A Non-Native Southerner Tours the Northeast

On Thursday, July 25, I began my vacation.  I had not really had a vacation, a planned, nonwork-related trip in four years.  I had said all summer I was going somewhere after summer school was over—either out west or New England, someplace I had never been.  Paying off the house mortgage in June helped me feel like spending some money on a trip. 

The obstacles to my trip were that I couldn’t go alone, and having two dogs meant someone had to stay home with them—my husband, who wasn’t interested in a long road trip.  So I asked an old friend who also needed a vacation to go with me.  “I want to see the West Coast, the mountain with the faces, or New England,” was my proposition.  She consented to New England; she’s from the Midwest and is more realistic about the distances out there.  So we started to plan—a week out.  I knew I wanted to see all the states, Emily Dickinson’s home, and the ocean.  She wanted to see the Normal Rockwell museum; we both wanted to see some friends and family up in that part of the world. 

We left Thursday morning.  We stopped in Knoxville to see her oldest son and helped him out with some car trouble.  We got back on the road and drove to the Virginia border, where we ate lunch at the rest area outside Bristol (it’s a nice one) and took pictures by the sign—I planned to get a photographic proof of every state.  We stopped in Christiansburg for gas, at a rest stop thirty miles south of Winchester, and got off I-81 there to take I-66 to the Beltway.  Driving the Washington, D.C., Beltway is a stress-inducer, but I did it, driving past the “Welcome to Maryland” sign and the Mormon Temple. 

I wanted to stop by and see my old neighborhood in Landover Hills.  Some things never change—churches seem to be pretty permanent, but businesses change often.  When I have gone back, usually after spans of ten years, everything looks so small compared to how it looked and felt when I was a child. 

Only one of our neighbors from the old days is still there, the lady who lives next door.  I had to speak to her, but she was already looking at the strange women taking pictures of the house the Grahams used to live in.  So I went to her door and we had a nice chat.  She told my friend stories about me as a child, stories I didn’t remember; how my uncle taught me to say “I’ll say coon dog” and how I snuck into her house to read the books in her basement (I vaguely remember that) because I could read before I went to school, having been taught by her daughter.  She talked about how my brother, two years younger than me, was hit by the car when he was five out in the street when the neighborhood kids were playing.  That is a vivid memory.  I do not think about those days much, but I dream them.

We left and finished our drive to my brother’s home in Edgewater, MD.  We were late; that ended up being a theme—late arriving, late eating.  He ordered a pizza and gave us a place to sleep.  He and his wife had to work the next day, so we were on our own.  We started by going to where my brother and sister-in-law do work—Montpelier Mansion in Laurel, MD.  He gave us the tour of this 18^th century home that used to be a plantation.  George Washington, Martha Washington, and Abigail Adams had slept there on their ways to and from Washington, but the owner, Snowden, was not a political person, only a wealthy one.  At this point we were depending on the GPS on my “smarty-pants” phone, which took us on a tour of Anne Arundel and Prince George’s counties rather than taking us directly to where we wanted to go. 

We left Laurel and went to Annapolis.  We ate lunch at Chick and Ruth’s, an amazing deli featured on “Man vs. Food.”  It’s pure diner with hearty American food and very tight spaces, a lot of noise and a lot of personality.  We walked around the Naval Academy grounds, the state capital, St. Anne’s church (I love old churches), and into some shops (too pricey, another common theme).

That night my brother took us to a local mom-and-pop restaurant for crab cakes.  These were like no other crab cakes I had had.  Instead of filler, these were pieces of pure crab with a light coating, then fried.  I also ordered okra and was probably the only person who had in a while, so I was given half a plate full. 

The next morning we left for the Binghamton, NY, area.  Our friend was anxious for us to arrive, but we didn’t until after ten.  First, we stopped and visited with a couple who used to live in our area and now serve a church in the Annapolis area.  Then we tried to cross the Bay Bridge with thousands of other people—they were going to Ocean City, but we were going north to Delaware.  Then we ate lunch at a rest stop in Delaware.  This was a tour of small states, so we ended up in 15 different ones (although probably only a few feet of New Jersey).  .  After making our way around and past Philadelphia, we stopped briefly at Valley Forge, but did not tour it.  I made many resolutions to read about the places we touched upon.  Not far from there we stopped to visit her husband’s family homestead.  The current owner was gracious, gave us a tour, and restored some items to my friend.  The house is very old—perhaps 150 years or more--and located in a rural part of Pennsylvania.  It was getting late, so we proceeded north on I-81 (once we found it), stopped for a burger, and drove through rain and road work to Little Meadows, PA, which is just below the New York/Pennsylvania border (about two miles). 

On Sunday we visited our friend’s church, which was a refreshing experience.  We ate at a local Greek restaurant and took home our lamb which we ended up carrying for days and I eventually threw it away.  I succumbed to baklava.  We spent the rest of the day relaxing after all the driving.  I explored by foot and visited an old cemetery, one of my favorite things to do.  On Monday our friend took us on a tour of the area and we visited Owego, New York, to eat lunch and shop antiques.  We also visited her aunt and uncle, who owns a “French fry” car, an old Mercedes diesel which runs on discarded oil from restaurant.  He is a character, a retired pastor.  This was also a trip of meeting American characters.  Our friend also introduced us to “Spiede sauce” a marinade popular in that area.

That evening I decided not to explore on foot, despite a desire to take a walk, when a bear visited our friend’s backyard.  Her dogs were barking wildly and we went out to see.  A full-grown black bear ran up the hill into the woods.  He was as frightened of us as we were of him, but I decided to stay within the confines of her house that evening.

I must say at this point that our friend is a woman of many talents.  She decorates cakes that should be on one of those reality TV shows, and she has landscaped her yard with every plant that can grow in that region.  Whereas if I tried to do that it would look like a chaotic mess, hers is an oasis, an enclave of harmony and variety.  Her home is also very well decorated, despite having lost most of her belongings in a recent flood up there.  Staying with her was a pleasure, better than a bed and breakfast.  On top of that she has two little dogs and was dog-sitting an extremely good-natured Labradoodle (huge dog) so I got my dog fix, missing my own two. 

On Tuesday we visited the Corning Museum of Glass.  Now, to the uninitiated, this might sound like a snore, but it was truly a Smithsonian of the art, science, craft, and history of glassmaking.  It was high point for me.  I blew some glass (all I did was breathe through a tube, and ended up with a tear-drop shaped lavender, white, and blue sculpture), and gained a new understanding of how civilization would not have progressed without glass. 

After that tour we went to Watkins Glen State Park, hoping to also see the Finger Lakes.  We hiked the 832 steps (or more?) of the gorge.  My friend went on to the top while I descended and drove to pick her up at the northern or upper entrance, which ironically does not charge one to enter.  Coming down was harder than going up though—too much impact of my poundage on my feet.  It was too late by then to see the Finger Lakes, although I had been to the northern Finger Lakes region in the early ‘90s when my brother-in-law was a pastor in the area.  We returned by way of Corning to our friend’s home, where she had prepared a meal with the Spiede sauce.  It truly is a tasty product, although I couldn’t quite put a name to the taste—vinaigrette, tomatoey, ranchy, etc.

On Wednesday morning we drove, with several detours, to Springfield, MA.  I was now in my destination, New England.  Of course, I expected something miraculously to happen once I reached there, after 57 years, but it looked a lot like upstate New York.  The thing that hit me the most about the region was how mountainous it was.  I don’t know why I didn’t expect that, but Western Mass, New Hampshire, and Vermont were not rolling, but mountainous.  I felt like I was in Western North Carolina, but I also knew some of the vegetation was quite different.  Also, each state has its own rules about road signs.  Maryland has no billboards—neither does Massachusetts, but Pennsylvania does not seem to mind.   In New York and above the interstates do not have those little signs that tell you what gas, hotels, and restaurants are on the next exit, and I am very dependent on them.  In general, I think the South does better on signage.  We got lost and turned around several times simply because of the lack of signs. 

On the way to Springfield we stopped for a time in Stockbridge, Mass.  We saw the Red Lion Inn, and I took a picture and sat at a table Lincoln and Dickens had sat at.  We ate lunch and walked around this picturesque town (visited a small sculpture gallery where there were Dale Chilhully works, another theme of this tour), and eventually made our way to the Normal Rockwell Museum.

This museum is a definite must-see.  First, I was amazed by his techniques.  Second, by how prolific he was.  It wasn’t just those Saturday Evening Post covers—there were so much more.  Third, by how good an artist he was.  We tend to think of the silly, almost cartoonish illustrations, but those were a small part of his work.  His studio was full of books of the greats; he knew his art history.  It is sad that someone so in touch with the human spirit, the American spirit, is relegated to kitsch, because it’s not.  If people were honest, they would realize that he was doing the same thing the Baroque artists were.

I wanted to see the Hancock Shaker Village in Pittsfield.  Now, I realize that is a little weird, but I am a student of American religious history, especially sects, communes, and pietism.  The Shakers were more heretical than I realized.  Their insistence on celibacy was the least of their problems, doctrinally, but weird sexual ideas usually come from heresy about scripture and the trinity.  That they existed as long as they did while insisting on no sex or procreation is amazing.  Religious belief can make people do strange, unnatural things.

We finally made it to Springfield, ate at a Friendly’s restaurant (new for me, sort of like Steak and Shake), and got some rest.  We stayed at Hampton Inns the whole time and I recommend them, although they can be pricey.  They do have good breakfast buffets, though, and excellent facilities.  The next morning, Thursday, we set off for north of Springfield.  The first stop was my main destination:  Emily Dickinson’s home in Amherst.  What a joy.  Our tour guide did an artful job, and we ended up doing a grave rubbing on her tombstone.  We weren’t supposed to, but no one stopped us.  We both have one now; I will enjoy it.  I like the inscription, and if it was from her, I think it shows she conquered her unbelief—“Called back.”  Yes, we will all be called back.  Well, in a sense.  It is Platonic to believe we lived in heaven before birth (not a Christian doctrine), but in another we are in a different existence. 

Then we went upwards to Vermont.  While visiting “Basketville” in Putney, we met up a college friend and he graciously drove us around New Hampshire and Vermont, which are separated by the Connecticut River and we were constantly going back and forth between them.  I sat in the back and took in the scenery, glad to not be driving.  Although there are big cities in these states, what I saw was primarily rural.  We visited Fort Number Four (I think that’s funny, sort of Monty-Pythonish) and he told us stories of the Indian wars (he’s a history teacher in a school for children with behavioral problems).  He also took us the “Vermont Store” where I bought some unique crackers and cedar balls.  We ate at the Putney Inn.  Exquisite food, very “Bob Newhartish.”  I felt we were underdressed but the manager did not throw us out.

(I do my best never to buy things made in China.  So it is disconcerting to me to find that most of the wares in stores like Basketville are made in China.  I wanted to buy locally made items, but those tended to be far more expensive than I was willing to pay.  For example, at the Shaker Village, a tiny shaker-style box was over $60.  I didn’t want one that much.  At Basketville, baskets made in Massachusetts in the Cape Cod style were that much or more.  So I didn’t buy as much locally made as I would have liked.  I can buy stuff made in China at the Ft. Oglethorpe, GA, Walmart.)

By the way, every night I called my husband.  He was very patient about this whole trek.  I am today celebrating our 32^nd anniversary, and had to get back for that reasons.

Back to Springfield that night, and in the morning after stoking up on breakfast, we went south to Connecticut and Rhode Island.  First, we went through a lot of towns with “Lyme” in them (Hadlyme, Old Lyme, East Lyme) and ended up at a ferry across the Connecticut River and at the foot of the Seven Sisters.  We crossed and went up a road to visit Gillette Castle.  Now, that was a “trip,” in the drug sense.  It reminded me of Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria.  An eccentric person building his idea of a place to live.  William Gillette was an actor who popularized the Sherlock Holmes character; in fact, I doubt we would still be watching Holmes or Holmes-spin-offs without him.  I can’t say I recommend this venue, but it surely was interesting.

We set off east to see Mystic next.  The town was interesting, but not the touristy part.  I refused to pay $24.00 to see a few old boats that probably weren’t old, but reproductions.  So we ate some really good ice cream at a restaurant that was supposed to have some of the best in the country, and drove on to Rhode Island.  At one point in the day we had stumbled onto an exclusive community on the water and were told by the security guard that we couldn’t park, but when my friend asked him for directions he spent ten minutes telling her where all the locals go.  We tried to follow his enthusiastic advice and went to Watch Hill, where there was a public beach (that costs $8.00, so I don’t call that really public).  We went swimming in the Atlantic.

Now, this water was cold but refreshing, and the tides were not like the Atlantic tides I was used to.  The coast line of CT and RI are perpendicular to the coastline of the other states, so the tides were not rough, but still invigorating—like those of the Gulf, just colder.  I enjoyed that.  We changed and moved on to Point Judith, RI, to see an old lighthouse.  That was an interesting place.  The lighthouse was surrounded by a Homeland Security fence that looked forbidding, but we were told we could go in and did.  The visitors had started to stack rocks upon each other.  Many people were visiting the point, which was windy.  The sun was setting to our right, which means we were pointing north.  It was not the biggest lighthouse I have ever seen, but definitely picturesque.

We drove home late that evening.  Our eating was very irregularly.  Sometimes we skipped meals and noshed on crackers and hummus and fruit.  That saved some money; most things are much more expensive there than I am used to in Georgia.

Our time in New England was over.  On Saturday we moved south, taking many side trips to drive through the Hudson River Valley, the Delaware River Recreational Area, and into the Pennsylvania Dutch area.  We got a room in Reading, PA (which I cannot resist saying with a long “e” sound) and drove to Ephrata to eat at a little restaurant outside the Cloisters.  Oh, and we tried to see the Moravian settlement in Bethlehem, but that was where I finally had a meltdown about being able to find things on maps.  As it happened, there was a huge music festival there that forbid us going into the Moravian area, so we left, while I tried to calm down and repent of my frustration.  As I mentioned before, I am a student of American religious history (Protestant, that is) and the Moravians were of interest to me.  But we wasted far too much time there.

In Ephrata we had a joyful experience.  Consider this a plug for the Cloisters Restaurant.  We didn’t eat there til about 7:30, and the restaurant was almost empty (people in Ephrata eat much earlier, we were told by the waitress.)  Therefore, the owner and primary cook, Elva, came out and chatted with us, which she did with others.  She is a Mennonite woman in her 80s.  She has a slight German accent although she has lived in that region all her life.  She talked us into getting some pie, and I found a new recipe for blueberry pie, much more light and refreshing than a baked one.  She told us about her life and how she had travelled and run the restaurant for 40 years after leaving farming.  Another American character!

On Sunday morning we visited my friend’s mother-in-law who lives in Ephrata, and then we continued south to Wytheville, VA.  I was determined to make some good time, but as usual, I managed to get us lost even there!

On Monday we took some “blue lines” as I call them. First, we visited my grandmother’s home, now decrepit and overgrown because of family issues I will not go into here, outside of McClure, VA.  Then we visited her grave, which is up on a mountain near Ralph Stanley’s home.  What an interesting graveyard—so many of my ancestors are buried there, especially the Cherokee ones.  It’s called Rainwater Cemetery after my ancestor Rainwater Ramsey, a Cherokee who fought in the Civil War (on the wrong side, of course).  I do hope none of those folks owned slaves; I’ve always assumed they were too poor and living too far back in the mountains. 

Then we took a side trip to Cumberland Gap National Park, after eating the worst chicken sandwiches ever made at a KFC.   No amount of mayonnaise helped.  That National park is beautiful; a definite must-see.  From there we took several state routes to get to Knoxville and then south to Chattanooga.  I sat down at a table my husband prepared at 8:30.

I added up my receipts yesterday.  Over 3300 miles, actually.  Fifteen states, five of which were new for me (maybe six, I am not sure if I have really been through New Jersey before, but we really over drove through a tiny portion of it.)  We almost got to New York City on a toll road and only got turned around with a little help from a local.  However, this was not a city-based tour; I really didn’t want to go to a city.

We coined the term “generic-ville” because even in New England there were times I felt like I was in Georgia; the look of exits off of interstates can really be almost identical.  Walmarts rule, I fear.  To see something different a traveler must get off the interstates, but the interstates provide a sense of sameness and comfort.

At the same time, if one is open, one can discover even in generic America.  Best, we can discover the characters who make up this country.  Elva.  The French-fry car uncle.  A black fellow who was taking his seven pit bulls to a competition—we talked about our dogs and how he felt people in the North weren’t friendly (he grew up in Gadsden, AL).  My grandmother’s old neighbor.  A group of Orthodox Jewish folks who were hiking the gorge trail up Watkins Glen in their traditional dress.  A woman running an antique shop in an old church near the Appalachian Trail in the Hudson Valley—conceivably one of the worst locations for a business I can imagine.  The young man who had bought my friend’s in-law’s home and invited us in to show how he was renovating the old house.  The young woman who explained Emily Dickinson to us.  The waitress at Chick and Ruth’s diner.

Home is best, but the whole country is my home.