Changing of the Season

     With the clinging humidity seeming to relent and the rays of a scorching sun slowly cooling from a boil to a comfortable simmer, summer seems to be on schedule to be dismissed in the next day or two.  I may miss the sounds of laughter and splashing water from the days at the lake, swimming in the cold mountain water.  The quiet trickle of the ice cold water as it flows around me saving me from the summer swelter as I relaxed in the creek will always stay with me.  Memories are built on the tendrils of charcoal smoke that rise all around you at any state park on a hot Saturday.  It only takes a little whiff of that magic scent to conjure up a whole host of wonderful thoughts and bring a smile to my face.  This summer I spent a relaxing afternoon savoring all of these things at Oquaga Creek State Park.  The park had all the ingredients of a perfect summer memory, the splashing, the laughter, the escape from the oppressive heat, the charcoal cooking at every grill, even a warm breeze slightly swaying the shade trees.
     I hold these memories close but not nearly as close as the woodsmoke that hangs low as the temperature begins to drop.  The splashing can be easily replaced by the sounds of hayride tractors and rustling, crunching leaves in brown and red and yellow.  That warm breeze is trumped by the chilly caress on my face of its autumnal brother that brings with it the promise of a night's frost.  The colors of the day turn from vivid green and stunning blue to more muted shades of brown and gray with a bright splash of orange from the fruit of the season, the venerable pumpkin.  There is fresh-pressed apple cider to drink and glorious cider donuts and the pies, oh the pies, pumpkin and apple.  Days at the lake are replaced by crisp mornings at the orchard picking apples or comfortable afternoons gathering pumpkins.  Wood calls for splitting for the winter to come and some for the fire pit to fend off the chill and the creeping night that comes earlier and earlier.
     Fall is the best season.  The excited anticipation of holidays quickly approaching.  The ghouls and ghosts begin to gather.  The turkey is preparing for the feast, as well as family.  There are seasons to be in the woods with friends and family.  The windows can once again open to the fresh outside air that is not trying to suck the very life from my skin through its intense heat.  I feel a new energy, an excitement, a sense of adventure renewed.  I am reinvigorated and ready, for the woods, the pies, the cider, the day trips to the farm markets and roadside stands, the essential pumpkin beers and harvest ales (their brown, dark, nutty goodness haunts me all year long.  They are my trick or treat.).  We are on the brink of autumn and I am more than ready.
    

Coastal Thoughts

     I am not a seafaring, sand in your shorts, bake on the beach type of person and, luckily, we are not that type of family in general.  However it would not be summer without at least one visit to the ocean.  A road trip to coastal Maine would be the cure for the dwindling summer days.  It is a quick five hour run from NYC to Saco, Maine and the trip is made even quicker if you can nap in one of the seats that does not have a steering wheel.  The school year was in its first few half days and departing at lunch time on a Friday would have us smelling the salty breeze of the Atlantic before we laid our heads to sleep.
     The sun was just setting as we crossed into Maine and we watched the sun disappear from our seats in one of the common rooms of The Run of the Mill Brewpub in Saco, mere minutes from our cabin for the weekend.  The pub fare and local brew was good and we ate with the hunger of empty bellies grumbling from the road.  We arrived in a quiet grove dotted with faux log cabins neatly placed to make the most of the property.  The three room bunkhouse was fake camping at its finest and we made ourselves at home in the blink of an eye.  The morning held an even better surprise than the comfy cabin, fresh Maine blueberry pancakes hot off the griddle were easily had a few steps from the cabin.  The campground, with its cabins and pancakes and swimming pool and hot tub, ensnared my wife and kids into securing a KOA value card in an attempt for them to convince me that they love camping, especially at these luxury campgrounds.
     I smiled.  They were going to need their stomachs full of blueberry pancakes to tackle the adventure courses and zip-trek at Monkey Trunks, right down the road.  I had made morning reservations for the three of them to strap on climbing harnesses and helmets and zipline through the canopy of trees surrounding the complex.  After a two hour zip-trek from obstacle to obstacle, they were set free upon the adventure course to tackle 50 different aerial challenges before ziplining back to Earth.  This is a solid half-day adventure and than some.  If you were to bring a bag lunch, one could easily spend the day mastering their inner monkey.  This is a family favorite and everyone should try this at least once.
     As is always the case, everyone was hungry "from all the climbing" and the exertion of zipping through the landscape.  It was time to get down to the real reason for visiting Maine, the lobster.  A short, scenic ride along the coast would lead us to Kennebunkport and the quaint shops and shacks filled with maritime brick-a-brack and the address of Allison's Restaurant.  Allison's is a pub, a dining room, and a notable lobster roll destination made more prominent due to a role in a Food War episode.  The entire table nearly dove into the fresh mussels steamed in a locally crafted ale.  My youngest would noisily savor a petite lobster roll before testing the New England clam chowder.  Lobster was on all of our plates and the buttery goodness could not be denied.  After our seafood feast, we retreated to our cabin for some relaxing, and maybe a turn in the hot tub to soothe sore muscles that Monkey Trunks had proven had not been used in years.
     Our final morning was spent wandering the waterfront district of Portland.  A couple of Sunday morning hours can not conquer the cobblestone streets strewn with boutiques and eateries, gourmet ingredient shops and brewpubs, and the wharf filled with bay cruises and whale watching ships.  Our true destination here was the International Museum of Cryptozoology.  The tiny door that hid the museum opened up into two large rooms cluttered with "evidence" of the existence of every folktale known to walk or swim the continent.  The Jersey Devil, the jackalope, large snakes, chupacabras, two-legged fish, mermaids, and sea serpents were all represented.  The main character of the whole place was Bigfoot, Sasquatch, in all the scientific glory.  There were showcases filled with footprint casts and collected hair samples and newspaper articles.  Making a special limited appearance was the Iceman, a subhuman thawed from a block ice and now displayed in glass.  Roadside America at its best.  All you nonbelievers really need to visit this place.  The truth is out there.
     With our bellies full of lobster, our heads filled with Bigfoot folklore, and a cooler flush with Barreled Souls, we drove up the highway ramp and prepared to cruise the 300 miles back to reality.  The summer was ending and school was starting and it was time to return home.

Traveling the Green Mountains

     The road melts away beneath us mile after mile.  We are headed for the Green Mountains of Vermont and the treasures they hold.  This is our first road trip in a while and it feels good to be counting the highway lines as they blur by.  It would be a short trip, a long weekend, but it would hold plenty of stops and sights and places.  I have never been one to have an empty slot on the itinerary.
     Three hours is all it takes to retreat from the hustle and bustle of NYC and find some quiet.  These particular three hours took us north through Connecticut to Deerfield, MA and the flagship store of The Yankee Candle Company.  The store is filled with an overwhelming amount of scents that nearly assault your nostrils.  They carry every kind of Christmas ornament and knick knack for the home.  Wind chimes are in one corner, mason jars filled with anything in another.  There are recipe books and kitchen utensils, gifts galore, and make your own hands, feet, candles, crafts, whatever.  There is a cafe and a candy shop and always some kind of entertainment.  We filled a basket with a few favorite scents to fill our home when the weather cools enough to open the windows to a fresh breeze.  The flagship is worth a stop at least once especially to stretch the legs on the way to another destination.  As a side trip, a few blocks away we accidentally found the Berkshire Brewing Co.  They may not have such accommodating tour hours or any snacks when you do visit but they were super friendly and pointed us to a local shop that carried everything they brew.  We put a select few brews in our empty cooler and put Berkshire and Yankee Candle in the rearview.
     Morning was giving way to lunch time and we had crossed into Vermont, nearing our food pit stop.  The Long Trail brewery was to be, however, a disappointment.  Even though it was 1 pm on a Friday, the parking lot, dining room, and patio were all jam packed.  The license plates in the lot held a variety of states and a table couldn't be found until near dinner time.  Oh wait, there was a little road side drive-in not far back down the road.  The little road side shack had the perfect lunch that fit right through a window and even allowed customers the use of the creek out back to dip your toes or enjoy a burger sitting atop a boulder in the middle of the running water.
     Setbacks wouldn't hold us back as the gravel road and covered bridge brought us to Sugarbush Farm and all the great samples of homemade Vermont cheddar and maple syrup.  The cooler once again opened wide to accept all the goodies we would bring home to adorn our tailgate tables of cheese and crackers.  This down-to-earth farm setting has everything to make a great road trip stop, a woods tour of maple syrup making, food samples, tourist gifts, and friendly folks.  Right down the road was Woodstock Barley'N'Hops, a beer geek's paradise of local brews.  I had to mention this stop solely on the merit of the staff.  And the cooler yet again opened wide for ciders and beers.
     We would stretch our legs for the final time Friday reaching the bottom of Quechee Gorge.  This is a nature trail and tourist stop with a little city of antique stores that grew up around it.  For the outdoorsy types, take the hike to the bottom and dip your toes in the ice cold water or even take a swim on a hot afternoon.  For the sight-seers, stop in the little shops and maybe grab a bottle of local wine.  Either way, stretch the legs, use the bathroom, grab some brochures, and get back on the road.  And down that road we spent the evening relaxing poolside at the local KOA campground and a quaint cabin that definitely makes it feel like cheating when it comes to camping.  Bring a sleeping bag and some marshmallows and it's camping made simple.
     Saturday morning we followed the fog to Brookfield and one of only four floating bridges left in the U.S.  It is a simple piece of roadside America that is situated in the middle of nowhere surrounded by a tiny town accessed by dirt roads.  The bridge has been newly reconstructed and easily handles the weight of a car but it still is strange driving across a pristine country lake as the sun rises on a piece of floating wood.  There is little here to see but the woods and the sky and the clear water and a plaque at the end of the bridge explaining the historical importance of this piece of civil engineering.  I love history.
      In appreciation of the kids' indulgence of my quest for quirky history (whether they like it or not), the next stop would have to be Ben & Jerry's famous ice cream factory in Waterbury.  A tour, a taste, a visit to the flavor graveyard, pictures by the bus always bring a smile no matter how many times we visit.  The road beyond the ice cream brings farm stands and cider mills and antique stores and finally a ski resort.  Stowe allows cars to drive up the ski slopes (well the ski slope maintenance road) during summer time.  We cut through the trees under the ski lift and above tree line to reach a parking lot next to a small visitor center where a trail began that led to the peak of Mount Mansfield, the tallest in Vermont.  The hike is about a mile and a half one way to the summit but the magnificent views began only ten minutes down the trail.  Our late afternoon arrival did not allow for a summit bid but the kids have earmarked this for a return road trip (and so has Dad).  For any road tripper the road through Smuggler's Notch and the Stowe toll road are a definite destination point.
     As the sun set we were able to catch a ferry across Lake Champlain and the kids watched carefully for the mysterious Champy (the sea monster that frequents this lake).  Disembarking in NY after only 10 minutes left us at the doorstep of the Plattsburgh Brewing Company to fill our bellies with great beer and satisfying fare.  We all quickly drifted off to sleep at the local Hampton Inn and were ready for the last leg of this road trip bright and early.
     Ausable Chasm has an adventure trail with steep steps, cliffside tippy-toes, Tyrolean traverses, ladders and laughter followed by a short raft trip or tube float down the waters of the gorge.  This is another great piece of roadside America and well worth the stop.  Half the day quickly passed as the kids swung along the ropes criss-crossing the gorge and we would have to bypass a few side roads to stay on schedule.  Traffic on the NY Thruway would not cooperate and dinner would need a quick check on the smartphone to put us back on track.  Thankfully Albany was in sight and the Albany Pump Station would yield yet another great road meal and a few more beverages for the cooler.
     In the end, our beds at home quietly, comfortably welcomed us back.  Perhaps we were more worn out now than when we had left but we created some great new memories and had planted the seeds for future trips down the road. 

History Lost

   

     She was frail and weak when she finally, quietly closed her eyes for the last time.  She had to have been tired, nearly 96 years of living could do that to a person.  Her last few years were spent not remembering the minutes before.  She seemed trapped within her own mind and the swirling, confusing moments that had passed over a decade or more ago.  A lifetime of memories were bottled up  inside her and came spilling forth when given the chance and an audience willing to spend time with a true antique, a living piece of history, a chronicle of the past century.

     I spent the last several years of my grandmother's life shuttling her up to our farm a couple of times a year for vacation.  For five hours my daughters would sit in the back seat and entertain the same questions over and over again with patient understanding way beyond their years.  The first trips went like that until the great-grandchildren unlocked the secret to history.  Instead of answering the repeated, forgotten questions, they began asking questions of their own, important questions about topics from school, not the forgotten moments of two minutes ago.  And a whole new world was opened to my children from across more than a generation.

     There in the backseat, the Great Depression came to life. Stories of Prohibition and the scary thoughts of being jailed for making homemade dandelion wine, storing sugar in hidden little cubbyholes in the house during wartime overflowed from the back of our truck.  There were tales of a WWII airman flying in the little bubble below the bomber and trolleys running their course down the main street of our town.  The elementary school that I had attended and the kids attend today was once a tiny, one-room building housing all the grades and children of the town.  Radio was replaced by TV and a man stood on the moon.  Kennedy was assassinated and Dr. King had a dream.  Vietnam, protests, and race riots, a whole textbook of history and the world was living and breathing in the back seat between two sets of eager ears and hungry minds.

     I am sure that I have forgotten more stories than I have mentioned and my memories of family time spent together will always be mine.  But the time I will cherish the most will always be those hours spent in the car listening to history come to life.  Conversations that were quickly forgotten with the passing of a minute by one mind have had lifelong impact on younger minds.  Four generations of my family have talked and laughed and sat around the dinner table of our farm.  And the rides to and from that table have surrendered a wealth of memories.

     As she quietly closed her eyes, history was lost.  The events of a century housed in flesh found their rest, each piece of the past etched in a wrinkle across her face.  We will never see those times again nor will we be able to hold the hands of those who lived it.  I am glad to have been able to hear the stories, even more happy to know that my children, her great-grandchildren, could hear those stories from her lips.  I can only hope that my mind fades long before those memories and that my life will be half as full with such great stories, a full life to be celebrated.

Reunions

     It has been 25 years since I walked across a platform in June and stepped out into a bigger world.  There has been many a mile and more than a few adventures between then and now.  Though some of it seems like yesterday, many of those memories are worn and faded, old Polaroids with a ghostly white film blurring the scene.  Somewhere in a closet, crammed into the bottom of a drawer, I have little captured moments of times and days gone by, of younger, less-weathered people.  Those moments are what makes us us.  They are nice to look at some times in order to remember but I do not wish to revisit them.
     Recently I received an invitation to attend a reunion to recount those glorious days of my youth and to mingle once again with children from classrooms past all grown up.  It was not an avenue I wished to cruise along and so I quietly passed on the event.  The faces now are that of strangers.  Too many years and too miles have come and gone.  There are worlds and families and experiences between the two dates.  Whole lives have been born and lived and lost between then and now.  A person can not recount a life inside of one night and I did not wish to try.  I am not one for hugs and handshakes and rooms filled with pretend smiles (really I'm not one for rooms filled, period). 
     A long time ago I once wrote "remember when we were all friends" and it still stands true today.  We come into our lives as babies filled with wonder and awe.  We are let loose into the world as not much more than toddlers to attend school and meet the first people outside of our families.  In this new world we form our first real friendships and watch each other grow.  The process of learning to navigate this complicated world of friends continues through until puberty and hormones and competition and stress and all the wonderful things brought on by teenage angst begin to set in.  The mean things, the selfish things, the only things inside our own individual bubbles are what matters.  Somewhere, in those days, in those actions, we stopped being the same friends from the playground.  We were teenagers and knew it all and refused to step back to see what a small picture we were in the collage of life.  In the end, we make choices to stay in touch with who we think we would like to and then we head out across the platform into a bigger world but we are not all friends any longer.
     Looking out a frost-covered window at the snow glistening in the moonlight, I was asked by the planner of the reunion about attending.  I simply replied to her that I would gladly go to dinner with her and her husband (both faces from playgrounds past) and talk of our paths to this place but that I had no intention of visiting with a group of strangers, to drink and tell lies and play pretend.  There are those that I think of from time to time and hope they are doing well and there are those that I truly am proud to have been a part of their lives.  Most know who they are.  We may not talk as often as we like but we pick up where we left off without a hitch whenever we get together no matter the time between.
     Each of these people and the moments we shared are bricks in the foundation of my life.  Some are cornerstones, important pieces, others just bricks, and some are the mortar that hold it all together.  Throughout the years the foundation grows into a building, a home, a family, and a life.  I take care of the solid cornerstones.  I discard the broken bricks and replace them with new ones.  And I repair the cracked ones, giving them the care they need from time to time.  And the truly special ones reside beside my fireplace so that we may always have a warm place to sit and talk and remember.

More Than Frost in the Valley

     The roads were winding and snow covered.  The creek alongside the final stretch of road was frozen thick with miniature icebergs jammed tight.  As the sun disappeared into a cavernous darkness, the trees tucked in close and the road became a tunnel of pitch black.  Our headlights danced against the snowy walls that bracketed the road and rose higher than our mirrors.  The sense of adventure grew in the backseat and could be felt from the cars that followed our tracks through the snow.  It seemed like forever before the trees relented and the faint glow of a visitor center could be seen through the army of trunks.  The entrance to our destination stood proudly in a field of solid white.  We had reached Frost Valley.
     This expedition was the brainstorm of my children and their Girl Scout troop.  Instead of a breezy campsite during the blossoming season of Spring or a sweatshirt-clad romp through the leaf piles of Fall, this adventurous group of girls had decided that their skills needed to be tested during a frigid weekend in February.  They would dare the dark, slippery mountain back roads of the Catskills to arrive on Friday night at a stunning YMCA camp hidden away in Frost Valley.  They would bunk in an old cabin and prepare for a weekend of snowflake fun.
     Before they were even unpacked, the girls were covered from head to toe in insulating layers and out the door.  Following a glistening trail of lights partially buried in knee-deep snow, they found an old-fashioned sled hill that was equipped with tubes and a long run out across a frozen field.  A stiff breeze supplied enough chill to freeze my breath before it could escape my beard.  Icicles formed on my mustache as I stood watching the kids hoot and holler as they dropped down the hill into the darkness and across the moonlit field.  A few runs down the hill was enough to generate a thirst for warm cocoa and perhaps a brownie and a visit to the cafeteria of the camp did not disappoint.
    Though a mix of a cabin and tweenage girls does not make for a good night's sleep, my secluded room on the far side of the camp in an old estate that once stood as the main focus of the property before it had been donated to the YMCA was a quiet respite from the incessant giggling.  I bunked with a couple of other "do-dads" that had accompanied the troop and we sat up into the wee hours debating the woes of the world.  It was almost as if we had been transported back into one of the black and white portraits on the wall, pipe-smoking gentlemen smartly clad in wool sitting in the conservatory pontificating at length on the works of Leopold or the elegance of a dry fly drifting on the trout waters that burble near the place.
     Saturday morning found us bright and bushy tailed at our assigned tables in the cafeteria, though the girls and our corresponding wives/troop leaders did not look as well-rested.  The day ahead had come with a warning of constant outdoor activity in which the cold would sap away any energy left over from the prior night quite efficiently.  In this the camp did not disappoint.  The hours prior to lunch were a whirlwind of broomball (a skateless version of hockey played on a frozen pond swept clean of snow) and cross-country skiing and short hikes between each activity.  With lunch came a break for some indoor crafts and nature education seminars, a time to refuel and re-energize for the afternoon of more tubing and more snow.  The lack of sleep began to creep in but most of the girls refused to waste their adventure on sitting in the lodge and playing board games.  The evening wound down with a fireside song session before an exhausted trudge back to the cabin (or a gleeful stroll back to the estate for a warm shower and sip of a more enlightened beverage while discussing the journeys of the day and the more accurate depiction of temperature through the use of Celsius).
     Our final morning, bright on Sunday, brought an introduction to ice fishing and a crew of girls bunched in groups of three huddled around holes drilled through foot thick ice attempting to peer into the depths of the lake while awaiting a lethargic bite from a sleepy fish.  The best part of the trip came while hiking along a ridge in the woods surrounding the property.  Most of the group dared the wilds to find themselves greeted by a cable bridge set 40 feet above a small waterfall.  One by one they had to cross the bridge in order to continue their journey, their feet balancing on a small cable barely an inch in diameter.  Some skipped joyfully across while others were more tentative, carefully testing their limits, but all made it across.  The only regret of the weekend before packing up for the sleepy ride home was that some of the leaders, in their own refusal to step outside comfort zones, failed to push a handful of scouts out of the cafeteria and into the experiences they had traveled more than two hours to participate in.  Sometimes it is not about the apprehensions of the adults but the strength they project in conquering their own fears to the young women they have been charged to lead.  One does not lead from behind nor from a cozy bench in the cafeteria while a fantastically frigid world of new adventures awaits beyond the window.  A point that should be strongly discussed amongst the leather-bound tomes of the estate's library while we wait for the girls to pack.

Nike, the West Coast, and Money Spent

     Since the new year came ringing in, life has been a little hectic.  My job duties expanded for two months to include being on call seven days a week in order to meet the needs of the omnipotent entity known as Air Jordan (or maybe Nike, or is it professional basketball, or FootLocker, or most likely, just sneakers).  It was amazing to see and experience the obscene expense put forth to build "pop-up" stores custom-designed to showcase the most recent sneaker trends rolling out for the NBA All-Star game in NYC.  There were lights and mannequins and custom furniture and displays.  There were sneaker lotteries and high-security, undisclosed locations to store the footwear treasure.  My small part was to be ready at a moment's notice to run a missing piece or some crucial part into one of the many job sites.  Some days it was a constant stream of freight going in and out of the city.  On other days, it was 12 hours of watching the phone and waiting for it to ring.  The phone was not allowed to be left alone at any time, just in case.  The hours and days ran right into one another.  Seven days a week allows for a person to not even realize what day it is because the weekend never had the opportunity to lend context to the work week.  Who am I to argue, the meter was running and the customer was paying.
     And then, without ceremony, the game was over, the sneakers were sold, the hype was gone, and the stores disappeared.  Within a week crews dismantled the "pop-ups" and sent them to another happening spot.  The existing renovated stores were returned to their former mundane facades.  No expense was spared to make everything appear as if the glorious sneakers had never been there.  The whole amazing transformation back and forth took place in the dark of night.  It was quite a feat of sales magic.  And now it is over.
     Along the way, I had the opportunity to interact with several West Coast folks.  How different they were in there constantly happily apologetic manner.  They could not imagine how so many people crammed into the Tri-state area could be so angry all the time while running about in a seemingly endless quest to get somewhere.  The frigid weather was always a subject of great interest due mostly to the teams not even having the proper clothing for the climate here.  It was actually quite comical how, when stepping back for a moment, my warehouse team fulfilled almost all the stereotypical notions these people brought with them to our coast all the while being the coffee-drinking granola stereotypes of the upper West Coast.  The warehouse team that I worked with spent an entire month away from friends and family trapped in an unfamiliar city tethered to a phone and laptop, always on-call without a spare moment to even venture out to take in some of what NYC has to offer.  It seemed somehow tragic to be surrounded with so much and not be able to experience any of it.  We did have conversations about the differences between coasts and all the land between those coasts.  But those snippets were crammed between emails, phone calls, and freight runs and left more questions about the foreign territory out west than answers.  Perhaps a road trip is in order with the changing of the seasons.
     The job has ended.  The All-Stars are gone.  All the money has come and gone.  Everything is back to normal for now.  My life has been returned to its regular schedule.