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.

Penn Valley

New England: Day One

We left the Pioneer Office at around 8:00 this morning.  This year’s trip promises to be different than those of the past few years.  Many of the friends we have traveled with in the past are not with us this time.  Many new faces are here and I look forward to getting better acquainted with them.  Our tour guide, Martha, had everyone introduce themselves this afternoon as we moved up the highway.

I listened to my fellow travelers tell about themselves and realized what a brutal year this has been.  Five people lost their spouses since January.  COVID took several of them, but not all.  Many of us have experienced this virus and recovered but others were not so fortunate.  In the beginning, back in 2019, a few of us wondered if this virus was even real.  We don’t wonder anymore.  It has taken a toll on everyone and our bus is filled with weary people who have suffered and who need a break.

We stopped at a scenic overlook hoping to seeing some elk.  The elk wouldn’t cooperate and they stayed out of sight but the scenery was beautiful anyway. 

Our stay for the night was at Penn Valley Christian Retreat, a church-run lodge that had plenty of lodging space for all of us.  The staff served us some major comfort food. After generous servings of meatloaf, scalloped potatoes, salad, vegetables, warm apple crisp and ice-cream we couldn’t help but feel like the first day of our journey was ending well. 

One of the young adults helping prepare and serve our dinner asked me if I might be her great aunt.  We played the Mennonite Game for a minute or two, and yes indeed, she is my great niece.  If you don’t know what the Mennonite Game is I will explain it in a minute.  One of the unavoidable benefits, or in some cases, hazards of large families is the possibility of being related to virtually anyone anywhere. There have been a few times when I would rather have denied a direct bloodline to someone declaring their mutual ancestry but this was not such a time.  Julie is a lovely young lady and I remember seeing her at the family reunions some years back although I would never have recognized her now, without her self-introduction.

As for the Mennonite Game. . .  Anyone with Amish or Mennonite heritage knows how to play, and most of us have done it at one time or another.  It goes something like this:

You approach a stranger, also with a plain-people lineage and ask, “Where are you from?”

They respond with their place of birth or current living location.  You then ask, “Who are your parents?” or depending on their age and yours, “Who are your grandparents?”

This usually leads to discovery of some mutual acquaintance and nine times out of ten there will be common ground found.  It is likely you are blood relatives if you are able to backtrack a few generations.

After supper most of my fellow travelers retired to their rooms but a few of us spent an hour or two playing cards.  I lost as usual but I was only there for the visiting anyway.