, though? Unfathomable. Anne Bonny, not surprisingly, has trust issues. She is shy and easily startled. Despite her limited vision, she misses nothing and hovers, uncertain of her welcome, in the periphery. 

So...off I tromped...to the terror-filled "The Hundred Acre Wood"... for Anne.

And it was Anne who alerted us to yet another unusual inhabitant.

I've been on the look-out for an armadillo. Savannah would, occasionally, stop-short, alert to the underbrush...sensing its possible presence. "Look for small rabbit ears," my Wyoming-County-raised daughter advised quietly as I scanned the scene. "Does it have a call?" I whispered, ready to engage. "No...it just sort of rustles," she explained. 

Well, we heard a rustle.

"That's gotta be one big armadillo," I observed.

Anne was not having the idiocy of her people and began barking.

Sydney squinted through the briars and the bramble. "There's something over there. I think it's a cow."

I did my own concentrating. Wyoming County sports more cows than people. I backed up slowly. If Anne
could have, she would have clapped. "It's a bull."

The Mosiman women all backed up...slowly.

"He must have swam the river," Savannah said. I felt that reading his resume at this time was not relevant...unless it included that one of his strengths was working with others. We appreciated our surroundings at this moment as, unlike the open fields back home, we were buttressed, every few feet by trees. 

We soon left Ferdinand behind.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I remarked that things couldn't get much worse than that. "Well, there's always the possibility of a feral pig," Savannah mused, ignoring her sister's pointed glare, "If a bull could swim across the river..." 

I scanned the brush...immediately transported to some other well-loved children's classics like "Where the Red Fern Grows" and "Old Yeller." Sydney linked her arm in mine and said, "I doubt Wilbur would have the energy to get off the couch." 

Speaking of couch, it was time to get back to my natural habitat.

Populated with bulls, alligators, and ants, walking in "The Hundred Acre Woods" is no picnic. After this encounter, I was practically a basket-case.

 

Austin Adventures: Part 2

When my girls were home briefly, in January, I told Savannah that the only thing I wanted to do when I visited her and Lisa in Austin the next month was to sit on her couch and do nothing.

Simple.

Easy.

Yet...here I was: Rotating swiftly in a narrow water channel beneath the blue skies of Austin, shrieking with laughter with my daughters in a donut boat, of all things. 

Wasn't even on my Bucket List:  Captain a donut boat.

But...check.

We had woken up that morning with no clear plans.

And had, somehow, landed here.

God bless Texas where the life preservers, fire extinguishers, and first aid kits are casually pointed out, they have you take a picture of a map of the lake, make sure you have an inventory of alcohol, show you how to go forward and reverse in a small round boat before casting you off, waving, and shouting, "Good luck!" No red tape. No regulations. Alarmingly few rules. And. So. Much. Fun.

I, at first, questioned Savannah's decision to book us for an hour. Thirty minutes seemed more than reasonable to me. What if we got bored? I was ready to buy the boat before we had unraveled our way out of the harbor. Driving a round boat is as easy as it sounds. Savannah was happy to relinquish her steering duties to me after we'd crossed the small lake. I just wanted to spin. And spin. And spin. 

We spilled our drinks.

Laughed.

Loudly.

Smeared the complimentary chocolate-covered strawberries all over ourselves and the boat (A wonderful idea but not practical in execution...appreciated, nonetheless).

Laughed.

Sang along to Sydney's playlist (once she wrestled it off her Sleep Sonata channel).

We basked under the Austin sun...bobbed gently on the water like a child's bath-time tub toy...and just enjoyed ourselves and each other.

I had taken a circular route but I hadn't strayed too far from my original goal. I wasn't on a couch but, as I stared up at the brilliantly blue sky and slowly spun, I smiled as I did absolutely nothing.

Austin Adventures: Part 1

 I was trying, valiantly, to NOT write off 2026.

Sure...January sucked. But February was just a few days away.

I skipped into that second month like it was a new bar with a fun theme, half-priced drink specials, and forgiving lighting. Instead, it sported sticky floors, watered-down drinks, and unflattering fluorescents. Oh boy...February wasn't shaping up to be the clean slate I was so desperately seeking.

But wait...a week off???

Was February flirting with me? (cue a bashful blush)

Let's be clear...Amy Mosiman is no tease but a little light conversation never hurt anyone. And if that conversation was tinged with a bit of Texas twang and a promise of better weather, well, all I could say was "Giddy-up!" So I strapped on my spurs and headed West.

My last few plans to go visit my daughters had, unfortunately, fallen through so, to make up for that disappointment, Sydney had surprised me by booking me First Class on one leg of this journey. Turns out, I was born for steerage. Amy Mosiman has a capitalist mind-set but a socialist heart. Sure, my booty enjoyed the ample roaming room in the generous seating and I could have given a Can-Can Girl a run for her money with my ability to perform high-kicks as the seat in front of me was, like, a mile away but I didn't enjoy the feeling of blowing pass all of my fellow passengers...the huddled masses...still stuck back at Ellis Island waiting to get a button-hook to the eye. 

I was such a fraud.

My fellow First Class Seatmate deduced my duplicity immediately because I was unaware of both the presence of OR the triggering mechanism related to: A super-secret cup shelf. My gasp of surprise didn't help. Or my exclamation of "Real glass?!?!" when my Prosecco arrived. I tried to nonchalantly explain that my glassware at home was made up of diamonds but I don't think anyone bought it. 

An assortment of fancy snacks arrived in a brown wicker basket. My seatmate casually extracted three items. I agonized over my choice, and then, realizing I was taking too long in Fancy-Town, blindly grabbed one. 

Who eats chickpea nacho chips?

Apparently...posers in First Class.

Test #1:  Finding super-secret beverage-shelf button.

Failed.

Test #2:  Holy Grail selection of First Class goodies

I chose...poorly.

My companion, the Mayor of Fancy-Town, ordered four drinks on our under-two-hour journey.  He selected three items from the snack basket each time it went by and sighed because of the noise emanating from the  riff-raff behind us.

I only ordered my one beverage and choked down the chickpea nacho chips as I read my Christian-lite romance novel about a Quaker spy who snuck a shovel in, under her skirts, to a prison. I yearned for a spreadsheet to peruse or a stock page to inspect. 

I WAS fourth off the plane.

Delightful.

But I couldn't get over the feeling that I was winging it the entire time.

Maybe I need an altitude adjustment.

Mom's Obituary

 Affectionally known by family and friends as “Vee,” Evangeline Adele Steen DeLong, 89, was reunited with her beloved husband, Earl, with whom she shared 67 years of marriage, on Sunday, January 18, 2026. One of eight siblings raised in LeRoy, Vee leaves behind her firecracker of a sister, Sally (Bob) Bickford of Caledonia. Memories of their mother brought Vee great comfort throughout her life and the anticipation of hearing her voice again and feeling her embrace was something of which Vee eagerly anticipated.

Vee DeLong devoted her life to being a loving and productive partner to her husband Earl, a caring mother of their two children, Earl (Jen) Gregory DeLong of Batavia and Amy (Brad) Mosiman of Gainesville, a tirelessly involved grandmother who made more trips to the orthodontist than an NHL hockey player, and she enjoyed the blessings of having five great-grandchildren. 

Vee came from a different age; an age where the Avon Lady rang the doorbell and was invited in for coffee while sharing her samples. A time where you could send your child down the road on their bike to Douries in the village of Wyoming to pick up a grocery item and just sign your name on a sheet of lined paper. Vee’s family was her career and she flourished at her job…singing her kids awake, packing amazing lunches, and a hot meal was always on her table. Earl and Vee would share the duty of washing dishes after dinner, shoulder-to-shoulder. To afford extra-special Christmas presents, Vee and Earl would work the apple-picking season at Chamberlains, her five foot tall frame refusing to bend beneath the weight of the countless pecks she picked through Fall’s fickle and often frosty weather.

Known for her green thumb, Vee could patiently encourage the most reluctant blooms  to grow. Her family clamored for her mac salad, chocolate chip cookies, and the hot dog soup recipe inherited from Vee’s mother. Many a fight would break out at family gatherings over the cherry dispersal in Vee’s fruit salad. She elevated the giving of greeting cards to an art…each carefully selected message bearing special stickers of love and whimsy. She loved her little house, being productive and helpful, and playing cards. Vee always put the needs of her husband and family ahead of herself. And so great was Earl’s love for Vee that he proudly proclaimed it to the world by painting the house they built together pink.

There will be no calling hours. A celebration of life will be conducted at the Gilmartin Funeral Home, 329-333 West Main Street, Batavia, New York on Saturday January 24, 2026 at 1:00pm. She will be laid to rest in Machpelah Cemetery, in Leroy NY.  In  lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to Crossroads comfort care home in Batavia, NY. 

Evangeline Adele DeLong was a gentle soul with a sweet smile and a kind heart. She will be missed by her loving family and friends including her many grandchildren:  Fallanne (Colby) Jones, Haley (Joey) Snyder, Calob DeLong, Savannah (Lisa) Evangeline Mosiman, Sydney (Douglas) Mosiman-Davies, Alexis DeLong, Alea DeLong, and Talon DeLong. Go with God, Lady.