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We arrived in time to see the regiment go through their drills.
Dressed in white spats, white & red-checkered knee-highs, black
plaid kilts, white jackets, and black Scottish caps. They marched
within the fort’s square, with bagpipes whinnying, and moaning
and drums beating. It was quite a sight.
After they disbanded they were quite casual. We were able to
talk with them and tour the Fort. It was strictly military.
Officers had the best, less rugged quarters; it really got sparse
after that with double bunk beds and hay mattresses. There
were ammunition storage rooms, and food larders.
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We crossed The Narrows for a last time driving down the coast
to Peggy’s Cove. We’d heard a lot about it because it became a
base for the TWA wreckage recovery effort. Peggy’s Cove is a
picture of all quaint small seaport villages. The glaciers left
massive boulders, and a small harbor. The community has built
a lighthouse, and colorful homes around them.
We were taken in by the town, and walked from one end to the
other, along the seashore to the lighthouse and into their shops.
We bought a number of wooden Christmas ornaments before
getting back on the road.
Our plans had been to go to Lunenburg for the night. It wasn’t
to far so we were taking our time continuing in that direction.
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We stopped for a late lunch at a beach. A quiet place with very
few bathers. There we met a retired schoolteacher, who had
spent most of her life in Nova Scotia. She was just relaxing at
the beach for the day. She loved Nova Scotia and told us how
wonderful this Province was and how in the future it would be
the choice for summer vacations. Like Florida is today, but it’s
really winter vacations that attract people to Florida.
But, She told us of the beautiful weather along the coast, thanks
to the Gulf Stream, that passes nearby. Nova Scotia would be
warmer and warmer in the years ahead of us. It was fun talking
to her while we munched on our peanut, butter sandwiches and
cold tea.
We arrived in Lunenburg late in the afternoon. Most of the
town is on a hillside overlooking the harbor. It was very pretty,
as there isn’t a lot of business, and therefore it’s residential and
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most of the homes are wooden. That means they are generally
very colorful. Not bright colors of Newfoundland, but more
subdued.
We found a small private campground on the top of the hill,
overlooking the town and harbor. It didn’t have any wind or
storm protection, but we weren’t concerned about it at the time.
The skies were clear and there was only a slight wind.
It was what one might call the calm before the storm, but as I
said we weren’t concerned.
We liked Lunenburg, driving on the residential streets, was a
pleasure. A few cars were parked on the street, most of them on
dirt driveways or in small single car garages. The lawns were cut
and there were a few sprinklers watering them. We took our
time going and coming to our camp enjoying the neighborhood
drive down to the harbor.
The major attraction here was its history of tall ships,
Schooners. Schooners and sailors were attracted to the town
because of the skills and services they provided. They built
these ships, the fastest in the world. They made large sails, the
heavy canvas ones. They repaired and maintained the large
vessels and their fitting.
The most famous of these vessels was the Blue Nose. For 20
years it had never been beaten in a race. Today you can see her
likeness on the Canadian 10 cent coin.
The most famous of large sailboat races is the America’s cup,
and until Australia won the cup with its 12-meter secret keel
America had never ever been beaten. The races had taken place
over a hundred years.
Speculation of these races caused one to believe that once won
the rules were changed, time and time again to help us win or to
handicap opponents. That’s only speculation, like are the New
York Yankees really the best baseball team. Of course they are.
One such race exemplifies these shenanigans. It involved the
Blue Nose. It was no secret that it was the fastest boat on the
water. The America’s Cup committee must have seen the end of
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the era and moved to block the race. They cancelled it because
of high winds, and thereby secured the America Cup legacy.
Blue Nose II is a replica of the original and is docked here in
Lunenburg. We wanted to see it and if possible go out to sea in
it.
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We did go out to sea, if only for a little while, several hours. The
wind was gentle and the boat sailed along effortlessly. It was a
swell experience.
We’ve sailed for years as I’ve said before. Our last boat, a 30
foot Sloop, named Citizen, was a Cal-29. It had a single mast,
and was as big a weekend boat as we could handle. That’s
because the effort to prepare her to sail and worse to make her
ship shape at the end of a weekend when your worn out was as
much as we could handle.
I mention this effort with our small sailor as a comparison with
the effort it takes to launch a Schooner like the Blue Nose II.
Just a little difference, with two masts, multiple foresails, two
mains and two topsails it is a herculean effort. And of course it’s
a joy to watch the crew climb the masts and raise the sails. Then
later lower and secure them. It’s like an orchestra, performing
Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, synchronized and beautiful.
Here is a square rigger. We were able to take a tour of it, and
were amazed at all the lines, halyards spring lines and stays. It
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was like a cobweb. They also had a canoe, carved from a single
log. It made us think of Capitan Ahab and the mighty White
Whale. But this is the good ship PICTON CASTLE out of Avatiu
in the heart of the South Pacific. These sailors have a history of
spectacular navigation, by the stars, equal to the Phoenicians,
and as old.
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We had a relaxed and enjoyable days in Lunenburg. But near
the end of these clear warm days we heard reports of another
hurricane coming up the coast. Since living in Florida we’ve not
seen a hurricane. But the few that have passed us in
Connecticut have caused us to show them a great deal of respect.
Once Citizen had been ripped off its mooring and left high and
dry on a sandy shore only feet from one of those famous New
England rock walls.
From the radio forecasts we believed we might have a day or so
before it arrived in Nova Scotia. While in Halifax I’d mentioned
the 25-mile per hour winds, when the last one passed. This was
expected to be stronger.
We made hasty plans to pack-up and move out to safer grounds.
Our alternatives seemed to be, driving up around Nova Scotia
through Halifax, and Truro into New Brunswick and down to
Moncton. That was a long way. Or we could cut across Nova
Scotia to Digby, where we might take a ferry across the Bay of
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Fundy to St. John. If we left soon enough we might get across
the bay before the hurricane.
We chose the ferry and called for a reservation. How fortunate,
there was a space for us, on the late night trip. We moved
quickly and said goodbye to Lunenburg as we pulled out.
Digby is one of the last places you’d want to go at night. It has
the highest tides in the world. Sometime 30 feet high. And of
course at night we couldn’t see them. Never the less we were all
business, and across the Province we went. A little south and
then westward to Pleasant River and over to Route 8 which took
us pretty close to Digby. We arrived around 9:00 ish in the
evening; made arrangements with the ferry operators, and got in
line with what we thought would be other tourists.
As the evening passed more and more passengers and vehicles
showed up. Mostly they were large trucks, the most disturbing
of them were the lumber trucks. There couldn’t be anything
heavier than a load of lumber. We found later that a water truck
might be as heavy as each gallon of water weighs 8 pounds.
We had plenty of time to worry about these loads, as more and
more showed up. There must be a reason why they travel at
night. Maybe because they don’t lose time on the road during
the day. And maybe because tourists don’t travel at night. My
idea of ferryboats unfortunately comes from the media, where
they report how often ferries turn turtle. That’s an expression
meaning they turn up side down, because they have all their
weight below deck. Once flipped there’s no righting them.
Who knew, but we surely lost interest in the weather. By the
time we loaded, after midnight. There were only lumber trucks
and us. We drove into the bowels of the ferry and parked inches
from a lumber truck in front of us, inches from the lumber truck
behind us and inches from the two lumber trucks beside us. We
had to squeeze out of our doors and slide sideways to get to the
stairs.
Arlene often gets very quiet in stressful circumstances. I
thought this was one of them. Besides being quiet she responds
slowly to suggestions that I might make. For instance if I was to
yell or bark a command she would not respond. If I said MOVE
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IT! She would most likely look in wonderment as to why I was
yelling at her. This condition of hers makes me nervous. As if I
couldn’t generate my own high level of anxiety. So our position
as I saw it was grave. If the boat was sinking I’d think she’d
wonder why, instead of heading for the life jackets and lifeboats.
We survived, and when we reached St. John New Brunswick it
was just about dawn. I was worn out, from worry, but we were
on the mainland and headed for a days rest. .
There was no one on the streets in downtown St. John. We
drove past the center and out to the highway. Down the road we
pulled over as the sun was rising and went to sleep. It would be
late morning before we started up again. We decided to drive
across the boarder at Calais into Maine before calling it another
day.
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NEW HAMPSHIRE
Once we got started we moved right along. Crossing the border
was easy. Arlene and I had long since made a deal between
ourselves about border crossing. She was to say nothing. I was
the mouth piece. This came about after we were asked about
carrying any vegetables or fruits. Arlene said yes apples. The
border lady gave us a choice, we could either eat our apples or
we could throw them into a trash before entering Canada. We
ate them. But, from that time on we had a single person
responding to the Border patrol.
From Calais it’s a straight drive across Maine into New
Hampshire, from Route 9 Bangor to US 2. There are only a few
roads that cross Maine. Everyone of which is scenic through
their forests. We got all the way into New Hampshire and a US
Forest Service campground before nightfall.
‘Dolly Copp’, our campground has been around for a long time.
It’s outside of Gorham, along the presidential range, beside the
Wildriver, and the base of Mt. Washington.
The mountain is the highest on the east coast, and home of the
most severe weather in the country. We know that because
we’ve been up to the top at the US Weather Station.
One time we drove up the mountain in our yellow Mustang
convertible, with the top down, on a beautiful sunny day. Up the
single lane, gravel, twisting road we went. Occasionally
spinning our wheels on the rocky dirt. From time to time we
had to squeeze over to let another car pass. Arlene took pictures
until we reached the tree line. Then things got a little close for
comfort. The edge so close, the long drop, caused us a touch of
vertigo. We drove slower, reaching the summit, relieving
ourselves, and heading right back down.
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When Arlene was a little younger, she climbed Tuckerman’s
Ravine on her way to scaling Mt. Washington. It took her two
days, and a night to do it. On her way up it became really cold
and her climbing buddy just couldn’t keep going. Arlene, took
her pack as well as her own and told her she had no choice; to
keep going. The mountain is 6,288 feet, and has recorded the
coldest temperature in North America.
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From our campground we imagined that we could see the top of
the mountain which rises above the tree line. We could if the
clouds wouldn’t settle over it.
We slept well and in the morning hiked down to the pay station.
It was cool like the 60’s. I wore shorts and not enough layers.
Arlene, on the other hand was quite comfortable with long pants
and several long sleeve shirts.
It’s pretty and we enjoyed the hike. The trees are changing. A
number have red and orange leaves some yellow and a lot of
white birch. Off to each side of the road the forest grows densely
and quickly cuts out most of the light. There are many creek
beds running down the mountain side, all filled with boulders
yet mostly dry. Those that aren’t have only a trickle of water.
It’s so dry that a leaf would have trouble floating down any
stream toward the river.
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The campground is strung out along one side of the river. There
are lots of sites, We are in number 146. Although there are few
campers, the grounds are arranged so that 20 sites are bundled
together then the forest then another group of sites. Each group
has it’s own water and toilet, but neither electric nor a dump
station.
We had trees on three sides, with the river to our back, and an
open field in front of us. There were several sites there, but no
one camping on them. Our closest neighbor was several sites
away. It would be hard to beat this place, as the sun was
pouring through our windows.
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Some years ago my Dad and Mom camped here. They were in a,
5 owner, 1928 pontiac and my uncles ‘Dicky Bird’ tent. The
th
tent 12x12 was constructed in differently than most at the time.
It had heavy iron poles on each corner, across the top Were four
poles with a spider joint in the middle. The spider construction
allowed the tent to open without a center pole. It was a clever
design. Here’s a little of what they saw and encountered on their
visit to Dolly Copp in 1933.
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DOLLY COPP US Forest Service (1933)
“September 11, 1933:
We had a nice clear day at last for a very pretty drive on winding
roads thru these White Mountains. Got several views of Mount
Washington, elevation 6,292, which I believe is the highest point
in New England. At a house along the road we saw two crab
apple trees heavily loaded with ripe fruit and the ground under
the trees covered with those that had fallen. I asked the lady to
sell a pail full of the fallen fruit and she told us to help ourselves.
We were glad to get these apples for jelly because our supply had
gotten low. Drove to Gorham by way of Cherry Mountain. At
Gorham we bought provisions and drove to Dolly Copp
Forest camp in Pinkham Notch in the White Mountain
National Forest.
Trip 50 miles.
September 12, and 13, 1933.
It was rather late in the season for tent camping in New
Hampshire, but at this large camp there were about 50 parties
scattered around. We found a very nice spot along the river and
near a high growth of trees. The trees were to shelter us from
the cool winds and the sun to furnish the heat. And it really
worked that way.
From our tent we could see two high ridges of the White
Mountains, between which lay the camp. The stream of water
which flowed thru this notch was shallow and fast flowing with
an occasional pool. At the camp entrance there was a book for
registering and a list of rules to observe for those who wished to
camp in this national forest. They emphasized care with camp
fires and smoking.
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After our tent was set up a young couple drove in and located
their camp near to us. We extended a campers greeting to them.
This started a most pleasant acquaintance for which we were
very grateful. They were from Boston and were on vacation.
They joined us in hikes to various parts of the camp and in
driving to Gorham which was just a few miles from camp. Then
too, we collected wood for camp fires which we enjoyed so much
at night. One evening we had roasted weenies and rolls.
Margretta (my future Mom), baked a chocolate cake for the
occasion. Our fun of living outdoors depended so much upon
whether we had acquaintances or not. We learned that a camp
fire was a great help.
One evening there was a terrifically strong wind. While sitting
around the camp fire we heard it breaking limbs of trees as it
raced thru the notch toward us. When it got to our camp it
picked the glowing embers of the fire and sent them high in the
air. Fortunately they all fell into the river. The trees near us
were bent over. Margretta and I quickly took shelter behind our
car which stood clear of the trees. The wind lasted but a short
time, but was one which had the highest velocity of any that we
ever experienced. Afterward we looked around to make sure
that our scattered fire did no damage.
The next day, strange to say, we could find practically no
damage done by the high wind, except one tent had been blown
down. Campers located elsewhere said that they had heard it
and it seemed to be in the direction where we had our tent, and
that they had very little wind themselves. Apparently it was a
freakish wind with a very narrow path.
We were very well pleased with our stop at Dolly Copp camp and
hope that some day we may have the opportunity of visiting
again this delightful spot in the White Mountains.
Trip 0 miles.”
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This account of my parents was taken in the middle of the Great
Depression. I suspect the wind was a tornado.
They had been out of work for more than a year, and typical of
their situation was the story about the crab apples. They were
resourceful. They probably chose the apples off the ground
because they were the ripest, and made the most flavorful and
juicy juice. Apples also have more natural pectin, so after
boiling and extracting the juice they needed to use less sugar to
have it jell. Crab apples make a beautiful pink clear jelly.
Weiner’s of course are those things we experts call ‘Hot Dogs’,
like Nathans of Coney Island, or like the one on the Oscar
Meyer’s mobile. Back then groceries carried more simple foods
with few suspect ingredients than our prepared foods today.
Why would anyone bake a cake? Today’s easy access to stores,
the multitude of prepared foods, refrigerators, and coolers are
the way we go.
We do have an oven, which we use for storage. It didn’t start out
that way. People do bake when camping. But, the first time I lit
our oven it flared up in my face, and I didn’t need to shave for
several days. We use our microwave. They had an oven also, It
was an American Camp Stove, like today’s Coleman, with 2
burners. It was much heavier, as was everything; the canvas
duct tent, took two people to lift. There was a hood that folded
over the burners with a slightly elevated tray which set over the
burners. It made a fine oven in the middle of the forest The
fuel for these stoves was called ‘White Gas’. It was clear and
could be bought at AMOCO stations all over the country. It was
unleaded.
Signs in most campgrounds today prohibit collecting wood.
Usually campers carry their own and may not be able to
transport it across state lines because of beetle problems.
Arlene and I seldom do campfires ourselves, the smoke bothers
us, and we’ve not stayed in a tent since the 1960’s. We know
that camping today is totally different than 80 years ago. Back
then tents were the norm, Motor Homes and Trailers were
scarce, and our park systems were just beginning to take shape.
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Thanks should go to Franklin Roosevelt and the Conservation
Corp. CCC’s, for their development of our roads as well as parks.
I’ve mentioned that automobiles have played an important roll
in our lives. They grew almost a fast as our electronic age.
According to the Smithsonian the first adventurous cross
country trip was made in 1903. A couple of guys left San
Francisco headed for New York. One was a physician the other a
mechanic. As we’ve learned that kind of background can come
in handy. They say they made it despite a lack of roads, mud,
washouts, breakdowns, and few bridges in 63 days and $8,000.
My Aunt Augusta and Uncle Max drove across the country in
1918, from Pennsylvania to Las Angles in 1918. They
encountered dust on the roads over three feet deep, but by that
time there were bridges.
By the 1930’s much had changed. My folks resourcefulness, she
a farm girl, and physician’s daughter, he an engineer, and
mechanic allowed them to travel all over the country. Their cost
for the entire journey was less than $1,000.
We headed south out of Dolly Copp, past Mt Washington and
down along the Presidential Mountains. It’s such a beautiful
drive that we decided to go down the valley all the way to
Conway before turning west across the Kancamagus Trail
towards Vermont, Montpelier and Essex Junction.
We could also go through the tourist center of the White
Mountains, and possibly stop at outlet stores like LL Bean. We
had not been in the US long and it would be a way of
reacquainting ourselves with our crazy world. Nothing could be
better than this vacationland, with its high priced, discount
stores, fast food restaurants, factory stores, over crowed
highways, and jammed parking lots.
We did it and stopped at several stores including LL Bean, filled
our RV with gas and headed west along the Swift River. The
drive is a long climb over the Kancamagus Pass. Near the top
there is a water fall that attracts many white water kayakers.
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The river pools above the falls, before cascading down between
many large boulders. The fall is about 300 feet or so and then
there’s another smaller pool. It may be possible to traverse the
entire river, down to Conway, with only a few portages. I’m not
sure, but that would be quite a ride and a 20 mile workout.
These white water folks like taking the falls, getting out at the
bottom and climbing back up, doing it again. We’ve been here
numerous times and never failed to see kayakers taking the
challenge.
At the pass there is a small pond, which is a swell place to stop
for a picnic. Down the other side toward Lincoln we’ve seen the
New England ‘Lumber Jack’ contests, but not this time.
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VERMONT
It’s mostly a no fooling around drive over to Matt and Laura’s in
Essex Junction from New Hampshire. Once on interstate 89
our dreams and rubber necking come to an end.
We arrived at Matt’s in time for dinner. Laura is a great cook.
She prepares everything from scratch. Being that everyone
watches a lot of cooking shows on TV, and tries their best to
make good things to eat, she still stands out. We’d never miss
one of her dinners. We were greeted with one of her specialties
and our favorite, Boeuf Bourguignonne.
After dinner we went out to the town’s pond to walk ‘Trolley’,
their mostly Labrador. Vermont is covered with forest and the
pond just out side of the town is in the woods, which is a great
place for him to run and swim. We tossed sticks into the water,
at increasing distances. He was after them in a flash, regardless
of the distance.
Trolley has visited us in Connecticut several times and we walk
him along an old village lane that’s lined with old growth
maples. Even on a leash he’s a hand full. Trolley is the only dog
we know that searches high into the trees for squirrels. I don’t
think he’s ever caught one, but he sure acts like it’s a life long
quest.
One day Matt and Laura took off from work and we all went on a
circular tour to Stowe, Smugglers Notch and back. It was grand.
We toured ‘Ben & Jerry’s’ Ice cream parlor, and had a little ice
cream. Took the ski lift to the top run at Stowe, and hiked in the
woods below the notch. Vermont and New England is so
beautiful this time of year. The Maple’s rich colors, red and
orange are so different than the south’s oaks, yellows and
browns.
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We went up along Lake Champlain to the islands in South Hero
to pick apples. The trees were full of them, and we were able to
get several varieties. Among them was Northern Spy. We never
see them in the stores, but my mother had some old trees in an
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orchard near the barn in Pennsylvania. Laura made a swell pie
out of them.
We had a nice time visiting, and had a chance to relax. It was
time for us to leave.
Now we’re ready to leave Burlington and head towards New
York and Canada. Arlene was sure we’d be able to claim some
Canadian tax credits, so we decided to go get them.
On way we stopped at Wal Mart. They, and Sam’s Club have
good gas prices and less expensive groceries. We shop there a
lot while on the road. So we wanted to get a list of their stores in
North America. We then doubled back to get some even cheaper
gas, and finally over to Costco to get some film and lettuce.
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NEW YORK
As we came through customs in Maine, Arlene had noticed there
was a Canadian Tax credit for tourist. She had grabbed a
pamphlet, but we hadn’t looked closely at it. Now on the
highway, she was able to take her eyes off the road for a while
and look it over. She thought we qualified, except we should
have submitted it before crossing into the US.
We drove north through the small town of Hero where we
picked apples the day before, and along the islands that separate
Vermont, and New York by Lake Champlain, crossing into New
York State within sight of Canada.
We were on a quest to refund our taxes paid to Canada as a
tourist. Our only trepidation was returning to Canada and then
coming back into the US. We might run into trouble, with our
load of apples, and some of the things we bought since returning
to the US.
Matt had told us there was a duty free shop in the US that could
help us, but it was closed. So we kept going out to Interstate 87
heading toward Canada, to one last exit in the US. We stopped
and asked if they thought we would have a problem. They said
no. Nor did the Duty free shop at the boarder. Back into
Canada we went explaining ourselves all the way to anyone that
would listen, New York State Police, US Customs agents, and
Canadian Customs. It was silly, all we wanted was to validate
our purchases in Canada and claim our tax refund.
Surprisingly, once we were on the other side of the border in
Quebec they could care less. They stamped all our purchases
and accommodation receipts and gave us $67C. It was worth a
whopping $44.00 dollars. That was easier than we thought it
would be.
And it became even easier at the US border. The agent asked
what we had been doing in Canada, and where were we going in
the US. Arlene watched pensively, wanting to reply but didn’t. I
told him ‘We were just visiting, and we’re on our way to the
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Adirondacks.’ He replied that he’d like to be going with us and
passed us back into the US.
Hot Dog! Were back and richer for the effort. I was really
pleased with our little adventure.
We thought the changing season and the leaves in Vermont were
pretty, but here in New York they were even more colorful in the
mountains. Each day they became brighter.
We drove down to Lake Placid for a couple of days. It’s a fun
tourist town.
Upon arriving we parked and took a walk around Mirror Lake.
It’s a couple of miles, but so beautiful it’s hard to resist. Few
towns surround a lake like this one. There are no motors
allowed. Just small sails, kayaks canoes and rowboats. On one
side are the old 1930’s homes. They are beautiful Adirondack
designs that are a combination of English Tutor and hometown,
which sets the Adirondacks apart. They are very expensive so
it’s a nice woodsy style, with large mature trees, colorful Maples,
and White Birch with Rhododendron, and Mountain Laurel. It’s
really grand.
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Lake Placid has made a specialty of Adirondacks style items to
sell. They have quite a native folksy industry. By going through
their shops you can get a taste of it. There are their summer
lawn chairs, their scatter rugs, shirts, pajamas and pants with
different colored moose decorating them.
There’s the tree furniture, made of limbs and twigs, including
every kind of uncomfortable furniture you can think of. Bed’s
night stands, dressers, chests, and mirrors, dining tables &
chairs, upholstered chairs, lounges and sofa’s, some with sunset
designs some with Moose. There are antler chandeliers, table
lamps, and picture frames. All of these things are made from
branches of trees, twigs and trunks. It’s only here and it’s the
Adirondacks.
The Adirondack Mountains are mostly in New York and is the
state’s largest park. Originally a lumber region it had been
settled for many years before becoming a park. When the
legislature passed the law creating it consideration was given to
those who lived inside its boundaries. Today there are still a lot
of private homes. In addition the legislature made sure that the
campgrounds would stay primitive, with no electricity. There
are many beautiful camps in the park, among the mountains
and along their lakes, but their services are limited.
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We stopped for a bite to eat and a couple of pastries, before
heading out of town to our private camp.
The next day we were back to wander through a few more
galleries, book stores and souvenir shops. Lake Placid is a year
around resort town. We had considered it a nice place to live,
expensive, but it turns out to be very cold in the winter.
It’s so cold that it’s hosted a couple of successful winter
Olympics. One in 1932, which Sonja Henie won the women’s
gold medal for skating, and went on to be a film star, making
lots of skating films. The 1980 Winter Olympics was
sensationalized when our US hockey team beat Russia in the
finals for a gold metal. They were the college boys that beat
everyone, even the mighty Russians.
We visited the skating arena. It’s a small place, with so few seats
that I’d wondered if they could seat the press corp, much less
any yelling and screaming fans. There wasn’t anyone around,
yet we were able to find our way in and onto the ice. We walked
around, ran and slid across the ice and found a Zamboni
unattended.
Now I’ve never been a skating freak, never liked hockey, and
have only been to one game, where I fell asleep. But, the neatest
thing on the ice, for me is a Zamboni. I’ve always wanted to
drive one, and if I could I’d probably change my mind about
arena activities.
Dean, Arlene’s oldest son, has a job that includes driving a
Zamboni. I’ve tried, in vein to make a deal with him to let me
drive it around. I’d even take lessons if he’d only agree to it.
Here I am, as close to a Zomboni as I’ll ever get, and it’s in this
historically wonderful arena. You can see how few seats there
are.
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We were feeling pretty good, the homeward bug, that says go
straight home, hadn’t bit us yet so we drove down the blue map
roads of New York through Albany, into Cooperstown.
This was a quick stop at the Baseball Hall of Fame, and famous
Doubleday Field. It must be one of the first of sports Halls Of
Fames in America. We like the 1930 players, Babe Ruth, Lou
Gehrig, Ty Cobb, and the 1950’s gang Yogi Berra, Joe DiMaggio,
Ted Williams. A couple of guy’s I watched, as a youth in
Washington never made it, they were Sam Dente, and Gil Coan.
The two of them were capable of missing a ball that dropped
into their glove, and presaged the demise of baseball in
Washington.
Cooperstown would also be a lovely place to live. It’s too cold
also, but the town is small, peaceful, and on a small lake. Next
door to the Hall of Fame was a hat store where Arlene bought
baseball caps a Brooklyn Dodgers hat, and a Washington
Senator’s hat for me. The latter were called the ‘Nats’
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With them we went next door to the local soda fountain,
drugstore and slipped into a booth. Arlene should have had on
bobby socks, and saddle shoes .
It was a real throwback to the 1950’s with a screen door, shiny
chrome stools with plastic red seats lining the counter,
fountainheads, looking like chrome swans, and wooden straight
back booths, and green linoleum floors. Arlene had a milk shake
so thick she could stand her long spoon in it. I had a grilled
cheese, pickle, and a malted milk. It was great.
It’s our last stop in New York for a while. We’re running late as
we’d told cousin Patty that we’d be there before dinner, for
cocktails, just over the border in Pennsylvania.
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PENNSYLVANIA
We arrived, just south of the New York border in Rome
Pennsylvania. My mother’s family came from here, all 13 of
them, plus hundreds of other relatives. I have many pleasant
memories of vacations my family used to take here visiting my
grandparents.
Among them were the family picnics, my uncles farm and barn,
the hayloft, swimming in the creek, and the local lumber mill
where the towns ice was kept inside a tall mound of saw dust.
I used to run all over town in and out of the general store, like a
wild unsupervised kid. Once I ran over a lady, knocked her flat,
and kept on going. Later at a family picnic she was there, a
relative, I was corralled and strict measures were taken. I was
grounded for a while.
Patty had planned a family picnic while we were there. The size
of the relative population has dwindled, and only her family was
there. It was great to see everyone, and like any picnic everyone
brought something. Now I’ve got to say that when you’re in a
rural community, the dishes everyone brings are awesome.
Fried Chicken, Ham, Potato and Macaroni salads, Coleslaw,
Baked Beans, Venison hamburgers and sausages, dishes like
beets, celery & olives, corn on the cob, and sweet peppers. There
were relishes made from cucumbers, corn, peppers, and
watermelon. Deserts of pies, my favorite cherry, a couple of
cakes, jello’s with carrots and apples and several dishes that
Arlene loved because of the whipped cream.
This was a delight, and is it any wonder that we want to stop and
see them every chance we get.
Neither Arlene nor I are hunters, but we do like to listen to the
hunting stories.
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One story I’m fond of happened in the mountains of Colorado,
where Phil, Patty’s husband, was hunting for Elk. He was
climbing those 13,000 foot mountains when his pack horse lost
it’s footing and fell over the side, down about 200 yards through
the snow and pines. The horse was okay, and they reassembled
all the articles it was carrying including 2 dozen eggs. Phil swore
not one egg was broken.
Being foreign to this kind of outdoors, I marvel at the things
they do to help the animals grow and prosper. It makes for
better hunting, and good meals all year long. Cousin Phil plants
fields with turnips and grasses that deer like. He also keeps crab
apple trees for them. In addition he sets motion cameras
around the fields to monitor their movements.
One year he raised Pheasants. I suspect these are the dumbest
birds anywhere, and if not farm raised there wouldn’t be any.
Folks like to hunt and eat them. I’m not an expert on birds
either, but once I watched one in Connecticut, trying to get on
the other side of our fence. It was 2 feet from the end of the
fence, yet kept pacing back and forth 3 feet one way and 3 feet
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back. I watched for a half hour until my patience wore thin. I
gave up, but you can see why I’d call them dumb.
One morning we rose early, Patty packed a lunch and the four of
us took off towards Watkins Glen, back in New York. This time
Arlene and I were passengers. Phil drove and promised to stay
sober as we toured the Finger Lakes Vineyards along Seneca
Lake. There are a lot of them and it takes a strong will to sample
only eight or 10. There’s a joke about falling into a stein of good
German beer in good cheer. Here we were faced with a similar
situation. And of course neither of us cared if we were to fall
into this barrel of fine wine.
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We were not so foolish as to try to drink the wineries dry, nor to
take advantage of them. Few of the wines are dry; mostly they
are semi, red, white and rose’, with lots of fruit flavors. Each
vineyard had an aperitif or desert wine. They are even sweeter.
We bought more than we were able to drink. This was one
wonderful day. The Finger Lakes are in the beautiful rolling
hills of New York. As we drove from one winery to another the
fields above Seneca made the trip a delight. Fields of wheat,
alfalfa, and corn, with a few woods in-between, and many
vacation homes along the water’s edge. There’s no tides so they
often hang out over the water, or are so close you could lay on a
deck and drop your hand into it.
Before we leave Pennsylvania we’ll go down the road to see
Cousin Robert and Sandy. He raises calves for the market and
plants most of his fields to feed them. I’ve offered to help him
from time to time at harvest time, but he never accepts. He does
it by himself with 5 tractors. Each attached to different piece of
equipment.
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Once I did help him with a barnyard gate. I followed him into
the barnyard, which was filled with cows and held the gate. The
cows were curious, and gathered around me. I was being brave,
but one was bigger than the others. Robert said not to worry,
that’s ‘RED’, he won’t bother you’.
I’ve only heard the stories about bulls and their temper. They
always end in disaster. Robert kept working on the gate and
didn’t pay any attention. I continued to hold the gate, but
moved around to the far side, so it was between me and Red.
I imagined his charge would flatten the gate with me under it.
When the gate was finally repaired and closed I was relieved.
‘Red’ didn’t charge.
Sandy makes and sells lots of relishes, pickles, handi-crafts.
Robert converted a granary into a little shop for her. We’re
posing on the granary porch, our version of the ‘American
Gothic’.
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We’ve tried to help in other ways, offering to paint the side of
their barn with a mural. A huge one that would cover the entire
side. One that would be easily seen a mile away, as you come
over the hill and down the road across the creek. I drew a
couple of examples for them; a field of flowers, an apple
orchard, and a couple of cows. They thought it would be a bit
much and declined.
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Back at Patty’s. Phil, and David, their son, were heading up into
the ‘Sugar Bush’ to cut some trees for fence posts. I road along
in their neat Polaris 4X4. About 2 miles up the narrow country
road they cut across a field and up along a hedgerow to the top
of a hill. David parked his truck and trailer there while Phil
drove his Polaris into the woods. These guys go anywhere with
their trucks, tractors and 4 by 4’s.
Deep in the forest, on the top of one hillside, Phil’s brother was
haying. It’s a job to get any equipment into this spot, but he
had, and was now making the best of it. He had an artist touch
with the hay bales.
These hills are networked with the remains of old roads and
stone walls. Folks used to live and farm here years ago, but now
it’s all over grown with 100 year old trees, hard woods mostly
Maple, but also Locust, Cherry, Oak and Ash. I suspect it’s the
third or even fourth growth of the forest.
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There are fewer and fewer hardwood forests left in the United
States. I suppose because they take so long to grow and don’t
pay for the effort. Hardwoods are now found on suburban
lawns.
At the bottom of a rutty, muddy, spring fed trail Phil turned off
into the woods following David as he cleared a path with his
chain saw. They came to a place where there were several pines
growing straight up 50 feet without any branches. They
stopped, and cut 4 of them down, then into sections about 14
feet long. That’s a bit longer and heavier than fence posts. In
fact they will be used as exterior posts on rustic cabin porches.
Phil hauled a couple of loads out to the truck. Here he’s making
his way with a load following along one of those forgotten
stonewalls. You can see how he barely squeezes by the tree and
the wall.
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Arlene and I are usually here during the summer and have never
visited when the sap is running and they’re making syrup. The
countryside is hilly which helps with the running of the sap.
Their sugar bush is on several of these hills and taps lots of
trees, as it takes a lot of sap to make syrup. Something like 15
gallons for each gallon of syrup.
It’s interesting how they set up the extraction of the sap. Mostly
it’s gravity driven. Each tree of reasonable size is tapped with a
drain line. The drain lines are connected to larger lines, all
running down the hills into a collection cabin. The lines are
connected to a vacuum so during the sap run they are mostly
drained clear. They also clean and dry them out at the end of
the season. It looks like a spider web. Collecting the running
sap into larger and larger pipes until they gather at the bottom
of the hills in the cabin. After collecting the sap they take it
down to their boiling or syrup cabin to boil it into maple syrup.
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This is the best syrup, we love it. It’s ‘BECKWITH MAPLES’
Here’s where the syrup is boiled, barreled, jugged and sold all
over the world. We always look forward to coming here. It’s a
really good time for us.
Now it’s time to get ready to go to Washington DC.
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MARYLAND
We only have one important stop along the way. That’s in
Maryland, at the Catoctin Mountain Orchard, just outside of
Thumont, where the President has his country getaway, at Camp
David.
Here, just down the hill from Camp David is the country’s finest
Apple Cider on the east coast. In it’s way it’s as good as Patty
and Phil’s Maple Syrup. It’s heavy, feels good in your mouth
and has a great soft tart apple after taste that lingers on the
pallet. As I describe it my mouth is watering involuntarily. I can
taste how good it is.
I’ve drunk it for years from early September, to late November.
It’s always delicious. They mix several types of apples to make a
grand blend. Despite my description it’s not a fine wine, and
nor is any batch dated.
I came across the Orchard years ago, on a consulting job I was
doing for the US Senate and administration. Lyndon Johnson’s
Great Society was in full bloom and funds that had been
allocated to the Job Corp, were not being used.
The idea was to pay Job Corp recipients over a period of 2 years.
Unfortunately, the youngsters stayed for a few of months before
home sickness set in, and they left. I was part of a team that
tried to reallocate the funds.
I visited Thurmont and the Job Corp several times before the
contract was finished. That was the beginning of my annual
visits to the Catoctin Orchard as long as I lived around
Washington, or drove past from time to time. This time
wouldn’t be an exception. It’s Cider time.
We stayed here, at Cunningham Falls, a few miles from the
Orchard and Camp David. Maryland’s use of their State Flag is
always a wonder. They are very creative.
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WASHINGTON D.C.
There are several places around Washington to camp. One in
Maryland, and two in Virginia. Our favorite is Park Fairfax in
the county of Fairfax Va.
We set up camp on a flat site, at the top of an open hillside, with
water and electricity. The underbrush was sparse and the oak
trees were turning to a yellowish brown color. I’m sure people
camp here to vacation and get away, as it’s a large city park, with
trails, small ponds, many ball fields, swimming pool, and picnic
grounds. I also think campers come here because of its access to
Washington. That’s why we’re here.
We have several objectives, our first is to visit Mom and Pop’s
grave in Arlington Cemetery.
I was born in Washington and grew up in Arlington. Arlington
is part of the original 10 square miles of D.C. It changed into a
world capital right before my eyes. Although in the past two
decades it’s quadrupled its size.
As a boy I’d run across pastures and chased cows in Arlington.
I watched as the fields were sold off and malls were constructed
in their place. Where two lane roads like Glebe Road which
crossed the county, turned into four. Where Shirley Highway
once a forest became a highway and then an Interstate. Where
woods I played in, with Civil War earthen encampments and
musket balls laying all over the ground were turned into
apartment complexes, and residential homes. It’s changed all
across Arlington, and spread to Annandale and Fairfax. Even
Rosslyn a rickety old town I used to know, and the last place a
hanging took place was rebuilt into a high rise office complex.
We drove east on Route 7, once a country road, into McLean and
across to the Washington Parkway along the Potomac. It’s a
strip of land that’s wooded, and protected. From time to time
we could see the river below until the road drops down to the
waters edge at Rosslyn. We continued under Key bridge, past
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Roosevelt Island and near Memorial bridge to Arlington
Cemetery.
As a boy I used to play cowboys and Indians in this cemetery.
It was long before security was tightened because of John F.
Kennedy, and the thousands of daily visitors. It was easy to get
in back then, through Ft Myers, the old Army Fort, over a
Brownstone wall and into a grand hilly playground.
We stopped at the entrance, showed our identification, got a
pass and map. It doesn’t take long and they are very helpful.
We drove up through the hills to the site, and climbed the
hillside where they are buried.
There on the hillside we sat, taking our time to remember them.
My Dad was a crusty fellow, who in his final years showed a
great amount of love and affection for my children, Alyx and
Dan. He wrote the ‘Auto Biography’ camping expedition they
had during the economic depression of the 1930’s. My mom was
a joyful woman that always had a kind word. She was also a
fearless farm girl. At the slightest chance of danger, the whole
family would turn to her for protection.
I would recommend a walk through this National Cemetery as it
represents the finest tribute to America and it’s citizens, that
exists in Washington or around our country. The grounds are
kept in immaculate condition. The hillsides are seldom out of
site of the city’s edifices across the Potomac.
The real tribute is the grave markers and the men and women
that gave their lives for our country.
As one walks along you can read the head stones. All are the
same, Major Jewels, Private O’roak, Seaman Smith, Colonel
Claxton, Sergeant Kuren, The sites, one after another, by the
thousands are never separated by rank or position. Hero’s are
not further defined, every marker, simply represents our citizens
that gave their lives. They are America and they are our heroes,
all of them. There is no better memorial in Washington than
Arlington Cemetery.
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We’re ready to leave the Cemetery, but it takes a while before we
are ready to go.
Leaving the Cemetery we crossed Memorial Bridge and started
searching for a spot to park. We were lucky, as parking is
impossible. We found one along the Potomac, closer to the
Tidal Basin than anywhere else, but a long way from it. We
started walking, heading back toward the Lincoln Memorial and
the Reflecting Pool. Today seemed to be a memorial visiting day
for us. We visited the Viet Nam memorial. It’s polished marble
walls and engravings reflected the Washington Monument in
the sunlight.
I have always liked the Reflection Pool. My dad thought it was
just long enough to be 1 degree of the earth’s surface. As an
engineer and a calculator of such things I always believed him.
It’s also a grand statement in front of Abraham Lincoln, and his
Greco Roman memorial. We walked all the way around it.
In Washington it takes forever to plan and construct anything.
Although it’s really later than 1999 when I’m writing this
journal, they had been planning the WW II Memorial for years.
Here it is even though it wasn’t finished until 2010.
The World War II Memorial was built at the end of the reflecting
pool. It’s large and represents all our states effort in the war
effort, both Atlantic and Pacific. The design reflects the Greco
Roman architecture of the Lincoln Memorial, and fits easily into
the malls overall design. We liked what was done to
commemorate our troops and people.
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