THE BEGINNING
The Wednesday before Columbus Day, despondent over yet another year passing without embarking on my long-desired Abraham Lincoln pilgrimage due to an unforeseen (and still persisting) medical issue and not really going anywhere unique in 2024, I travelled to the familiar environs of New England, determined to see new places and get that New England ambience in my mind and bones. I took my stepson Seymour and grandson Seymour Jr., made arrangements for my turtles to be watched, hopped into an economy-sized rental car, and was off with only a very general idea of where I would visit. The car size I chose would eventually cause some issues; the lack of planning would come to haunt me.
My first stop was Hartford, Connecticut to visit the Mark Twain House & Museum, which I had not seen in approximately 22 years and had zero recollection. Usage of Google Maps on my cell phone (not always foolproof) was a Godsend on this occasion, directing me up the New Jersey Turnpike over the George Washington Bridge and, after a few quick exits here and there, to the two-lane Merritt Parkway. I avoided the typical Route 95 Connecticut traffic and made great time in my efforts to get to my destination well before closing. The main highlight of this leg of the trip was seeing, for the first time, a bumper sticker on the rear window of a pick-up truck that read EAT A D*CK using religious characters in a parody of those annoying CO-EXIST bumper stickers. A later Google search revealed that these were considered atheist bumper stickers. I normally hate reading curses and have seen far more civil atheist bumper stickers; this did not prevent me from laughing uncontrollably in my efforts to share this experience during a later phone call.
I got to the Twain House, located in an area of Connecticut's capital not nearly as idyllic as it was during the 19th century at approximately 3:10 PM, just in time for the $28.00 3:30 PM tour. I quickly made sure I took pictures of the house's wonderful exterior while the sun was still bright, strolled quickly through the first floor of the Museum at the visitor center, delighted to see first editions of my literary hero's works, and waited by the stairs as directed for the tour to commence.
Our tour guide was a short young woman of Eastern European descent for whom English may or may not have been her first language, for I found it difficult at times to penetrate her accent. I did, however, fully understand her admonishment for us not to take any photographs inside the house. The reason? Some of the items in the house did not belong to the House. Okay. Anyway, our group went from room-to-room in a very dark house, kept that way I guess to simulate what the lighting would have been like when the Clemens family resided there. Despite being given too much information from the tour guide to retain, the darkness, and the camera ban, I still greatly appreciated as a Twain fan who has visited his boyhood home in Hannibal, MO and his grave site in Elmira, NY to be able to walk the floors where America's greatest author lived from 1874 to 1891, the period when he penned his greatest works . After the tour, I saw more museum exhibits with many artifacts belonging to the Clemenses, bought an expensive Mark Twain House Christmas ornament, walked to the Harriet Beecher Stowe house next door, and we were on our way.
Leaving Hartford, we drove up north towards Sturbridge, MA and stayed at the Scottish Inn, where the entire staff was dressed resplendently in kilts and other Scottish outfits. Just kidding. No, not about the name of the inn, but regarding the outfits. I got a good night's sleep while Seymour watched coverage of Hurricane Milton on the Weather Channel and resolved to head to Concord, MA to see the Orchard House, home of Louisa May Alcott and the Alcotts and the model for the home of her wonderful novel Little Women.
Day 2, Thursday
Woke up next morning and had a fulfilling continental breakfast at the inn while sitting adjacent to a somewhat older British couple dressed in jeans and other casual clothes that belied those accents which, by law, automatically add 10 IQ points and make British women 10% more attractive. I noticed the orange juice machine was labelled "Out of Order," opened the nearby mini fridge looking for milk for my cereal, and noticed a bottle marked ORANGE. "Good," I thought, "a nice glass of healthy orange juice would really hit the spot." I drank and...it was Tang! Yuck! I looked around, saw no faucets nearby because I did not wish to throw away a cup of any liquid in the garbage, and later performed a balancing act of carrying the cup and food I was going to take for the day's trip to my room so I could pour it down the sink.
Before heading to Concord, I stopped at a Shaw's Supermarket to see if they had any attractive-looking local chocolate milk (NO) and Humpty Dumpty brand barbeque potato chips (also NO), then drove east on the Massachusetts Turnpike, eventually exiting and driving through some attractive hamlets with fancy signs proclaiming the year they were founded. Yes, I was in New England. I noticed an equivalent number of Harris/Walz and Trump/Vance signs in this affluent area, which I found interesting. Also interesting (and also found in other states on this trip) were signs that stated a variation of "3 feet apart to pass" accompanied by a photo of a car and bike, advising drivers to only pass when at least three feet separate you the driver and cyclists. I thought this was a good idea. By the absence of these signs in the states I have resided, it must be concluded that New York, Maine, and Delaware want cyclists to die.
Eventually, I reached Orchard House, which had plenty of tourists for a Thursday. After taking a bit too much time figuring out what to wear, I bought my tour ticket from a warm and friendly woman at the gift shop. I went out and observed the pretty garden with the flowers that Meg, Jo, Amy, and Beth chose to plant in Little Women, took photos, and then climbed up the steps of the Concord School of Philosophy building where such giants as Thoreau, Bronson Alcott, Emerson, and Julia Ward Howe (she wrote "Battle Hymn of the Republic") graced to watch an EXCELLENT short film about the Alcotts, Concord, and the Orchard House narrated by a comely older woman in the voice of Louisa May Alcott that served as a tour introduction for us all.
This tour was also hosted by a woman for whom English was perhaps not her first language and whose accented speech I had to really focus to understand, this time of Asian origin. She also told us photos were not permitted inside the house. The reason this time? The items in the house belonged to the house. This tour was more enjoyable than the Twain tour, with the sunlight illuminating Orchard House beautifully and the tour guide not overloading us with data, instead giving a warm presentation of how the Alcotts lived and how certain items such as the piano corresponded to scenes in Little Women.
After leaving Orchard House, I went to the nearby Ralph Waldo Emerson House, Concord home of the renowned 19th century philosopher and poet ("the shot heard 'round the world"? Him!). The tour guide, an older woman for whom English WAS her first language, told us photos were not allowed. I forget the proffered reason- perhaps the books and artifacts belonged to the Ugandan government or something. Although I did not have as much interest in Emerson as in Alcott and Twain, I enjoyed this tour and being able to mention Sartor Resartus when the tour guide asked us if we knew of Thomas Carlyle, a peer and friend of Emerson's.
After a brief stop observing the Old North Bridge over the Concord River, site of the Battle of Concord on April 19, 1775, and closed for repairs, I resolved to visit Sleepy Hollow Cemetery where Louisa May and the Alcotts, Nathaniel and the Hawthornes, Ralph Waldo and the Emersons, and Henry David and the Thoreaus were buried. Unfortunately, my initial resolution was unsuccessful- although I easily located the Cemetery, I could not locate an obvious entrance, and Concord became emmeshed in the throes of rush hour. I decided to head east to Lexington to see the Battle Green where the first shots of the American Revolution were fired and had a heck of a time trying to find a parking spot far from the Green until I espied two spots right next to the sidewalk of the Green itself. I took pictures of everything, soaked it all in, including an old church building you only see in New England with a decidedly modern message of tolerance for all groups, and headed to Buckman Tavern where the Lexington Militia gathered on that fateful day. I chatted up the two women inside and bought an overpriced yet interesting piece of chocolate from a company called Gravestone Girls, who craft their chocolate in the shape of a gravestone. I was privileged to eat chocolate honoring the gravestone of Peter Tufts, who the package insert informed me died May 13, 1700 and was interred in Bell Rock Cemetery in Malden, MA.
Hmmm...where was I going to go on Friday? As a fan of U.S. Presidential history, I wanted to see the Franklin Pierce Manse in Concord, NH, home of the 14th U.S. President, but Google had informed me it was open only on Saturdays and Sundays, so I figured I'd drive up to Maine, get some fried clams, and head to my adopted hometown of Stonington, but where was I to sleep? Then, I realized: this is autumn in New England, PEAK SEASON- A.K.A., exorbitant hotel prices. Paying $150-$300 for lodging on a romantic getaway, yes, but this seemed a bit extravagant to pay that much just to sleep. I drove to a rest area in Portsmouth, NH and planned to sleep there. I noticed fellow cheapskate travelers, presumably also not on romantic getaways, doing the same.
Day 3, Friday
It was COLD with temperatures around 30 degrees. I had a pillow, but no blanket. I slept for about two hours and then woke up, freezing and needing to pee. I went inside the rest area bathroom, got back to the car, put a layer underneath what I was wearing, and piled onto me all the clothes from my luggage to create a "blanket," but could not get warm. Surprisingly, Seymour and Seymour Jr. slept right through the entire night. I'd turn the car on for heat every so often, but didn't think it right to continually let a car run that I did not own and would start feeling cold shortly after these five-minute respites. Involuntarily, I recalled a documentary on Roddy Piper with the Rowdy Scot talking about being homeless as a teenager and a priest describing what life would be like if he had continued down the path he was on: "You're gonna go out some nights, you're gonna be cold., you're gonna rob a 7-11. They're gonna catch you. They're gonna throw you in jail, they're gonna rape you, then they're gonna kill you." Not a comforting thought.
Eventually, day broke, and I felt surprisingly invigorated in the crisp autumn air, despite the lack of sleep. I started to head up to Maine, first heading toward Wells Beach to return to where I had seen a beautiful sunset on my last New England vacation. I got some local chocolate milk (YES!) at a convenience store on Route 1, drove past a Hannaford Supermarket located just before Wells Beach, turned around, and went inside to stock up for the rest of the trip and to see if they had Humpty Dumpty barbeque chips (YES!!). I then drove to Wells Beach to look for the small diner where I had had a delicious breakfast. I could not find it and, after driving aimlessly for a bit, went on Facebook to see my photos from that last trip and discovered it was YORK Beach where I had stayed. "*%@#!," I said, or something similar and headed to York Beach.
There are approximately three million parking spaces in York Beach, but they are all governed by (to me) a baffling pay meter system. Knowing how stringent the local meter maids were in York Beach back in 2022, I tried to park and pay right next to the diner and the meter simply would not work. I ditched the breakfast idea and headed to the Nubble Lighthouse, about a mile away to cheer myself up. The lighthouse did not disappoint, but it was serendipity that a seafood take-out stand was open right near it. I had my beloved fried clams (Seymour and Jr. had lobster rolls) and a slice of wild blueberry pie for breakfast and decided a seven-hour round trip to Stonington driving an economy car that struggled to get to 60 was not wise. I headed to New Hampshire to make the best of it, looked in my travel guide for places in the Granite State that might be interesting, and headed to America's Stonehedge in North Salem, NH. As with my trip last year to Oregon, the destination was secondary to the voyage. If I was feeling the New England ambience, I would be happy.
After driving in areas that felt more like the Midwest or the South than New England, I reached my destination. Unfortunately, a class trip with two buses of middle schoolers also reached their destination. America's Stonehedge seemed a bit tourist trappy, the tour ticket a bit expensive, and I really did not wish to absorb whatever there was to absorb while around 80 loud school kids. I went back to my car and plotted my next move.
A sixth sense directed to me to look at the actual website for the Franklin Pierce Manse instead of trusting my earlier Google search, and the website stated the location was open! I was ecstatic! I prudently called the Pierce Manse, and a lady confirmed the Manse was indeed open. I drove to the Manse and took an excellent solo tour given by an extremely well-informed gentleman. Refreshingly, I was allowed to take interior photos. After buying a Christmas ornament at their modest gift shop, I asked for directions to both Franklin Pierce's gravesite and to the State Capitol building, the latter destination originally a mere afterthought. I was told both the gravesite and the Capitol were short walks, that I could leave my car in the parking lot even after the Manse closed, and headed on foot. Although I offered to carry them both, Seymour told me he and my grandson would stay behind and "explore" a nearby stream.
I immediately found the cemetery and had little trouble finding the Pierce family plot. I then enjoyed my walk to the State Capitol building and the interior of the Capitol building itself even more, seeing displayed paintings of Revolutionary War officers, all the governors, and important political figures from the state, plus some really cool dioramas of important 18th century historical events. I got to sit in the House and Senate chambers where, at least through 2024, important decisions affecting the state and the country were made. Walking back to my rental car, I passed a house where Mary Baker Eddy, founder of Christian Science, had lived for a brief period, returned to the Manse, and at first could not find my boys. Eventually, the scent of dead marine life carried me to a bench where Seymour and Seymour Jr. pretended as if they were just relaxing, but from the smudges of fish scales on their faces, I could figure out what must have happened. The Cycle of Life.
We headed west towards the Southern Vermont, Western Massachusetts area. I learned my lesson and booked a room at a Howard Johnson by Wyndham motel in Williamstown, Massachusetts for $180.00 for a decidedly non-romantic stay. Driving towards there, I finally got to experience some of the beauty of New Hampshire. Unfortunately, my economy car was struggling to travel on these winding, hilly roads at a speed appropriate for the time-of-day, as the queue of 8,000 cars behind me driving home from work could have attested. Eventually, we got to Brattleboro, Vermont and drove west on Vermont Route 9, perhaps my favorite road in the United States. Even driving up and down mountain roads in the dark driving an economy car with swirling 30-40 mile per hour winds, I relished this leg of the journey. Few cars were behind me as we reached Bennington, where I made a quick side trip to the Bennington Battlefield Monument after first passing the Old First Church where poet Robert Frost was buried. At the obelisk monument site, we were virtually alone with the stars above us on this beautiful New England night.
I drove south to Williamstown, checked in to the motel located in a nice, safe area, got some brochures of local attractions, and went to my room to catch up on sleep, not before calling the front desk to fix the television that was not working so I could watch the Dodgers eliminate the Padres from the MLB playoffs.
A roller coaster of a day, symbolized by the drive up and down the mountains. I was very upbeat and revitalized at this point.
FINAL DAY
After a continental breakfast whose offerings I do not recall and then finding out after multiple failed attempts that my motel room DID NOT LOCK FROM THE OUTSIDE, I drove to Bennington to purchase some Vermont Maple Syrup at the gift shop of the aforementioned Battlefield Monument, then went to the delightfully tourist trappy Apple Barn for some delicious Vermont Maple Ice Cream and a bar of French Pear soap, the latter for later use. Heading south towards the Susan B. Anthony Birthplace Museum in Adams, MA, I got to see the Berkshires with their autumn colors in daylight in all their glory. At the museum, I received yet another one-on-one tour given by a well-trained young male tour guide and, as I was afterwards taking photos of what interested me, was engaged in an extensive conversation by an older woman from whom I had bought my tour ticket. I learned of her quite impressive educational and professional background, so it was quite appreciated when she complimented me on my knowledge of history. I mentioned details of the journey I was on and told her of my next destination (Martin Van Buren National Historic Site in Kinderhook, NY, roughly an hour away). She mentioned that none of her friends like to take those type of day trips and I said (and meant) that if I lived in the area, I would certainly take her. I took photos of the house's exterior, took an apple that fell off an apple tree in the yard of the museum, and headed to Kinderhook.
Heading west towards Kinderhook (roughly 20 miles south of Albany), I drove through some small towns and saw some really beautiful autumn leaves and elevations that people travel from all over the country to see. I stopped at a beautiful lake with overlooking mountains and chatted up an attractive female cyclist as we were taking pictures that almost assuredly did not do justice to our surroundings. The Berkshires are very underrated.
Eventually, I got to Martin Van Buren's Lindenwald mansion, where our 8th U.S. President lived from 1841 (when his presidential term ended) until his death in 1862, not before my driving past a bright red metal sign that said Ichabod Crane and some other words just before my destination. The creator of Ichabod Crane, Washington Irving, was a supporter of Van Buren's. Mysteriously, Seymour and Seymour Jr. turned around to see something near that sign that interested them very much as if they were imitating men at a beach seeing an attractive woman in a two-piece walk past them. Hmmm. Anyway, I got my ticket for the tour, took pictures of the exterior, and spoke with a couple roughly my age who asked me questions about Van Buren after I answered a question I overheard one asking the other. During the conversation, one of the two told me they presumed I was a teacher or professor. If things had proceeded according to plan, I would have been.
The tour of Lindenwald was given by an outgoing, easily understood woman who struck a perfect balance between interaction, giving just the right amount of information, and anecdotes of human interest. Lindenwald, with its extravagant dining room and other splendid parlors and bedrooms (pictured below is the bed where Martin Van Buren passed away) was a highlight of the trip and, mirabile dictu, I was allowed to take pictures. Just a wonderful experience.
Having read an interesting biography on Washington Irving earlier this year, I decided to investigate just what that Ichabod Crane sign was all about. The site featured a one-room schoolhouse built around 1850 that replaced a log cabin-style schoolhouse whose schoolmaster, Jesse Melvin, inspired the famous literary character. Before I could even get both of my feet out of the car, Seymour and Seymour Jr. slinked out past me and headed straight for this small, marshy area and disappeared. I walked the grounds, saw all the historical markers, and a path I would have liked to explore if time had permitted, and headed back to my car. I saw the boys by the marshy area, who were so full they could hardly move. I carried them back to my car.
It was time to head home. Using Google Maps as my trusty guide, I was directed to travel south in Upstate New York down the Taconic State Parkway, a two-lane road I had never before traveled. My goal was to drive as far as I could driving a car no faster than 60 m.p.h. before it got dark. The skies were sunny and the ride pleasant. On the way, I stopped at a Taste of NY Market at a mini rest area in Poughkeepsie, which sells foods and other goods from New York farms, vendors, and producers. I had stopped at a Taste of NY Market crossing the Pennsylvania-New York border during a trip to the Watkins Glen area in 2019 and had the most delicious chocolate milk I had ever tasted. I looked for chocolate milk and found "Hudson Valley Fresh Chocolate Milk." Normally, I suffer a huge letdown in my attempts to replicate the joy I experienced tasting something delicious long ago- Sovrana's pizza in Albany, NY, Shenandoah Chocolate Milk, fried clams at various restaurants in Maine, the list is endless, but this chocolate milk was just as delicious as I had remembered.
I eventually reached the outskirts of the Bronx just as it got dark and started to hit traffic. I noticed the directions Google Maps was giving me started to seem dubious. Inching along from one exit to another, I suddenly got to a point near the Cross Bronx Expressway where I was told to go in a direction where there were lines and lines of cars attempting to merge. I saw a naked lane tempting drivers to get right to the George Washington Bridge, asked myself, "Isn't that where I need to go?" and took the road less traveled, and took an unencumbered drive all the way to New Jersey and, after two more hours, arrived home at a decent hour without hitting any further traffic. Sometimes, intuition is to be preferred to Google. Seymour and Seymour Jr. let my turtles, crocodiles, dogs, and pig know what a great time they had at the various bodies of water. They had apparently even sneaked out while I was speaking to that cyclist and got back into the car without my noticing.
Nice people offering to take your picture. Beautiful scenery. Walking where important history happened. Some food and beverages that made me smile. Mild adversity and adventure. It was a good trip.
