The Accidental Tourist

Lufthansa Airbus A321 landing at London Heathrow

“The Accidental Tourist” is a wonderful book by Anne Tyler and an equally endearing film adaptation starring William Hurt, Geena Davis, and an obstreperous Corgi named Edward.  Macon Leary (played by Hurt) is a reluctant traveler and writer of guides for those who don’t like travel and want to maintain the highest degree of home-like comfort.  Macon can tell you, for instance, where to find a real American meal in London.

While this is a poor philosophy (foreign cultures are to be experienced and enjoyed) there is absolutely nothing wrong with traveling comfortably.  And in this last decade since we were attacked by pitiless terrorists, travel by air has become very frustrating.  In addition to running the gauntlet of TSA security, the airlines pack the very few available seats like sardines due to spiraling fuel costs.

In face of this, it is most important to maintain your equanimity, to be relaxed, and to enjoy the larger journey. Here are a few tips to make your passage more pleasant.

• When packing, remember that all liquids must stay at home unless in 3.4 oz. (100 ml) or smaller containers.  (Half-full larger containers are not allowed).  All such liquids must fit in a single, quart-size, zip-top, clear plastic bag.  There is no wiggle room.

• The definition of liquid is fluid (sorry).  For instance, stick deodorant is considered a solid and may be packed away in your luggage.  But gel or aerosol deodorants are considered liquids and must meet the 3.4 oz. limitation.  Toothpaste is a liquid – go figure.

•  Leave early for the airport.  Most have decent restaurants and facilities inside of security.  It is far more relaxing to wait for your flight inside of security rather than fretting outside.

• Have your current, unexpired ID ready.  Ensure sure that you have a boarding pass, not a ticket receipt.  Once the TSA-screener has initialed your boarding pass, put it away... you won't need it again until boarding the aircraft.  Your ID may be stowed completely - you won't need it until renting a car or checking into your hotel.

• You cannot bring bottled water through security if greater than 3.4 oz.  You may purchase water inside of security and carry it aboard, but here is a little known economical tip… you may pass through security with empty plastic bottles and fill them at a bubbler (water fountain to those who don’t speak Rhode Islandese). 

• While scissors longer than 4” and all knives are prohibited, you may carry aboard a fingernail clipper.  These come in very handy when opening that impervious bag of trail mix.

• Men, wear a sports coat. Ladies, a bush jacket.   They have lots of pockets and will get you through security with great aplomb.  Before entering the security line, empty all of your pants and shirt pockets into the sports coat.   Take off the sports coat and put it into a bin.  Remove any other articles of outer clothing and place in the bin.  Also, your 1 quart plastic zip-top baggie of liquids and your belt, all in the same bin. For you old-timers, this includes your handkerchief… all pockets must be empty.

• Put your laptop computer in a separate bin along with any large, cassette video cameras, full sized DVD players, or game consoles.  Bulky electronics must be screened separately.

• Wear shoes that are comfortable and easily removable.  Remove your shoes and place them on the conveyor with your bags (no need for a bin).  You are now ready to pass through the security gate, be it an old-fashioned metal detector or the new backscatter X-ray screening device.

• On the other side of screening, reclaim your belongings.  Simply don your sports coat; you can repopulate your pockets later.  Don’t forget your laptop.

• Once boarding has begun, keep an eye on the overhead bins ahead of you.  If it appears that bin space is running short, put your large bag in the nearest available bin (and remember which row).  DO NOT put both of your bags in the overhead – nothing will more quickly arouse the wrath of your fellow passengers.  Put the smaller bag under the seat in front of you.  Once the aircraft is aloft, you can pull the bag back under your knees and extend your legs into that space.

• Purchase an inflatable, U-shaped pillow.  This will keep you from dozing off and drooling on the shoulder of your seatmate.  She will appreciate your consideration.

 All of these simple suggestions are intended to get you through security the first time, without re-screening, stress, and delays.  Once inside find a Dunkin Donuts and have a nice latte.  Buy a healthy sandwich and carry it aboard as the snacks served in flight tend to be expensive, unhealthy, and unsatisfying. Since you are running early due to the aforementioned suggestions, you may relax, read a newspaper, and participate in that all-time favorite pastime, people watching.

Have a nice journey and be kind to your fellow passengers. After all, they are being treated like idiot cattle, too.

The Feast of the Seven Fishes

Madonna and Child, Raphael, c. 1503

It is confusing to be a kid today.  What is the holiday season all about?  Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Year all in quick succession.  It involves holiday trees in Rhode Island, the tiny state that also bans the menorah, terming it a holiday candelabra.  (Oh, they don’t?  Well, maybe they should).

The winter solstice is another event of the season.  Many cultures celebrate it as a rebirth – the promise of a new year and a new growing season to come.  It is proof that nature is well, that  another crop is forthcoming, marking the end of the sun’s southward journey and the beginning of its return to the succor of summer.

But there is no confusion in the Italian American community.  The season is all about Christmas (Christ’s Mass), the celebration of the birth of the baby Jesus.  The stories of the three wise men, the guiding star, and Joseph and Mary taking shelter in a manger are not inconsistent with Santa Claus, his reindeer, and their overnight visit to delight us with gifts.

One of the most pleasant (and delicious) traditions is the Feast of the Seven Fishes. Originating in southern Italy and Sicily, this Christmas Eve celebration, also known as La Vigilia (the vigil), marks the wait for the midnight birth of the divine infant.  For whatever reason, this wait is more easily borne by eating a large dinner containing seven different seafood dishes and accompanying coffees, desserts and pastries.  Who knew that a vigil could be so gustatorily agreeable?

But in the grand scheme of things, whether Christian, Jewish, Muslim, or Wiccan, we seem to agree that the season is about giving.  We find it pleasant to drop a buck into the Salvation Army bell-ringer’s bucket.  Some of us, anonymously, pay off strangers’ layaway accounts at K-Mart, and we all enjoy pleasing our loved ones with a thoughtful present.  Of all the season’s traditions, this is by far the best.

On Christmas morning, up early to solitarily contemplate the blessings of Santa’s visit, spend a few moments to remember and thank those who have made a significant difference in your life.  These are the gifts that truly matter. And then consider giving such a gift.  Your mentoring can literally change the life of a bright young mind that needs only some experienced direction and inspiration.

The little known battle of Wake Island

Wake Island - destroyed Marine F4F Wildcats, VMF211.  National Archives Photo 80-G-179006

Today we really love our Toyotas and Hondas.  Japan is a close friend and ally of the United states and a major trading partner. But seventy years ago, Emperor Hirohito’s forces attacked the United States at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, and at tiny Wake Island on December 8^th.  (These attacks were nearly simultaneous, as Wake Island lies across the International Dateline some 2,000 miles to the west.)  It is difficult to appreciate the bleakness of those times, with war seeming a poor reward for a decade of economic depression.

The story of Pearl Harbor is well known; Wake Island, less so.  Annexed by the United States in 1899, Wake remained desolate for many years.  Pan American Airlines built a facility there in 1935 to accommodate their flying boats, the famous Clippers which plied the Pacific in the pre-war years.  As tensions with Japan mounted, the Navy established a garrison in 1941 and by December had staffed it with 449 United States Marines, twelve Grumman F4F-3 Wildcats, 68 Navy personnel, and a contingent of over 1,200 civilian construction workers. 

The garrison was incomplete, lacking revetments to protect parked aircraft from shells or bombs, and no radar was yet installed.  On the morning of December 8^th (the 7^th in Hawaii), the garrison received a radio warning from Pearl.  Navy Commander W.S. Cunningham ordered four of his Marine pilots to take to the air to establish an air screen, thereby saving them from destruction.  At noon, a large force of Japanese Mitsubishi bombers from the Marshal Islands attacked and decimated seven of the eight F4F Wildcats remaining on the ground.  The eighth was later disabled in a taxiing accident.

Pan American’s facilities, including a hotel, warehouse, and fuel tanks, were destroyed by the raid. A moored Pan American airship, the Philippine Clipper, was riddled with shot and shrapnel but remained airworthy.  Her civilian crew, passengers, and ground employees were able to jettison unnecessary baggage and equipment and escape to Midway Island in a fortunate side note to this grim battle.

In spite of daily air attacks, the Marines were able to keep their small fleet of four remaining Wildcats serviceable, and their intrepid pilots served both as early warning for incoming air raids and to claim their share of downed enemy bombers. 

On December 11^th, the Japanese attempted an assault from the sea.   A seaborne force consisting of three light cruisers, six destroyers, and two armed merchantmen approached during the night with the intent of landing 450 troops.  But the defenders were able to sting heavily with coastal artillery and their few remaining aircraft.  Four Japanese ships were destroyed and several more damaged, and they were forced to withdraw.  This was the first defeat for the Japanese, who had till now seemed invincible at Pearl, Guam, Singapore, Hong Kong, and the Philippines.  The home front rejoiced at the news. But there was great cost to the Marines; two of the surviving F4Fs were destroyed leaving only two of the original twelve operational. 

Knowing the fate of the Marines, sailors, and civilians on Wake was precarious, the Navy mounted a relief force from Hawaii led by the carrier USS Saratoga and three heavy cruisers, ten destroyers, and a number of support ships.   But the Japanese were approaching Wake with a large task force consisting of two fleet carriers, many attendant cruisers and destroyers,  and a landing party of 1,500 men.   On December 22, the last two Wildcats were lost to carrier-based Japanese Zeros, and on the 23^rd the invasion was in full swing.  Realizing the strength of the Japanese armada, Pearl ordered the American relief force to turn back as it was deemed essential to insure the defense of Hawaii. Thus was sealed the fate of Wake’s defenders. 

The Marines fought defiantly, valiantly, and courageously, but were overwhelmed.  (Marine Captain Henry T. Elrod was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor for bravely piloting his F4F Wildcat to down two Zeros and sink a destroyer.  He was later killed protecting his men as they carried ammunition to a gun emplacement).  The Japanese bombarded for hours and then landed over 1,000 men, overpowering the island’s defenses.  By afternoon, Commander Cunningham was forced to surrender the garrison.  There followed a dark time of incarceration, hard labor in POW camps, and atrocities better forgiven than avenged.

Dark times, indeed, but those on the home front rose to the challenge, not only in the Pacific but also in Europe and around the world where Allied forces were amassing.  Our spirit, spunk, and perseverance led the Allies to the post-war world we have all enjoyed for over six decades. (Even Japan and Germany, the world’s 3^rd and 4^th largest economies.  Oh, to be defeated by those steely but benevolent Americans).

The veterans who formed the sharp tip of our spear in those years are quickly disappearing.  They who served in the early war years are approaching 90 years and beyond.  The incidence of veteran obituaries from that era has long since peaked and dwindled – few of them remain.  If you are fortunate enough to know a World War II vet, or are kind enough to visit a veteran facility, take a moment to listen to their stories and give them great thanks.

Giving thanks for the harvest

Pieter Bruegel the Elder. The Harvest. 1565.

Northwestern Pennsylvania is farm country, and we know about the harvest.

Quite a few years ago, my young classmates and I were enthralled by the story of the first Thanksgiving.  Plymouth, Massachusetts, seemed remote and exotic; we envisioned Plymouth Rock as an enormous, looming protuberance, much like the Rock of Gibraltar. It turns out that the rock is actually quite small, but it remains a stirring monument to the intense faith and hard labors of the Mayflower Pilgrims.

The colonists had originally intended to depart Europe in early 1620 to give them at least a partial growing season in the New World.  But that was not to be. After many delays and false starts, the Mayflower finally left Plymouth, England, on September 6.  Inclement weather, unfavorable winds, and turbulent seas extended the grueling journey to over three and a half months. Finally, on December 21, the first landing party came ashore at New Plymouth, and several days later the construction of a common house was begun. 

Winter is not the easiest time to establish a colony.  In the harsh, frozen land they hoped to claim, nearly half of the original 102 Mayflower passengers perished by spring.  Husbanding the meager provisions remaining on the Mayflower, hunting in the surrounding lands, and fishing the sea, fifty three of the colonists managed to survive.  Now the challenge was to clear land, plant crops, and pray for a favorable harvest.

It turns out that they were lucky, or blessed, or both.  The soil was rich, weather gentle, and crops grew vigorously.  The harvest was plentiful and, with salted cod, smoked venison, and other provisions stored in plentitude, the odds of surviving the coming winter appeared good.  The Pilgrims celebrated a harvest festival along with a band of Massasoits with whom they had a treaty of peace.  It is quaint to think so today, and perhaps even illegal in our public schools, but they gave deep, heartfelt thanks to God for their good fortune.

We have become very disconnected from the sources of our food.  By and large, unlike the Pilgrims, we don’t have personal involvement in planting and harvesting the food that we eat.  Potatoes grow in hills of soil and were harvested with flat-tined pitchforks in the fall.  Corn and pumpkins were planted together because the pumpkin plants smothered weeds and helped to retain moisture for the corn.  All this the Pilgrims knew; we know how to drive to the grocery store.

So this Thanksgiving, while we are giving thanks for the Black Friday shopping binge to come, please give a thought to our blessings, the hard working farmers who labor for us, their bountiful harvest, and how very fortunate we are.

Courage and November the 10th

Corporal Jason Lee Dunham, USMC

“Sir, the age of the Corps is 236 years!”  This cry  will ring out on posts and ships around the world as  Marines celebrate the 236^th anniversary of the Corps’ origin on November 10, 1775.  The Marines were founded as a naval service and share many traditions with their nautical parent. When we fall out of our racks (not bunks), our boots hit the deck (not floor) and we scramble out the hatch (not door) and down the ladder (not stairs).  While the Marines have perfected the art of assault from the sea, they are also a formidable land-based expeditionary force, performing “such duties as the President may direct.”  Which explains why Marines were deployed in 2003 to bring order to landlocked Al Anbar province in Iraq.

The simply stated values of the Marine Corps – honor, courage, and commitment – attract young men and women from all over the country. Nautical familiarity is not a prerequisite, but honesty, fidelity, and a staunch nature are. Marines are relentlessly determined to serve country, Corps, and community. If you ask a Marine what motivates him, the most likely answer you’ll hear is to support and protect his fellow Marines.  But in the end, they support and protect all of us, and our Constitution, and our way of life.

Scio, New York (pronounced sigh-o), is a small farming community (pop. ~1900) in southwestern New York State.  Only two and a half hours from Ohio, Scio has far more in common with Midwestern values than the bustle and glamour of Manhattan.  One thing that Scio could produce, however, was a true American hero.  Jason Lee Dunham was born on November 10, 1981, the exact day of the Marine Corp’s 216^th birthday.  Too much of a coincidence, he was destined to become a Marine.  After playing basketball and graduating from Scio High, Dunham signed up in July 2000. Upon successful completion of boot camp, he was awarded the title of United States Marine. 

By 2004, Jason had been promoted to the rank of corporal and was a squad leader with the 7^th Marines in Al-Karābilah, Al Anbar province.  On April 14^th of that year, Jason’s platoon was dispatched to investigate an attack on the battalion commander’s convoy.  As his squad approached a suspicious vehicle, an enemy combatant tossed a live hand grenade at the Marines.  Jason, seeing the threat to his squad, shouted a warning and deliberately threw himself on the grenade. 

His squad survived, but Jason, grievously wounded, passed away several days later on April 22^nd.  Based on accounts of his valor, Corporal Dunham was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor, the first Marine to be so honored since Vietnam.  In 2007, the Navy announced that a new guided missile destroyer would be named the USS Jason Dunham.  That ship was commissioned on November 13, 2010.

On this November 10^th, Jason would have been 30 years old.  As the “Occupy” protestors decry their college loan debts, please remember those like Corporal Dunham who form the sharp tip of our spear and fight for our right to exist as a country.  I never knew Jason, but as a Marine, he is my brother and I honor him. Semper fidelis, Jason.

Our nautical heritage

"Breezing up" - Winslow Homer

Massachusetts has a long, proud, maritime tradition going back nearly four hundred years.  The early European settlers arriving on our shores were mariners extraordinaire and we have been a seagoing folk ever since.  We have utilized the bounty of the sea for sustenance and trade and to this day have some of the nation’s busiest fishery ports.  And it’s no wonder.  The coastline of Massachusetts is over 300 miles, thanks largely to the enormous proboscis of Cape Cod.  And when you include inlets, salt marshes, and islands, the overall tidal shoreline is in excess of 1,500 miles.

It is not surprising that we have contributed greatly to nautical terminology and continue to use it idiomatically in our vernacular. Words and phrases with nautical roots permeate our language.

Here is a quite realistic example – “The project had run afoul of local regulations and quickly lost headway.  It didn’t help that the chairman was acting groggy, seeming three sheets to the wind.  But after arguing to the bitter end, the committee voted to take a different tack.  Now we are running on an even keel.”

These phrases are familiar and we know their intended meanings, but it is interesting to understand their nautical origins.  Let’s explore a few of them.

“Run afoul” now means to contravene, or go against laws, regulations, or popular sentiment; to clash.  The original gist of “afoul” was for a ship to run aground or become entangled with lines or collide with another ship.  The sense of conflict is consistent in both definitions. 

“To lose headway” is to run out of steam, to fail to make forward progress.  In nautical usage, when a ship is making headway, it is making forward progress against a tide, current, or unfavorable winds.  When it loses headway, that progress is lost. Again, the definitions are congruent. 

Today, to be “groggy” is to be dazed, weak, or unsteady, most usually from lack of sleep.  Sailors in the olden days were issued a daily ration of grog (watered down rum) to maintain morale.  The effect of too much grog was to make one groggy, i.e., drunk.

To understand “three sheets to the wind,” we must first know that a sheet is a line connected to a sail and is used to control that sail.  A typical sloop has a headsail which needs two sheets, one for each tack. The main sail has a only single sheet, giving a total of three. When a sheet is “to the wind,” it is unattached and the sail flaps aimlessly.  So with three sheets to the wind, the boat has no motive force and simply heaves about in the waves, much like a wandering drunkard. 

“To the bitter end” colloquially means that one will continue to a conclusion irrespective of difficulties or obstacles.  This one takes some explaining.  On an old sailing vessel, there existed posts, called bitts, to which lines were tied off (most often the anchor bitts).  The loose end of the line, after being secured to a bitt, is the bitter end.  To pursue something to the bitter end is to continue to the very end.

To “take a different tack” is to try another fundamentally different course of action.  In sailing, a boat makes her way upwind by tacking alternately to port and starboard of the wind. Sometimes it is misstated as to “take a different tact” which is just plain nonsensical, as “tact” has to do with gentile social graces, not direction of action.  Taking a different tack implies trying a different course of action against some resistance, hopefully to result in making headway.

A ship floating on an “even keel” is properly level and not listing, remaining upright and stable.  If badly loaded, or laden with water from leaks, a ship may list to the side and be swamped by the waves.  In the vernacular, to “run on an even keel” is a very desirable state of affairs.

There are many more such phrases but we’ll save them for another time.  Perhaps in the dead of winter when dreams of sun and waves and wind and getting back on the water become acute, another dose of nautical phrases may prove animating. 

Harvesting the grapes

View from the escarpment.  Photo by Andrew Dufresne.

Of course, it’s all different now.

Fifty years ago, the 32,000 acres of grapes spread across Chautauqua County, NY, and Erie County, PA, were all harvested by hand.  Vineyards  stretched across the Lake Erie plain and undulated up the escarpment to the Allegheny Plateau.  By October, the grape leaves turned golden and deep purple clusters hung heavily, emitting the delicious scent of ripe, sweet grapes.  Crews of pickers worked their way down the rows, snipping off the ripe bunches and placing them in wooden crates emblazoned with “Welch’s” or “Bedford Fruit,” signifying their destination.

The crews were made up of entire farm families, some of the neighbors, and a few  townies as well.  We  kids helped out on the weekends and school holidays, earning the princely sum of 50 cents per hour and eating our ration of delectable grapes.   It was a community affair to get the harvest in before a killing frost, flocks of wild turkeys, or roaming herds of deer decimated the crop.  The adults made an astronomical dollar per hour, picking in all kinds of weather.  Sometimes sunny and warm, it was often grey, rainy, or even snowing at this time of year. After a full day spent working outdoors, one felt a deep sense of accomplishment and even deeper relief of getting back to the shelter, warmth, and conviviality of hearth and home.

The pickers slowly made their way down the long rows leaving a dotted stream of crates behind. The loading crew consisted of a tractor driver, a stacker on the trailer, and a loader walking behind.  The tractor and trailer were tall enough to pass over the crates and, while passing down the row, the loader would swing each 25 pound crate up onto the trailer where the stacker lifted it neatly into place.  Even a small ten acre vineyard could produce seventy tons of grapes, so the workout was significant, 140,000 pounds of lifting being nothing to sneeze at.  And even then the work was not done, as the crates were restacked onto trucks taking the harvest to be processed.

Today, mechanized harvesters rumble through the rows, frightening rabbits and depriving  school kids of their weekend jobs.  But by working quickly, day and night, the harvest is much more successful in avoiding the vicissitudes of killing frost and ravenous critters.  The grapes are trucked to plants which press them into juice, most arriving on supermarket shelves but some diverted to local winemakers.  The most common grape from this region is the Concord, not by accident sharing the name with Concord, Massachusetts.

Horticulturist and Boston native Ephraim Wales Bull, evaluating over 22,000 seedlings, worked to develop a sweet, tasty, hardy grape on his farm in Concord.  Finally after years of attempts, he succeeded in 1849.  The toponymous Concord grape quickly spread to New York, Pennsylvania, and beyond.

Then in 1893, Charles Bramwell Welch founded the company bearing his name in Westfield, NY.   Dr. Welch, a teetotalling physician and dentist from New Jersey, was looking for a wine replacement to use in communion services.  His “unfermented wine” pressed from Concord grapes turned out to be very successful, with demand extending well beyond the church.   It made sense to base his juice company in Chautauqua County, the heart of Concord grape country.  Completing the circle, Welch’s has in recent years moved its headquarters to Concord MA, though still sourcing many tons of grapes from the Lake Erie region.

As  October passes and November approaches, with the winds swinging down from Canada promising frosts to come, the machines toil in the vineyards, racing the coming of the snow.  Now, as I enjoy that fresh glass of sweet grape juice and savor a PBJ sandwich, I consider for a moment the arduously tended vineyards which yield these simple pleasures. 

Hometown tourist

Sometimes it takes a visitor to make you realize how lucky you are. We live our busy lives so much on automatic pilot that the special things are not fully appreciated.

A visit from my sister, who had not been in New England for many years, gave us the opportunity to play tour guide and gain a fresh appreciation for what we have.

Hot dogs at Tex Barry's, dinner at the Heritage Tap in Pawtucket, picking up milk at Briggs Corner Store, breakfast at the Little Falls Bakery in Pawtuxet Village RI, dropping off the dry cleaning at Hank's, a quick haircut at Barberettes on Central Avenue, caused her to exclaim "You live in a virtual village!" Indeed.  After many years, these folks have all become our friends, not just nameless faces. They have become an important part of the fabric of our lives, sharing a smile, appreciating our stories, and enquiring after our stalwart sailing companion Yogi. Just like a real village, these folks consist a network of friends who care about us, and in return for whom we care. Indeed.

Another benefit of playing tour guide is doing things we have never done before. For twenty years we sailed past and around Prudence Island in Narragansett Bay, but had never set foot ashore. It turns out that there is a clunky little ferry that serves Prudence, departing from Bristol harbor several times each day. On a perfect summer day we drive down through Rehoboth and make our way into Rhode Island and eventually, Bristol. The next ferry is at 3pm, so we have plenty of time to lunch at a waterside restaurant and observe the busy harbor. At the appointed time, we board the ferry and find a bench seat. A surprising, no, shocking number of vehicles are slotted aboard. We have seen the ferry from the water before, passing by, but did not realize that it could carry a dozen cars and trucks and a hundred passengers. Perspective is all, and once aboard we appreciate the bulk of a multi-tonned vessel.

The crossing to Prudence is fairly short, perhaps 30 minutes, with a lovely view of the receding Bristol shoreline and the ascendant Prudence hills. Upon landing, we find a small, multipurpose building housing the Post Office and a general store. The store provides islanders with groceries, hardware, snacks, dry goods, and fuel. For tourists, there are T-shirts, soda pop, and coffee. Yearning the latter, we ask for some and the charming 80-something clerk brews us a fresh pot. She is obviously a beloved fixture on the island.  We witness regulars asking after her well-being as they purchase their Shredded Wheat and pick up rental DVDs.

Although situated proximately between North Kingstown and Portsmouth, Prudence has a feeling of seclusion.  For the few year-round residents, students must take the ferry to attend school ashore. There is no access to the island but by boat, either ferry or private craft or water taxi.  The isolation is palpable, and makes one view the distant mainland shoreline with a certain detachment.  It is understandable that Prudence is popular for summer residents seeking respite from their mainland burdens. 

Setting out south on the east shore road, we encounter a lighthouse which, in the days before LORAN and GPS, was a crucial fixture for commercial shipping plying the bay.  But today it is abandoned, surrounded by salt grass and sea roses, a reminder of the rugged seafarers who supplied our growing cities and exported the fruits of our mills.

After several hours of hiking and enjoying both wild and cultivated floral displays, we return to the ferry and make our way back to Bristol.  The ferry is nearly empty as, on this summer Friday evening, most folks were headed out to the island, not back to shore.  The landing in Bristol is uneventful, and a short 45 minutes later we are home and preparing a wholesome spaghetti dinner. 

This day has been full of adventure and sights and experiences, a seemingly exotic journey only a relative few miles to the south. But for our visitor, we should not have undertaken it for perhaps another twenty years.

Yankee serendipity

Who knows from where good fortune flows, whether heaven, or someone in it is smiling down on us, or what? A very early start to the day for a business meeting in the Hartford CT area, I leave with an hour to spare, the sun not yet risen. The plan is to take mostly secondary roads and avoid the hectic stress of the morning commute. Into Rhode Island, I head west on US Route 6, then take the scenic Hartford Pike (RI 101) which diverges in Scituate.

Having lived in the area for 26 years, I had never driven the Hartford Pike. I am rewarded in Foster, near the Connecticut border, by signs announcing Jerimoth Hill which, at 812 feet, is the highest point in Rhode Island. Note to self – a likely place to explore on some sunny, autumn Saturday.

The Hartford Pike soon becomes Connecticut 101, wending through forested hills, small villages, and the occasional farm. Continuing on US 44, Connecticut 74, and I-84 for a bit, finally ending up in Tolland, a peaceful community outside of Hartford. A stop for coffee, still running an hour early. Then a phone call – the meeting has been unexpectedly rescheduled.

Nothing to do but return home, but by which route? I could return the way I came, but something pulls me to explore. The Mass Pike is the quickest but clearly hectic and the most boring. Exiting I-84 in Sturbridge, I turn east onto US Route 20, hungry for breakfast. But franchise restaurants and fast food joints hold little charm. No, I am looking for a locally owned outfit, preferably an old fashioned diner.

Headed east, I enter Charlton and suddenly the vision of a classic “Worcester diner” appears on my right, nearly flashing by, but as no one is on my tail I am able to brake sharply and swing into the parking lot. It looks perfect, and promises to satisfy my jonesing for hot coffee and sunny-side-up eggs. Entering, I find my expectations wildly exceeded.

The Yankee Diner was manufactured by the Worcester Lunch Car Company in the late 1930s and wandered about central Massachusetts a bit before settling in this spot on US 20 in Charlton. The interior boasts a long counter populated with stools, several booths along the windows, a business-like hot grill, and a smiling, friendly staff.

The proprietor, Mike Plouffe, is himself of hearty Yankee stock, hailing from nearby Oxford. Mike has a long love affair with the culinary arts, starting with an eight year hitch as a cook in the US Army followed by classical training at the Virginia Culinary Institute. Mike has held several posts at top restaurants and, interestingly, a stint in Dry Tortugas cooking for Uncle Sam again, but always wanted his own place and jumped at the chance when the Yankee became available.

This combination of classic diner with culinary excellence is the wonderful surprise. Imagine homemade corned beef hash prepared daily from whole briskets, buttermilk pancakes made from scratch, and freshly baked biscuits. When a customer requests Hollandaise sauce for his omelet, Mike does not reach for a jar, but rather breaks two eggs, separates the yolks, adds freshly squeezed lemon juice and melted butter, and whisks over an impromptu double boiler. Voila, Hollandaise!

After a wonderful breakfast of eggs and home fries supplemented by a bottomless cup of coffee and engaging, friendly conversation, I continue east on US 20 to Massachusetts Route 146, then south to Rhode Island and shortly after, home. This day which could have been frustrating has instead offered new experiences, new sights, good food, and intriguing conversation with new acquaintances.

Good fortune may be subject to heavenly intercession, but we can lend a helping hand. If we shuffle our routines a bit, travel a slightly different path, and keep our minds open, even a mundane business journey can yield a day of surprise and contentment.

A proper New England vacation

Gay Head, Martha's Vineyard, as seen from Cuttyhunk

People come from all over to visit New England in the summer time. Happy vacationers crowd the roads of Cape Cod and streets of Newport, their license plates proclaim the wonders of their home state: Sweet Home Alabama (AL), Land of Enchantment (NM), Sportsman’s Paradise (LA), Beautiful Ohio (OH). And yet, they are here.

We are wonderfully fortunate to inhabit such a desirable region, with brilliant leaves to peep in autumn, mountain slopes to ski in winter, and local maple syrup to savor in the spring. But summer on the seacoast is the main event. So when our yacht club offered the chance to participate in a cruise to the Elizabeth Islands and Martha’s Vineyard, we jumped at the chance. The plan was agreed having these overnight stays: Jamestown (Conanicut), Cuttyhunk, Oak Bluffs (Martha’s Vineyard), then returning via Cuttyhunk and Dutch Harbor, weather permitting.

Warned that, depending on weather and wind and waves, we might have to spend multiple nights at anchor without access to civilization, we plan and shop and stock the boat for any eventuality: ice cubes for the cooler, blocks for the reefer; canned tuna, mayonnaise, onion, and wheat bread for sandwiches; yogurt, fresh apples, bananas, cereal and milk for breakfast. Coffee. Bottled water. Two boxes of spaghetti, several jars of tomato sauce, and grated Parmesan cheese. Peanut butter. A bottle of wine or three. We are ready.

We pass the first very hot night at the club’s marina to facilitate an early departure. Nearly a hundred degrees, we retire to the air conditioned dining room for a light dinner. Later, when the sun has set, a very slight breeze feels cool. With a few trepidations, we review charts, then sleep and dream of calm seas.

Day 1 dawns cloudy, a bit cooler, but a chance of thunderstorms threatens. A parade of seven sailboats straggles from the marina and forms up a line headed south down the Providence River. Calm winds, motor sailing is the order of the day. A few hours later, the sky darkens and the heavens open up. A heavy downpour, accompanied by brilliant lightning flashes and thunderous booms, masks the other boats from our view. But being a typical summer storm, it is brief, and soon after we spy our mates and the Newport Bridge as we continue south. Gathering up, we stream into Conanicut and take our moorings. The water is cool and clear and deep here. Several of us swim from the stern of our boats, then call for the launch and go in for supplies or jerry cans of fuel. Later, as a group, we go ashore for dinner in Jamestown as the day dims. Clam chowder and seafood stew, this is New England.

Day 2, very early, we drop the mooring lines at 7am and motor south past the Dumplings on the right, then Castle Hill on the left. A long way to go, out to sea, we turn the corner at Brenton Reef and head for Cuttyhunk, a direct shot 20 miles to the east. Again, calm seas, no wind, we motor along, 6-ton sailboats being the slowest of motorboats. But later, a slight breeze from the south allows us to extend our jibs and pick up an extra knot. Finally, we are sailing. Arriving at Cuttyhunk late in the afternoon, we cruise the inner harbor but find all the moorings occupied. Back to the outer harbor, like magic we find the last seven available moorings. Late, tired, we decide to stay aboard, cook a little dinner on the propane stove, drink a glass of wine in the cockpit, and watch the sun set far to the west. As full dark settles in, a gaudy display of the Milky Way is amazingly entertaining. Then deep sleep and early to rise.

Day 3, again early, a quick breakfast, then we slip the lines and head for Quick’s Hole which separates Nashawena from Pasque Island and gives us ingress to Vineyard Sound. Luckily, the tides are with us and the crossing is uneventful. Tidal currents can be ruinous, but we are not so challenged. Again eastward, up Vineyard Sound, we tack into a northeast wind. The fleet of seven separate, but communicate on VHF radio and keep a very loose formation, somehow all finally arrive at Oak Bluffs within thirty minutes of each other in the mid afternoon. Luxury; a slip, with pilings, a sea wall, and 120V power. Heaven.

Oak Bluffs is very busy, optimized for tourism and hosting folks from around the world. We hear British and German and Midwestern American accents as we amble Circuit drive, looking for a dinner spot. Hot, midafternoon strolls are cooled by circling the Tabernacle in the Methodist campground. Civilization is nice, replenishing our ice and fuel and other ship’s stores - very satisfying. But somehow, the isolation of Cuttyhunk pulls at us.

After three days, including a bus trip to lovely Edgartown, watching the ballet of the twin Chappaquiddick ferries, and multiple fine meals, we are ready to return to sea.

Day 6, we drop our stern and bow and spring lines, emerge from Oak Bluffs harbor, and race a bit to beat the incoming fast ferry as it approaches the narrow channel. As the sun ascends and clouds clear, the wind picks up and we have a brisk north breeze to reach across Vineyard Sound. Finally, the sailboat comes to life and vibrates happily with the wind, curling a white bow wave as we cut through the swells. A fast crossing, we arrive at the south entrance to Quick’s Hole before noon. Again, fortuitously, the tides are with us and we glide uneventfully through to the north side, then turn west again to Cuttyhunk. Entering the inner harbor just after noon, we find enough moorings for our small flotilla.

After securing the boat and donning comfortable hiking shoes, we unship the outboard and mount it on the dinghy. A quick ten minutes later, we are ashore on Cuttyhunk and meet several others from our group. Always, the human tendency is to ascend, so we begin a slow climb. About 150 feet above sea level, the top of Lookout Hill was once a lookout station for WWII sailors spotting German submarines. Now, the pillboxes are nearly buried and prolific wildflowers decorate the heights. The view of the open sea to the south and west is magnificent, and Gay Head on Martha’s Vineyard is clearly visible. We meet another group of sailors up from Maryland – they have been attracted to Cuttyhunk for many years and often make the long voyage.

There is little on the island for tourists – one restaurant, one store, fewer than 100 residents. But one comes for the peace, the 1890s feel, the wildflowers, the wide open sky, and the expansive view of the sea.

Back to the boats, another supper aboard. We buzz back and forth in the dinghies, visiting our cohort, but finally settle in with the dark. Again, the Milky Way, ostentatious, as we sample a nice port and read a bit by camp lantern.

Day 7, up at dawn, a quick breakfast, then drop the mooring lines and gather up as we steam out of the harbor. A long day, we will be sailing about 26 miles to Dutch Harbor in Narragansett Bay. As the sun climbs, the wind gathers strength from the south and we manage 6 knots with engines quiet. There is nothing more freeing than the sense of a heavy boat creaking and groaning and slipping quickly through the sea, a fast as you can jog, all for free. Many hours later, we enter Dutch harbor on the west side of Jamestown and are led to our mooring. After a rest, we join our group and walk into town, finally aggregating a group of sailors for drinks and dinner and the swapping of lies. Nothing could be more satisfying.

Day 8, a little break, sleeping in a bit. Today we don’t leave until 9am, for we are in the familiar confines of Narragansett Bay and have only 20 miles or so to journey. A north wind, wouldn’t you know. But we have all day so tack industriously and gradually make our way up the bay. Finally, rounding Conimicut Point, the tacking becomes tiring and we decide to motor the last few miles. Up the Providence River, dodging a tug-driven barge or two, we reach our home port. With the sun settling in the west, a gentle, almost skillful docking, coming into the wind and backing the prop to kill our momentum, we glide to a stop.

This has been a proper New England vacation, one we are most likely to repeat.

The Christmas trees of August

The "dog days of August” is not a specious phrase. In northwestern Pennsylvania, August brings intense, sweltering sun, high temperatures, and soggy humidity. The dogs, indeed, wilted along with us.

In spite of this, there was work to be done, and when our own farm chores were complete we hired ourselves out. A local entrepreneur, known to us from church, owned 30 acres or so of hilly Christmas tree farm off to the south. The trees were growing in rows that meandered up and down the rugged terrain, and more to the point, were nearly strangling in a sea of Queen Anne’s Lace, burdock, golden rod, orchard grass, and any number of other vigorous saplings and scrub. For the trees to form their proper shape and remain healthy, the offending undergrowth must be removed.

This was a complicated operation that had many moving parts. First, Mom got up early and made a pile of egg salad sandwiches. Long before the local food movement, the eggs came from our own chickens and the bread was baked in our own oven. She had filled plastic bottles with homemade root beer and frozen them overnight. The frozen bottles, placed in a cooler with the sandwiches, helped to keep them chilled but also slowly melted and provided icy relief during the hot afternoon. Packing everything up and securing to our old fat-tire, single speed bikes, we raced the four miles into town and joined a few school mates while the sun was just peeking over the horizon. Clambering into our employer’s venerable (even then) 1947 Ford pick-up, we fit ourselves in, a few in the cab and the rest wedged among several walk-behind power bush hogs. Then the trip south, perhaps 12 miles, to the remote hilly farm.

If you have ever pushed your way through a thicket of pines with bare forearms, you will recall the scratches and sticky resin that, per force, caused us to wear leather gloves and long sleeved flannel shirts even in these dog days. The heavy duty mowers made short work of the thick undergrowth, but even self propelled, exhausted us as we wrestled and navigated the steep, twisting terrain. We almost envied the other guys whose job it was to trim the bottom branches of the trees using hand saws. But in the end, the perfume of hot oil and exhaust and the thrill of reciprocating power made mower duty the preferred choice.

Finally, a break. Long draughts of water from a large galvanized can, who cared that it was warm? Grazing the forested field edges to pluck and suck the juice of warm, sweet blackberries as large as your thumb. Pulling some Queen Ann’s Lace from the ground, breaking the root to appreciate the scent of wild carrot. Likewise with small sassafras saplings, the odor of root beer rich and pungent from the roots. Then, back to work for we didn’t get paid to commune with nature.

Later, after our lunch and well into the afternoon, towering cumulonimbus clouds move in from Ohio and points west. The sun is doused, thunder rumbles, and an intense downpour commences. Our patron, sensing that not much more can be accomplished, helps us load up the equipment and we head back north, the vacuum wipers beating a cheery tune as we descend but slowing to a crawl as we struggle up the long inclines.

By the time we get back to town, the rain ceases and leaves a clean, fresh smell that enervates us as we propel our clunky bikes along. Home is welcome, even if some chores remain – those chickens demand to be fed in exchange for all those delicious eggs. Then a late dinner and early to bed, for tomorrow holds more of the same. Tired, but a good tired, born of honest labor, and sleep comes fast and deep and filled with pleasant dreams.

What I did on my summer vacation

In current times, kids are excused from school for the summer, but for what? To play Wii, spend hours on Facebook, accompany their parents to Florida, and otherwise squander their free hours away? It obviously has nothing to do with industriousness – just try to hire a generously-allowanced neighborhood kid to mow your lawn.

Not so, many years ago. In farm country, we were let out of school in early June and didn’t return till early September. In between, we certainly found some time to camp out in the woods and ride our bikes down shady lanes, but that was not the main event. No, we were let out of school to work. Whenever our own farm work was completed, we hired ourselves out to the neighbors. As the season progressed, we went from picking strawberries to harvesting raspberries, blackberries, and grapes, each in their season. The pay was minimal – a few cents per quart basket – but it added up as long hours passed in the hot sun.

But of course the main event for the older children was haying. A serious affair, for cows must survive the long, cold winter and continue to produce high quality milk throughout that dead season. The only way to ensure their health and productivity was to feed them stored sunshine in the form of hay.

There are typically three harvests of hay – roughly May, June, and July. First, tractors pull mowers through a fragrant mix of timothy, alfalfa, red clover, and birdsfoot trefoil. Then the freshly mown hay is conditioned (crimped and fluffed) to encourage drying. If the hay were baled and stored with too great a moisture content, it would be subject to spoilage, or worse, spontaneous combustion. More than a few horses have succumbed to the former (cattle are hardier) and many a barn lost to the latter.

After a few days, the hay is raked and baled into rectangular bales weighing about 75 pounds, just enough so that the older teens, mostly high school football players and wrestlers, grunted while heaving them up onto the truck. A younger kid could be put to work guiding the truck, in double-granny low, between the rows of bales as they were heaved up and stacked. No need for short legs to reach the brake, clutch, or accelerator pedals… the only requirement was to steer through the gently winding rows of bales. At the end of the field, one of the farmers or an older teen would jump into the cab to wheel the truck around and another pass would begin.

This was hot work, and the farmers took care that their charges had plentiful water, both for drinking and for pouring over glistening, sweaty faces and bare chests and backs. It was a rare pleasure when a hayfield contained an ice-cold spring, usually marked by a green thicket on a hillside, containing a small pool of brilliantly clean, frigid water burbling straight from the earth. Almost as good were the fields that bordered on a farm pond, where cannonball dives were performed amid great uproar during short breaks from the relentless, dusty bales.

When the truck was full, it was driven slowly over farm roads to a barn where it must be unloaded and stacked into a hayloft. If the crew were really lucky, the barn was built into a hillside so the truck could be backed directly into the second-story loft. This part of the operation was, if at all possible, even hotter than those preceding as the barn baked in the midday sun. But given the resilience of youth, a brief pickup basketball game often formed around a rusty hoop nailed to the barn planking after the stacking was done.

So were our summer days, such that a late supper on a wide farmhouse porch, as the gloom thickened and temperatures moderated, was treasured as much as today’s trip to an air conditioned mall on a sultry afternoon.

An Independence Day to Remember

In northwestern Pennsylvania there is a small, blue-collared lake community that in summer draws hot, tired urbanites like flies from Erie and Pittsburgh. The lake is surrounded by forests and fields and it is not unusual to see deer or even a black bear make an early morning pilgrimage down among the cottages for a refreshing slurp of water.

We are there for a festive family reunion and one night the community stages an impressive fireworks display, funded by intensely loyal contributors who, by golly, love their country and their fireworks. As the skies slowly darken (10pm for full nightfall in this region), the children dance about and swoosh and swirl their sparklers, anticipating the big show. Then it begins, with glorious cascading colors and earth-shaking booms from the ridge above the western side of the lake. But to the great discomfort of Yogi, a little black Schipperke who thinks the world is coming to an end. He is barking incessantly, in distress, and definitely not enhancing the experience of the assembled throng.

So Yogi and master retire to a car parked down by the road. There, ensconced with the windows rolled up, he feels safe and relaxes while master still has a stellar view of the proceedings. Clicking on the radio and randomly tuning the nearest station, the lovely strains of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony Number 4 blend with the muffled bangs and pops and colorful, flowing blooms in the sky. As both symphony and grand finale come to an end, smoke drifting away under the stars, the radio announcer thanks the source of audio loveliness, a live orchestra at the Chautauqua Institute, only 50 miles away.

Chautauqua is at once a county in western New York state, a lake, a village on that lake, an Institute, and a cultural touchstone. In 1874, businessman Lewis Miller and minister (to become Bishop) John Heyl Vincent started a summer camp on Chautauqua Lake to “educate and uplift” the public. In the days before television and radio and the internet, these programs became immensely popular and “Chautauquas” were mimicked around the country. Touring Chautauquas came into being, bringing lectures and music and poetry to the small-town, rural masses, all to great acclaim.

At their peak in the mid-1920s, Chautauquas educated, informed, and entertained over 45 million people in 10,000 communities in 45 states. Although traveling Chautauquas are a vestige of the past, the Chautauqua Institute persists to this day and caters to over 140,000 people each year with concerts and lectures and courses in art, music, dance, theater, writing skills and a wide variety of other interests.

Later, near midnight, driving back to our pet-friendly motel 15 miles distant, we witness a fantastic display of lightning from a storm rolling in from Lake Erie and points west in Ohio. Cloud to ground, ground to cloud, and cloud to cloud lightening rend the western sky with blinding streaks of light. Towering cumulonimbus clouds are lit from within with flashes of purple and red and white. It’s as if God, after witnessing our puny fireworks a bit earlier, is saying “behold, this is the real thing!”

On microclimates and Sunday afternoons

San Francisco has nothing on us. Eccentric Californians brag of the Golden Gate City’s microclimates as if they were of their own doing. Stolid Kansans, on the other hand, are quietly satisfied with their widely spread, mostly predictable weather.

New England is more in the San Francisco camp, with sometimes wildly divergent conditions (Mount Washington; currently 36°F with fog at the time of this writing).

But we need not venture so far afield to establish New England’s street cred. Our local newspaper reports of “heat-related issues” at a nearby Wrentham, MA, graduation ceremony (“Hot times at area graduation"). Fourteen audience members were reported to require treatment for heat exhaustion at the outdoor ceremony on Sunday, June 5. Proximate cause: temperatures in the mid 80s with a hot, blazing sun.

At nearly the same exact time, 20 miles to the south as the crow flies, a sound sailing yacht departs her slip on the Providence River for an afternoon sail. Conditions are initially comfortable, with a high, hazy sun and moderate winds. Proceeding south into the upper reaches of Narragansett Bay, the breeze freshens, reporting 17 knots with gusts to 20 out of the south. Tacking down past Rocky Point, the wind strengthens further and the clouds thicken. As we clear the wind shadow of Patience Island, the full force of the wind, having a straight shot up the bay from the open ocean, brings us the chill of the Atlantic deeps. Reported conditions: cloudy, 62°F, and with gusts to 23 knots, the wind chill is in the low 50s. Time to don long sleeves, fleeces, and jackets.

Tacking into a strong breeze is always challenging. The boat’s forward velocity is additive to that of the wind, and with the wind chill and salt spray, it can be quite nippy. The boat heels dramatically as the bow plunges into the waves, lifting huge sheets of spray that are (mostly) deflected by the dodger. The wail of the wind in the rigging and the pounding of the hull can be near deafening. Having reached the limits of our comfort zone, we come about and head back north. Now, with a fine breeze at our back, the relative wind drops dramatically as the boat’s speed is subtractive. The vessel returns to an even keel and moves gently with the swells, noise abates, quiet and warmth return; it seems, as if by magic, a new day.

A few hours later, tied up in the quiet comfort of our slip, the crew relaxes. With a few rays of the setting sun peeking from beneath the clouds, we celebrate our warmth, unaware of the “heat-related issues” not so far to our north.