Homeward

 

Day Twelve

Storm clouds

Our last night in a hotel is over for this trip and we will hopefully be in our own beds tonight.  We paused in the parking lot while Laverne, our driver through most of this trip, gave a short devotional.  Noah is driving this morning for a few hours to give Laverne a break. 

Before anyone else was up and around, Paul decided to walk to the nearby IHOP for breakfast.  I declined his invitation to join him since I can hardly bring myself to eat that early.  Besides, once I wake my stomach up by feeding it, it is insatiable so I’m hesitant to disturb it before daylight.  Paul told the IHOP people that the meager continental breakfast at the hotel was pretty pathetic.  Well, as Paul was immediately told, the same person owns them both and after acquiring the restaurant the breakfast at the hotel was cut wayyyyy back.  Paul exclaimed about the obvious conspiracy but ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, and pancakes anyway.

We stopped around noon for lunch at Plyler’s, a buffet/family restaurant.  They had a room ready for us and the food was delicious.  We had enough leftovers to eat well for supper tonight.

Musing about the many places we’ve been in the past two weeks and the new experiences we’ve had, this truly has been so much different than previous years.  Enjoyable for sure, but much more subdued than in the past.  We just received word that yet another acquaintance has passed away today from COVID. Several people on the bus have been praying for and concerned about friends and family who are fighting the dreaded virus.  I am so thankful that most people recover but it is undeniable that it has forever changed us all.

As we neared home storm clouds, grey and angry mixed with patches of blue. With rain falling while the sun peeked through we all searched for the rainbow that had to be there.  Shirl said it will let her know that Cal is looking down on us and she got her sign. A beautiful promise of God's faithfulness spread across the landscape, a metaphore for life in 2021.  Dark storm clouds, mixed with beauty and sunshine that are there all the time if we look for them.  And the promise that our Father will never leave us, never forsake us. 

It is an act of will to say NO to fear and refuse to live in isolation and hanging out in close quarters with thirty-three other people for twelve days is where the rubber meets the road, as they say.  My respect for those on this journey, who range in age from early 50s to upper 80s, has increased daily.  How easy it would be to give up in a time when news is mostly negative and we are faced with our own mortality day after day.  But these people are tough and determined to wring everything out of life that they can.

Signs of home

We talked about serious things, about loss and risk and sadness.  We prayed together for people back home as news of their struggles followed us. We shared stories, we laughed and joked and sang; we’re coming back changed and hopefully better than when we left.  No one is sure another bus adventure will happen but the uncertainty heightens the senses to the enjoyment of the moment, the here and now.  Here’s to my fellow travelers.  Go in peace, walk in courage, and be filled with joy.  God bless you all.

The Breakers

 

Day Eleven

This morning we drove through Newport, Rhode Island, past St Mary’s Church where JFK and Jackie O got married.  Well, she wasn’t Jackie O then of course.  We saw the farm where she grew up, beautiful acreage along the shores of the Atlantic.  Hammersmith Farm was later sold to an underwear magnate, someone who probably isn’t bothered by all the tourists driving by and snapping pictures.

The big attraction for today was The Breakers, the mansion once owned by Cornelius Vanderbilt II.  I have toured the Biltmore in Ashville, NC, a similar home owned by George Vanderbilt back in the day.  The Breakers is now the property of the Newport Preservation Society as a museum and is open for visits all year. On the drive there we passed many similar homes but none reached the magnificence of The Breakers. I saw several that could have been the setting for Wuthering Heights and another that would have made Dracula feel welcome. There were many newer and very beautiful properties as well.  I’ll stick to my little bungalow in Amish Country, thank-you.

With opulence reaching beyond the level of any common sense, the house’s footprint is an acre in size.  Situated high above the Atlantic, it boasts indescribable views from three levels of balconies, or loggia if you’ve got class.  A large lush lawn reaches from the back of the house to the edge of the rocky beach, the breaking waves signifying where the mansion got its name.

The decadent furnishings, wall coverings (one room was gilded in platinum, another in leather and gold leaf!), alabaster columns, crystal chandeliers, and every imaginable indulgence of its day left me wondering whether the occupants were blessed beyond imagining or trapped in a prison of societal expectation and obligation. 

Mr. Vanderbilt’s private bathroom boasted a tub carved out of solid piece of marble.  It was so cold it had to be filled and emptied of hot water two or three times so it would be warm enough to bath in.  Each bathroom had its own sitzbath which I found rather interesting. The tour guide said they were used after horseback riding or whenever the family needed to refresh their lower regions.  Rather a comforting reminder, I thought, that even the Vanderbilts and their cohorts had lower regions that needed refreshed now and then.  Just like all us peasants.  I should also insert here, after that snarky aside, that some of the Vanderbilt family had philanthropic leanings and used their wealth to help worthy causes.  They were also known to be very good employers and referred to their forty plus employees as staff rather than servants.

The children had a playhouse, bigger and better than the houses many people lived in. Flowers grew around it and around the main house as well.  Twelve dozen roses were cut and brought inside the main house every morning for placement in the various bedrooms and sitting rooms. Huge wrought iron gates, I’m guessing at least twenty feet tall, were closed at both front and side entries and a tall wall surrounding the house kept everything private and secure. 

We went back to Newport for lunch and shopping.  Much of the former and very little of the latter was done.  Paul and I ate at the Lobster Bar, outside on a wooden deck suspended over the water.  Fishing vessels and sailboats were anchored everywhere.  The seafood was mouthwatering and I already look forward to my next meal in an ocean side city. We inlanders suffer through prepackaged grocery store fish which tastes nothing like the fresh caught kind.  Paul and I are fortunate to have a son-in-law who fishes the great lakes quite frequently and if we’re nice to him he shares his catch.

After several hours in Newport we hit the road again, turning toward home.  We passed through Connecticut, caught a faint glimpse of Martha’s Vineyard, MA in the distance, went a short distance through New York, and finally arrived back in Pennsylvania where we gratefully crawled into the beds at our hotel.

Plimoth

 

We started our sightseeing today at the Monument to the Forefathers, and it was worth the stop.  Impressive in size, it was a beautiful reminder of the principles on which this country was founded.  The carvings held much more detail and meaning than we could examine in the short time we were there.  Morality, liberty, law, and education were each given one of the four sides at the base of the statue.  

Our next stop was the Mayflower.  Not the actual ship of course but a replica.  It was shocking to see how small the vessel was that carried 102 brave souls to the New World.  Only two died on the journey, one sailor and one passenger.  But half of those remaining died in the first winter after reaching America.  Considering the conditions they endured, it’s a wonder anyone survived at all.

What induced anyone to risk their lives and that of their children by setting out on such a dangerous journey?  Well, it seems they were paid to do so.  Given money and their voyage paid for they were sent with a year’s supply of food.  They were to send back furs and any other valuables they were able to produce to pay back the “merchant adventurers” who had financed the venture.  Should they have second thoughts and return to Britain without paying back the cost of their journey they would be promptly arrested and sent to debtor’s prison.  Great motivation to stay put and make the best of it.  These were most likely people who had virtually no chance of success if they remained in Europe, eking  out a living in a place where they could not hope to own land or better themselves.  There were no bluebloods on the Mayflower.  Only desperate and brave people with nothing to lose.

We spent several hours at Plimoth Village, a remake of the first settlement by Europeans on these shores.  Actors in traditional dress answered questions and interacted with the tourists as we visited the roughly constructed houses that offered the barest protection in the way of shelter.  They would have been bitterly cold in winter and sweltering in summer.  There was barely room to move around the smaller-than-full-size bed that occupied a corner of each cabin.  A fireplace in some, a fire pit in others was prominently placed in each dwelling along with a table and several chairs.  The roofs were thatched and the two small windows that let in minimal light were luxurious compared to the thin walls and dirt floors.  The wind surely found its way freely through the cracks on frigid winter nights. The hardship these hearty, determined souls endured was unimaginable. 

Having arrived in November, the Pilgrims were forced to face the brutal weather without any time to prepare.  But a year later, thanks to the help they received from friendly Native Americans, they were able to share in a Thanksgiving feast without fearing starvation in the coming winter.  Each tiny house had a garden surrounded by a rickety fence, probably to guard against deer and other wildlife. The fish were so plentiful that each corn kernel had a fish planted with it for fertilizer.  Looking around each dwelling I could see plenty of ways that Paul would have made life easier for me if he had been there.  For one thing, he could not understand why they used thin wood boards to build their houses instead of logs.  It was a question he never had answered in the time we were strolling around the village.

We stopped in New Bedford at the whaling museum located in the historical section of town.  There were models of blue whale innards and Paul told me that the 8-10 beats per minute of its half ton heart flushed 58 gallons of blood through each time.  Hard to fathom. But I’m beginning to see how Jonah was able to hang out in there for three days.

I admit I enjoyed walking through the picturesque village more than studying whale intestines. The weather was perfect, the flowers perfusious (not a word but you know what I mean) and the cobblestone streets took me back a few hundred years to different times.

Our hotel was still so new that it smelled like fresh lumber.  It had all the conveniences including a kitchenette with stainless steel appliances and a bedroom with king-size bed.  I love visiting history but I really enjoy my modern conveniences when the day is done.

Lighthouses and Lobsters

 

Lighthouses and Lobsters

Today’s devotional was led by Sam before we left the lodge we had stayed in for the past three days.  There was a lot of driving today, much of it through mist, fog, and rain.  After several short stops for some scenic pictures, coffee, bathroom breaks, and a quick lunch at whatever fast food or grocery store we could walk to, we stopped at Fort Williams light house for an hour or two.  Superb scenery was everywhere with the skies doing their best to clear and the water breaking in the rocks along the shoreline.  Flowers bursting with color lined the fence placed to keep hikers from wandering too close to the shore and walking paths crisscrossed green areas high above the beach.  Walking felt great after sitting on the bus and I took full advantage of the time allotted.  I took way more pictures than needed but it was irresistible, that picture perfect lighthouse setting high up on the rocks.

I came upon a man who looked like he had stepped out of a seascape painting, his grizzled face peeking out behind a full beard and mustache, his smile showing teeth just a tad worse for wear.  He was Scottish, he told me with a brogue that testified to the truth of his claim. He was selling prints of his original oils and I bought two of them, hoping to hang them in our Florida house someday, assuming I can manage to convince Paul that we need a house in the sunshine state.

I noticed, on my walk above the shoreline, the sickening putrid smell of death and saw a sea lion, its bloated body washed up on the rocks below me.  In stark contrast to the beauty all around it was a reminder of the brutality that real life can dish out.

Back on the bus we passed through Kennebunkport where summer homes for the rich and famous line the waterfront in this beautiful oceanside town. We rode slowly past the Bush family’s residence and I was surprised at how unimpressive it is. I had imagined it would be hidden, up a long driveway with lush greenery and total privacy, at least from the land side.  Instead, it was wide open to view.  The winding lane was long but anyone could clearly see the house from land or sea.  I suppose the black Suburban parked by the gatehouse would be a deterent for anyone with evil intent but still it seemed like a pretty exposed location to me.

We checked into our hotel, a very nice place within feet of the Atlantic Ocean, a wall protecting the parking lot from the surf at high tide.  Martha told us that would be at about 11:30 pm and I looked out the windows of our room around then to see if she was right.  She was.  The skies were gray again but the rain was holding off so walking along the rocky beach was possible and several from our group faced the wind and took advantage.  I opted for a cup of hot coffee at the top of the wall.

We boarded the bus and headed out for supper, stopping along the way to see the Nubbles Lighthouse at Cape Neddick.  We drove through narrow streets in a residential neighborhood (Laverne, our amazing bus driver, negotiated places I thought impossible,) and reaching the water’s edge we piled out to take advantage of more beautiful photo ops. The unusual thing about this lighthouse was its proximity to suburbia, many of the houses huge and not built for the likes of us.  The lighthouse and light keeper’s cottage were on a small plot of land separated from us by a narrow strip of water, maybe thirty yards or so.  Still in use today, I think I heard someone say the light keeper is a woman who lives there with her husband. That could be totally false but it makes for an interesting story anyway.

Our next stop was at Perkins Cove, a quaint little village with shops lining the streets and a pedestrian drawbridge crossing the waterway that ran through town.  More brilliant flowers, more eateries, more scenic views of sailboats and seagulls and shorelines.  I wonder if the people that live here still notice how lovely it is.

Our supper was one we’d been looking forward to since we left home.  Well some of us, anyway.  Lobster at Jonathan’s Restaurant with all the fixin’s.  And it did not disappoint! The dining room was beautiful with French doors lining one wall, outside of which were more of the brilliantly colored flowers that seem to be thriving everywhere we’ve been in the New England states.

After stuffing ourselves shamelessly we left the restaurant and trudged to the bus in the rain that was steadily coming down.  Martha told us on the way back to our hotel that the whale watching cruise scheduled for tomorrow is a no-go, cancelled by the company that runs the tours.  It seems hurricane Sam is whipping up winds in the 100 mph range out there in the ocean, so alternate plans will have to be made.  It’s all good though; no one is in the mood to risk their life to see a whale.

Boston

 

Day Nine

Have you ever been to Boston in the fall?  Well, now I can say I have. 

Dave led the devotional this morning before we left the hotel parking lot.  The Atlantic was mere feet from our bus and the sun was trying to show itself from behind the heavy gray clouds on the horizon.  I’m sad we can’t stay at this resort for several more days.

We started with Quincy Market in the heart of Boston this morning.  We walked between the shops lining the pedestrian only streets, many of which were closed.  I did find a shop below street level that interested me. It’s signage stated that it had the hottest sauces available.  I told the nice man behind the counter that I needed something that would make my son and my son-in-law cry.  He reached under the counter and handed me a very small bottle, rattled off a list of ingredients the likes of which I’ve never heard before and finished with, “It's stronger than military grade.” Whatever that means.  It sounded impressive though, so I plunked down $20.00 for each vial and went on my way rejoicing. I don’t think either of the men I am gifting these to reads my blog but I guess this will test that theory as well. 

We enjoyed a riverboat tour of Boston Harbor while we ate lovely boxed lunches.  This was followed with a bus tour through the heart of the city guided by Naomi, a tour guide whose love for all things Boston made her the perfect person for her job.  And what a beautiful city it is!  Spectacular window boxes and planters lined the streets and dotted the fronts of restaurants, their brilliant perfusion of flowers flourishing in the cool wet climate. Although twentieth in population among the largest US cities it must surely rank close to the top when it comes to its aesthetic and historical appeal.  The many public gardens and parks strategically placed between office buildings, retail shops, churches, and government edifices provide beautiful places to relax in the middle of the city’s hustle and bustle.

Besides the parks I was most captivated by the amazing architecture of the old, well-maintained structures that make up much of Boston Commons.  Naomi brought our history lessons from grade school to life as we passed by buildings that had been inhabited by the heroes of our country’s beginnings.  We passed the house Paul Revere built in 1680 as we walked the Freedom Trail toward the Old North Church, where a statue of Revere graced yet another courtyard filled with trees and flowering plants.  The church, established in 1723, is the oldest church building in Boston.   

Two replicas of boats carrying merchandise like the tea of Boston Harbor fame were anchored along our route.  I was amazed at how small they were, little more than the size of a speed boat.  With sails but obviously no back-up motor, imagining vessels of this size crossing the Atlanta loaded with goods for the Americas made my knees weak.  The people who left everything and everyone they knew to settle in a strange land were men and women of great courage not unlike those who travel in space today. Or maybe they were escaping hardships so severe that risking life and limb was a gamble worth taking.  Either way, we owe them a debt of gratitude that none of us can fully understand.

The Boston Marathon is happening this weekend.  It’s been eight years since the tragic bombing at the finish line in 2013. We passed a small park dedicated to the memory of one of the victims, a child only eight-years-old. His grieving parents raised millions of dollars to create the park and ensure their beloved child will not be forgotten. 

We passed a monument honoring George Thorndike Angell, who died the year my father was born, in 1909.  He was the first person to actively promote the humane treatment of animals, beginning with the placement of water troughs throughout the city for the many horses used for commerce and transport.

The gold dome of the Massachusetts State House was clearly visible as we passed through Beacon Hill. The dome is actually covered with legit gold, albeit an extremely thin coating. I found the nearby row houses much more impressive, reeking of history and still inhabited by the uber-wealthy and well-connected. Looking up the side streets it was easy to imagine passengers riding in horse-drawn carriages and gas street lights being lit at twilight; the cars parked there now looked out of place.   

The John Hancock Tower is a glass building, 62 stories high, the tallest in New England, and with no colonial era personality whatsoever. It holds the dubious distinction of having prominent structural flaws, hopefully corrected by now.  Every one of its 10,000 windows had to be replaced since the originals were prone to fall, potentially wreaking havoc on anything in their path. The mirrored windows provided perfect reflections of the surrounding buildings and of the bus as we drove by.  Naomi told us that the shape of the building provides a path for the wind, sending stiff breezes down to the ground where one would least expect them, sheltered as it is in the middle of the city. Looking out I saw that, indeed, the decorative trees were whipping around like a mini-gale was loose around the corner.  While the building made quite a statement with its glass and mirrors, it didn’t hold a candle to the surrounding brick and stone structures seasoned with the history of our great country.  I think those buildings will still be here long after the modern high-rises are dust.  Or at least I hope so.

Surprisingly, over fifteen percent of Boston is built on a landfill. They did it well though; one would never know.  The very long tunnels that tend to be filled with traffic at a dead stop were my least favorite thing about Boston. Give me a mountaintop any day. 

Our beautiful hotel had a hot buffet for us this evening.  I waddled off to bed far too tired to use the luxurious swimming pool, warm and inviting though it was, situated indoors and surrounded on all sides by three stories of balconies, ours included.

Mountaintops and Winding Paths

 

Day Seven

After a devotional by Allan we disembarked at the base of Loon Mountain.  The plan was to ride the gondolas up to the top for a Sunday service. The weather had other ideas.  A misty rain and heavy fog eliminated any hope of an outdoor service but we still had time for our gondola rides up and down, so that’s what we did. Visibility was not conducive to scenic views of any kind but we had fun anyway and I let my imagination tell me how beautiful it surely was out there beyond the fog.  It was an eerie feeling in the gondola, just Paul and I, and I rather hoped we wouldn’t come to a stop along the way and be left dangling in the very small four-seater.  We did actually stop for about a minute which gave me pause and I told Paul I’m pretty sure I could make the drop okay if I was forced to leave the slightly swaying vehicle to hike on down.  He was less optimistic about our chances and sure he’d break a hip if he tried it.  Yes, we’ve come to that – worrying about our hips.

At one point there was a break in the trees and I saw a gurney with something body-sized wrapped in orange lying on it, secured with multiple straps. The dense fog filtering through the trees in the grey morning light created a perfect backdrop for something from the mind of Stephen King.  Helen asked Google about missing or dead people on Loon Mountain and found one possible match.  Human remains had recently been found from several decades back so we did speculate about the possibilities.

After we were all off the mountain we met with the Loon Mountain Ministry group at a local thrift and coffee shop that they manage and that’s where we had church.  They asked if our group would sing a song for them so we did.  Considering we had no practice at all we didn’t flub it up too much.  We sang one verse of Gott Ist Die Liebe in German and then followed with the English version, For God So Loved Us.  The pastor, a youngish (at least compared to us) man with great enthusiasm for the Lord, had tears running down his face as he thanked us and made us feel very welcome.

During the sermon the pastor asked if anyone had read the book Hiking Through. Quiet laughter scattered through our group because Paul Stutzman, the author of the book, is a cousin to many of the people traveling on our bus and his sister is also with us.  Today’s sermon addressed some of the same life issues that Paul wrote about in his book: our path, even as believers, is filled with twists and turns as life throws us unexpected challenges. It was so encouraging to be reminded that there are many people all around the world with whom we can instantly connect through a shared faith and the spirit of kinship.

We had a “picnic” lunch in the community room at our condos since the constant rain and mist made eating outside unappealing.  The rest of the day we relaxed, napped, visited, sang, ate popcorn and in the evening had pizza for supper before heading to our rooms and our beds.

Mount Washington and the Flume Gorge

 Day Six

Paul and me at the bottom of the mountain.

We are headed to Mt Washington this morning.  Martha is reading a list of interesting facts about the mountain as we approach its base.  Among them: the mountain summit holds the global record for highest ever recorded wind speeds not associated with a tornado or a cyclone.  At 231 mph this seems to be where Mother Nature goes to throw a tantrum.  Terry, our tour guide on the train ride to the top, explained the crazy weather patterns so common here.  It seems four weather systems from the north, south, east, and west, regularly collide above Mt. Washington, thereby creating a volatile climate that can change instantly, 365 days a year, with no warning at all. I planned accordingly and am bundled up like there’s a blizzard coming, even though it’s a pleasant enough autumn day down below.

Terry said the tree line is the point at which no trees can survive the harsh climate and therefore there are no trees above that point.  On Mt. Washington that is at around 5000 feet.  This is much lower than other mountainous regions and the weather is to blame.  To put it in perspective, a normal tree line would be 10,000 to 12,000 feet.  At only 6300 feet above sea level, Mt Washington does not present the oxygen deprivation challenges that Everest does, but, according to our guide, the weather is more dangerous here.  Many climbers require rescue and some lose their lives because of the volatility of the weather and the rapidity at which it changes.

“Crazy” Sylvester Crawford was the unstoppable force that brought the Cog Railway to the mountain in 1868.  Using 250 civil war veterans for labor the project was successfully completed at a cost of $135,000. At today’s prices that would be about 12 million.  And all these many years later, five to six million tourists ride to the top every year.  At a 37% grade, the track looked like that first big hill on a rollercoaster but there was no cresting the top and no letting loose, I am happy to say.  Our downhill guide, Emily, told us at one time crews used slide-boards with handheld brakes to move up and down the tracks for maintenance and repairs but they have since been outlawed.  The fastest time down on a slide-board was 2 minutes, 45 seconds at a speed of 70mph.  Just hearing about it gave my stomach a lurch.

The higher we climbed at a top speed of 5 mph, the colder it got.  Gradually the colorful trees and foliage gave way to ice and snow.  When we disembarked at the summit the wind was howling around us, visibility was about fifteen feet or so, and the snow had turned to rain.  Paul and I crept to the observation deck in spite of the fact that there was no way to observe anything in the heavy mist that shrouded everything.  As soon as we stepped beyond the rocks bordering the icy walkway, the wind hit with a force that almost pushed me over.  I was thankful for everything I had on.  We took pictures to prove we were there and later realized there was absolutely nothing on the pictures except our faces so you’ll just have to take my word for it that we were on top of that mountain.

Paul and me at the top of the mountain.

We shuffled carefully back into the lovely warm building situated among the rocks and warmed ourselves with hot chocolate and the company of our traveling companions.  When it was time to board the train for the ride down we followed instructions and huddled outside in what was now a steady rain pelting against us in wind gusts of considerable strength. Paul and one or two others tried to use the umbrellas we had been given that morning but they promptly turned inside out amid the gales of laughter from everyone watching their vain attempts to wrestle the canvas and wire contraptions back under control.  My down-filled coat kept me passably warm but everything not covered by it was soaking wet by the time we got on the train.  Sitting squished between other, equally soggy people for 45 minutes down to civilization threatened to stir up my claustrophobia but I managed to hold it in check.  As soon as we got to the gift shop I plopped down my credit card to buy a lovely, warm, dry pair of sweats to replace the wet, clammy jeans I was wearing.  I paid way too much but it was worth every penny.  I found the whole morning a great adventure but Paul was pretty sure he would never venture up that hill again.  We were thankful for the hearty boxed lunches waiting for us and after boarding the bus we headed for the day’s next adventure.

The Flume Gorge nearby is a natural gorge extending 800 feet at the base of Mount Liberty.  It was breathtakingly beautiful and we were scheduled to do the two-mile walk through the winding, scenic trails.  Because it was raining, most of our group opted out but eight of us decided it sounded like fun, so off we went.  It was breathtakingly beautiful and well worth getting a bit damp.  Multiple waterfalls, steep granite walls, huge, sweet-smelling firs, brilliant fall foliage, well, words don’t do it justice.

We stopped at a grocery store on the way back and bought food to make our own suppers in our condos since we were tired, wet, and ready for hot showers and warm rooms.

It was a great day, Paul’s opinion to the contrary notwithstanding.  I would do it all again.  But I’d take an extra pair of jeans along next time.

Cider, Donuts, and Church

Day Five

I promised to let you know if anything noteworthy happened last night.  Well, other than getting slaughtered at cards by someone who claims she doesn’t know how to play the game, nothing happened at all.  Heads up though, if a sweet little lady named Verna offers to play you in any game, run the other way.  Especially if there is money involved.

We stayed at a Best Western Plus for the night and it was lovely.  They served us a chef-prepared meal, a steaming buffet of beef tips smothered in onions and mushrooms, chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, carrots, salad, and cheesecake. It was delicious.  This morning we were treated to the first hot breakfast on this trip.  Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and much more, again served buffet style.  I felt like I was back in 2018 again.

Paul led the devotional after we all boarded the bus and then we were off to visit the Cold Hollow Cider Mill.  We hoped to witness the cider being pressed but a more relaxed bunch of laborers I have never seen unless you count the road crews.  We never did see them use the press but we did see how they loaded it with apples.  We all got free samples of cider and it was every bit of good as the orchard back home.  I’ve never been able to say that before.  We also got a taste of cider donuts and then it was off to see a church.

The church looked like a Vermont post card. It was originally the Walter Harvey Meeting House, built in 1831. Later it was used by the Reformed Presbyterian Society for their church services.  Since the 1970s it is only open for tours. It remains well-preserved with decorative tin ceiling and walls in pristine condition.  Two old wood stoves were steaming out warmth, just like they’ve done for over 200 years. The pews were ancient, straight-backed and not designed for comfort.  Some of them still had worn padding, others were bare.  We were greeted by Ted who looked like he’d stepped out of history himself and whose great-grandfather had been the pastor for over forty years. 

Ted lives across the road where his father, grandfather, and great grandfather lived before him. Two thousand acres were purchased in the 1700s (I’m not sure by whom) and sold off in lots to Scottish Presbyterians who settled in the area.  At today’s prices the land would be worth over 17 million dollars.This little white church was one of many “farm churches” existing back then, serving the farmers and their families scattered throughout the territory. There was no town, only a tavern stop for passing travelers.  Handling maybe no more than $100.00 a year, the subsistence farmers were able to grow enough food to feed themselves and with taxes virtually nonexistent, they did not need actual cash to survive.  Not so today.  With rising taxes, Ted told us he “scratches out a living” with his welding business and working as a forester.  His ancestors gave up farming when bulk milk tanks came into use.  No longer could his father take a few cans of milk to sell whenever he needed money; now things were on a much more regulated and streamlined track.  A decision had to be made: either upgrade the equipment or stop farming.  His father chose to stop farming and get a job.

Another big change to the way things were was the arrival of the interstate highway.  Tourists came for vacations and fell for the beautiful Vermont countryside.  They bought land, built homes and moved in, signaling the end of the isolated farmers who had inhabited the area for almost 200 years.

Ted told us about his father’s history with the beautiful church we were sitting in. It was a “Covenanter” Presbyterian church meaning they believed that Jesus was the head of everything: church, state, government, everything.  Since the government was run by non-religious people, they did not believe in voting or participating in politics in any way.  Ted’s father disagreed.  He bucked the status quo and voted after which he was no longer allowed to take communion with the church.  However, he brought his family to every service; they sat in the back row on Sundays without fail.

I looked around the sanctuary and could almost hear the people, now long gone, singing hymns. I imagined how it must have been, hearty country folks, gathering from miles away to worship together in a free land.  At one time eighty-eight children attended Sunday school.  It seemed a high number to me when thinking how isolated the forested hills were, far from any town or city.  After talking with Ted for awhile we decided it was a good place for a group picture and he willingly obliged.

Just a few hundred yards from the church a man flagged us down and Laverne, our driver, stopped the bus.  An older man (well, older than Paul and I at any rate) boarded and told us that he used to be a tour guide for the Rock of Ages Quarry and he loved having tour groups from Pioneer come through.  When he saw the bus he had to flag us down to say hi. He got teary when he told us he stopped leading tours because of COVID and that while he missed it, he did enjoy his afternoon naps.

We drove through the beautiful Green Mountains, finally arriving in a town that had two restaurants but not much else.  Martha encouraged us to split up so we wouldn’t overwhelm the two eateries.  Paul and I headed to the Happy Hour Restaurant as did about half of our group, immediately overwhelming them.  Aged and seasoned to perfection, it reminded me of our own Boyd and Wurthman back home.  We were sent to the side room to tables set up there and as each additional person from the bus walked in they were waved on back by the locals eating out front. Only one waitress was on duty so she quickly called for help and another waitress, reminiscent of Flo herself, arrived from home within minutes.  We all, being the considerate sort that we are, made sure to order quickly, simply, and without complaint.

Flo was the soul of efficiency and had our food to us in short order.  She went home with the best tips she’d ever earned, I’m guessing.  She told us we were awesome and we told her she was too. 

Our next stop was in Lincoln, New Hampshire, at the local grocery store.  We are staying in nearby condos for three days and will be needing to provide our own breakfasts.  We could probably stay for a week and be well fed with everything we thought we needed while we browsed the food aisles.

For supper we dispersed to nearby restaurants.  Some of us found a tiny pub with amazing home-made pizza.  Walking back to the lodge we found an ice-cream shop and indulged in some hot chocolates and coffees.  I’m savoring every detail of this trip.  2020 taught me that taking things for granted is foolhardy and shortsighted.  Who knows when we can enjoy these simple pleasures again?  For tonight, I’m enjoying it to the full.

 

Rock of Ages and Ice-cream

 

Graveyard of discontinued flavors at Ben & Jerry's

New England, Day Four

I overslept a tad this morning so I barely had time to grab a cup of coffee for the road before it was time to load up.  Luke gave the morning devotional and everyone was in good spirits even though a few of us didn’t get much sleep.  There were a few rowdies in the hallways throughout the night (not from our bus!) but thanks to my audio books and earbuds, I was undisturbed.

We pulled into the Rock of Ages gift shop and picked up our guide before a slow crawl up the gravel road to the quarry. Martha had warned us it would be cold and even in my down winter coat I was shivery.  We heard many interesting and heretofore unknown facts about quarrying granite.  Like so many things, modernization has streamlined production with the use of machinery rather than brute strength.  Our guide reported that both his shoulders were ruined thanks to years of drilling the guide holes needed prior to splitting the granite blocks.  He showed us one block 6 feet by 10 feet by 8 feet that weighs 27 tons.  Enormous derricks were once used to lift up to 200 tons at a time but they have now been retired since methods have changed.

I took photos that are totally ineffective in showing the massive scale of the rock walls.  If you look closely you can see a person walking along the top demonstrating how antlike we are compared to the granite towering on all sides.

We ate pulled pork and clam chowder at a quaint, well-aged restaurant in the little village of Barre, VT.  The bacon and cheese piled on top of the pork, sandwiched between slabs of toasted bun made for a delicious result.  We had the upstairs to ourselves, in a dining room that looked like it had been in use since Paul Revere rode through.  Did Paul Revere ride through VT?  I must look that up.  Anyway, I’m loving all these old buildings, most of them well-preserved and reeking of history.

A short stop at Hope Cemetary gave us time to be amazed at the elaborate gravestones memorializing the many laid to rest there.  A stark difference from the cemetary we visited a few days ago, this place did not have weatherworn, virtually unreadable, gravestones.  These markers were meant to impress and to make certain the dearly departed were not forgotten.  The most touching sight I saw was a rather simple stone surrounded by fall decorations.  Pumpkins, flowers in autumn colors and a blanket spread out for the young woman sitting there all alone.  Someone truly was loved and missed.

We drove through Montpelier, the state capital.  Its claim to fame, it seems, is that it is the only state capital without a McDonalds. Vermont also has no billboards.  Can’t say I blame them although I remain somewhat of a libertarian, meaning I don’t like rules forbidding or demanding things.  I admit though, it is nice not to have the visual pollution of advertisements scattered all over the beautiful scenery.

We spent an hour or two at Morse Farm, the famous producers of maple syrup and other related sweet things.  The pictures of their maple syrup barn looked almost identical to the one my father used back when I was a little girl. My brothers gathered the sap from our maple trees in the woods, using a big sleigh pulled by horses when the snow was on the ground, much like the picture our tour guide showed us. 

My father spent many nights back in the woods, cooking down the sap until it was a sweet, golden syrup.  He put the finished product into a large barrel tank with a spigot close to the bottom.  When we came to visit we were allowed a few sips from a tin cup he kept handy.  I can still see the little sample bottles lined up on the kitchen window sills, the syrup starting out a light liquid gold, progressively getting darker with each batch until it was deep amber by the end of the season.  I don’t remember exactly how much he charged for his syrup but I’m sure it wasn’t enough.  It was more a labor of love than a capitalistic venture.  

Listening to the man talk today, telling us all about the Morse farm, their gathering and cooking methods, and how much sap it takes to make a gallon of syrup (forty gallons), I had some déjà vu moments.  When we walked into the store and I smelled the smells, in the words of Yogi Berra, it was “déjà vu all over again.” 

We all sat around wooden tables in a side room and another farm worker gave us each a small bowl of ice and a little container of hot syrup.  She showed us how to spread a small amount of the syrup on the ice, let it cool, and eat it like candy. Fun and tasty. And sticky.  I somehow managed to get it on my fingers, the table, and everything else within reach.  I know, it’s a gift.

Next stop: Smuggler’s Notch Distillery.  Beside that store was a cheese store and beside that a chocolate shop.  Since one truffle cost over $3.00, I decided to forgo the pleasure.  Paul did buy several very sharp cheddars for me though and I look forward to sampling some later.

Not being much of a shopper, I spent my time at a picnic table, enjoying a drink and some conversation with other non-shoppers until it was time to board the bus.  And we’re off to Ben and Jerry’s.

Because of COVID concerns we were not wanted in the Ben and Jerry’s store since a busload of us would have certainly been in each others spaces.  So they brought our orders (we filled out what we wanted before we left home) to the bus.  This suited me just fine.  We bypassed the line and never left our seats. I picked the flavor American Dream.  A crunchy, chocolatey, caramel concoction that will definitely add some weight to my already ample hips. The graveyard for discontinued flavors is near the ice-cream shop and each dead flavor is given a stone with a memorial write-up.

We got to our hotel early this evening.  Our supper will be served here and then I hope to play some cards.  If anything noteworthy happens I'll let you know tomorrow.

Corning, New York

 

New England, Day Three

First Century Glass

This morning we left the hotel a few minutes after 8:00.  The continental breakfast was notably post-COVID with individually wrapped muffins and a few anemic pastries, oatmeal in packets, and several varieties of breakfast bars.  Since I don’t like to eat a lot first thing and I also happen to like those oatmeal packets I was well-satisfied.  Pablo struggled a bit more, being a big fan of breakfast food with all the trimmings.  The coffee was hot, black, and good though, so he will survive. He has been declaring his intentions of curbing his eating habits so this might be just the jump start he needs.

It occurs to me that the frustration is not so much about a lack of breakfast trimmings but more about the fear mentality shrouding so many people. A dining area that resembles a hospital operating room more than a kitchen speaks volumes about the level to which we have descended.  I was determined to not allow this travel blog to sink into the quagmire of viruses and politics but my resolve is being tested.  Time after time we find places not open because they do not have enough help.  Gone are the steaming trays of food in open buffets, rife with shared germs and bursting with tempting aromas and appetizing mounds of delectable foods.  Instead we have room temperature, prepackaged, processed breakfast bars and people skittering in and out as if they are afraid of each other, the tables and chairs left empty and quiet. 

Back on the bus normalcy returns.  No one cringes when someone sneezes.  Instead “Bless you!” comes from several directions.  Tupperware containers of homemade cookies are passed around and no one can resist them. We on this bus are people who have all been touched by COVID.  We’ve lost loved ones, we’ve experienced its virulence personally, we’ve been hurt. We are all fully aware that being together carries certain risks. But we are people who refuse to allow a mutant virus to steal our lives away an inch at a time.  I’m hopeful there are millions of others out there who are the same.

We spent over an hour at the Corning Museum of Glass in Corning, NY.  What an amazing and extensive collection of archaeological treasures they have!  I was prepared for some Corning ware and instead saw first century pieces that could have been in use when Jesus was here!  The decorative glass rods found in doorways dated at almost 2000 years BC. Egyptian excavations produced vials, cups, and decanters from the times of the Pharaohs.  I walked through the “35 Centuries of Glass” exhibits, my mind swirling with thoughts of the people who actually made, purchased, or used these priceless treasures and almost felt like I could sense something of them still here.  

We saw a demonstration of glass blowing and the creation of a blue pumpkin, stem, leaf, and all.  Thanks to COVID, a new technique for blowing glass was needed.  Hand blowing was impossible when wearing a mask for obvious reasons so an air supply line was attached to the mouthpiece of the tool used to hold the molten glass.  These innovations put in place will continue even when COVID is no longer an issue. I find it fascinating how creative we can be when pushed by the unavoidable.

We stopped for lunch at another cluster of fast food places.  KFC in this town was open, dining room and all.  Paul’s boycott ended abruptly and we ate deep fried chicken before boarding the bus for the next few hours.

Since one of the planned attractions was unavailable, thank-you covid, our trusty tour guide, Martha, found another place to stop along the way.  Cohoes Falls in New York is a short distance from the highway. The beautiful water cascading over black rocks made it worth the walk and we all needed the exercise anyway.

Dave and Irene

Supper was in Bennington, VT at Jenson’s, a family restaurant serving up hearty hot meals.  The air is notably cooler and the leaves are just beginning to change color.  It’s almost dark now as we are heading to our hotel an hour or so up the road.  Looking forward to a good night’s sleep and exploring the eastern states in the coming days.

The Big Valley

 

New England, Day Two

We left Penn Valley Retreat around 8:00 this morning.  The crew at the retreat fed us a hearty breakfast before we left, sausage and egg casserole, sausage links, fruit, muffins, juice, and most importantly, strong black coffee.  Not being an early morning eater, myself, I nonetheless rose to the challenge and downed a sizeable portion whilst wondering what size pants I would need by the time this trip is over.

With lightening flashing and rain coming down we followed the winding road back to where we had entered this beautiful oasis last evening.  I noticed that there was no thunder, even after the sharpest flashes, which I found curious.

A tour guide joined us from a nearby church and he told us a number of interesting stories. He started with Indian John Glick who got his name when he hid in a hollow log during an attack that killed every other member of his family, back in the 1700s.  Only five years old, he was found by a local Amish family wandering lost and alone after the slaughter.  They took him home and raised him as their own and his nickname stuck, still used to this day.

Another tale involved a young Amish man who left the community to join the fight against Hitler.  He was a rear gunner who went down with his plane behind enemy lines.  He made it home safely before returning for a second tour and was once again shot down in German territory.  This time he was not so fortunate as before and ended up in brutal prison camp.  During a prisoner transport the train he was on, because it was not marked with the customary cross to signify passengers on board, was bombed by the Allies. 

The young man’s father wanted his son buried in the local cemetery but one of the church leaders  would  not allow it.  The Amish are pacifists and fighting in any war is strictly forbidden.  After pleading for his son, the grieving father was given permission to bury him outside the cemetery fence.  In a great stroke of irony, the man adamantly refusing admittance to the war hero, a young man who died defending his right to do so, was forced to bury his own son outside the same fence.  Beside the solder now lay another man for whom there was no room inside an overcrowded burial ground.

We spent half an hour at Meadow View Amish School.  Forbidden any cameras, this photographer’s dream remains un-captured.  I was headed to the outhouse (never pass a bathroom is one of my cardinal rules on a bus trip) when I caught sight of about a dozen little girls watching me.  When they saw that I saw they scattered like a flock of sparrows.  Their white caps covered all hair; their dresses and aprons were dark and fell to their bare ankles.  The boys wore straw hats during recess.  Their shirts were buttoned to throats and wrists; their trousers held up by one suspender fastened front to back, diagonally. Most of them were barefoot.

The outhouse had never been treated to deodorizing solution other than the little urinal cake hanging on the wall, totally ineffective.  Two holes with battered and worn toilet seats were above a dark chasm that I could not, nor did I want to, see into.  Very little light nor ventilation seeped through the ancient boards that provided some privacy.  There was no lock but I’m here to tell you it is possible to make use of the facilities without touching anything except the door one is firmly holding shut.

We were allowed into the schoolroom to observe some learning and it was a step back in time.  Way back.  Windows spanning both side walls provided the only light and with today’s clouds and rain, it was dim at best.  A large blackboard stretched across the front of the single room. Each antique desk held one scholar while providing workspace for another behind them.  Several shelves across the back held vintage school book, still in regular use by the look of them.  There were no shiny textbooks with pictures, no flashy school supplies, no computers, no signs of modern civilization anywhere.  Each student had a tablet (the kind with paper) with which to do their ciphers and compositions.  A neat row of warm pastel scarves hung on hooks along one wall; another row held straw hats from the boys.

After recess all students gathered up front, and with the teacher, sang several songs. They belted out the words at the top of their lungs but without emotion. It sounded unusual, not the melodic lyrics usually associated with music.  Rather more like a chant than a song with unvaried tempo and volume.

The teacher was a young woman who looked to be about mid twenties or early thirties.  She was all no-nonsense and said she had been at this school for nine years. Her voice when talking was eerily the same as when singing: even tempo, expressionless, and loud.  It was clear she brooked no frivolity and I was a bit nervous that someone on the bus would end up at the desk up front in the corner. We did hush David a time or two and managed to escape without anyone getting their knuckles rapped.

I mulled things over as the lessons continued, wondering if we were seeing an idyllic replay of history in real time. Was it a lifestyle to be envied, simple and reduced to the essentials?  Or was that a romantic notion that covered a reality filled with hardship and self-denial?

After visiting the school we stopped at Peight’s, a country store very similar to our own stores back home.  I left with a bag full of chocolates, beef jerky, and maple cookies. Feeling ready for the apocalypse, I boarded the bus and took a nap.

Having read the book Rosanna of the Amish as a young girl, I found our stop at an old graveyard rather interesting.  Rosanna’s grave is there among hundreds of others, the writing on her original gravestone mostly worn away.  I saw a gravestone with the name Byler and wondered if this belonged to some long-forgotten relative of mine.  Another smaller marker bore the names of three children, the mystery of their tragic story hidden under a weatherbeaten chunk of limestone. Would my passing be forgotten by future generations too someday?  I moved on before melencholia completely overtook me. 

As the bus meandered through Pennsylvania’s Big Valley our tour guide relayed one interesting bit of history after another.  We learned about the “white-top” Amish with their houses blue doors and white buggies. Other Amish groups have yellow buggies, some allow screens in their windows, others do not.  The hundreds of minute differences between the varying districts are enough to blow the minds of any and all “Englishers.”  One thing is constant though.  The Big Valley is one of the most picturesque places in the state.  Perfect lawns, houses, and barns nestled between two long ridges of wooded hillsides, with verdant fields producing crops that would be the envy of farmers everywhere.

Woven through our tour guide’s many tales was the true story of the seven barns destroyed by an eighteen-year-old arsonist in the early 1990s. The son of an Amish bishop, his motives remain unclear, at least to me, but the hardship he created for many hard-working families was plain to see.

We ate lunch at a local homestead where we were met on our arrival by a young barefoot Amish woman who invited us in and made us feel welcome.  Wood burning ovens were baking homemade pizzas dripping with deliciousness.  Followed by pie and homemade ice-cream, food comas all around were inevitable.

Several hours later we stopped at a state park to enjoy the “Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania.”  The rain had disappeared and the temperature was a beautiful 55 degrees.  Walkways and balconies overlooked beautiful vistas which we duly admired.  I couldn’t help but thank God for his amazing creation and that I could be here to enjoy it.

Our hotel in Mansfield, PA was minutes from a few fast food places; the bus dropped us off so we could walk to whichever one suited our fancy.  Paul was determined to have some KFC so off to visit the Colonial we went.  Unfortunately he wasn’t there.  Contrary to online information the dining room was not open and the two people running the show refused to serve any walk-up customers via the drive through.  They were not busy and the six or seven of us would have added a few dollars to their coffers but it was not to be.  Paul declared a boycott on all KFCs and I mulled over once again the death of common sense across the globe. I refer not to Paul but to the KFC employees who did not dare to think outside the box by handing us food in the parking lot.  I had a brief mental image of plowing through the drive-through with the bus, damage to vehicle and building notwithstanding.  Fortunately for all, I am not permitted near the steering wheel.

Thanks to a nearby Arbys we did not go hungry.  Truth be told, we could probably go without food for the whole of our trip and not die of starvation.  The signs posted at Arby’s warning us we may not be able to order what we want because of “interruptions to the supply chain” were yet another reminder that our lives have been changed in ways we never imagined two years ago.  These things have given me new gratitude for all that we can still enjoy.  Even with the unexpected ways we find ourselves inconvenienced it is all trivial when compared to the plight of so many.  And for today – I am grateful.