I have (believe it or not) some other posts in progress, but this subject presented itself to me the other day and I thought if I waited to complete those other posts before getting to this, the moment would be past.
Now that I have a child in high school, yearbooks have entered my life again. The high school version, still printed on glossy paper and bound in a ponderous cover, is surprisingly little changed from its (classic?) late 20th century incarnation. I have noted elsewhere that as a general rule, people love their 18 year olds, if not more than at any other age, at least more than at any age that comes after that. It is to be a last gasp, or final climax, of the intense love that is uniquely felt for children, so it is obviously very poignant. I am sure high school yearbooks everywhere capture something of this feeling, but having gone to high school in this part of the country myself I feel like there are factors here which further amp up the poignancy, and which I still perceive to be at work in my son's school. I admit that there is a slight sense of sweetness for me in the idea of this continuity. The factors I am thinking of are:
1. This is still an area where most of the graduating class has lived here their entire lives, and many have family connections dating back generations, including my son, one of whose great-grandfathers can still be seen in a 1934 baseball team photo hanging in the school's main hallway. Even the people whose parents came from elsewhere have usually lived here almost exclusively. Established professional people who move here generally do so at the outset of starting a family so that the children can grow up here. While prosperous, this is a not an area for the most part to which people move as a career-enhancing step, so there is not much of an influx of uprooted or temporary classmates coming in from year to year. Of course my father moved to Maine when I was sixteen, escaping an ugly situation in his former locale and otherwise looking for a change of scene. He stayed there for about nine years and eventually moved back to Pennsylvania. I went for my last two years of high school and drifted back to the Mid-Atlantic myself for 7 years or so, but then I ended up in this part of the country again. I don't know how many people fall into this latter category, though I suspect it is more common in coastal Maine, that being a more romantic locale in the minds of east coast big city/suburban dwellers.
2. This is course an extremely beautiful area and many of the personal photos taken anywhere outdoors, even those on the school grounds at certain times of year, make the adolescences depicted therein look almost idyllic.
3. While it cannot be regarded as entirely sad, and indeed I hope at least some of my children will be included among this number, most of the eighteen year olds are going to now leave this beautiful and in many ways anachronistic place where they have lived all their lives and go away, the more dynamic and capable ones perhaps especially likely never to return. That is eternally part of life, and it is healthy, but it is also poignant.
My youngest son has his last baseball game of the season with his regular team tomorrow. Fortunately because he practices so much he is actually pretty good so he made the all star team for his age group so he will get a couple of extra weeks and a tournament in. But still, we wait all year for this season and it's over so quickly, barely more than a month. It wouldn't be that big of a deal except that this nine year old boy really loves playing baseball right now, as in, I don't know if he'll ever be as passionate about anything in his life as he is about baseball this year--after games we'll come home and he'll run a further hour of practice with me hitting him ground balls and so on. I hate to see that pass by and possibly wither and die because I think it's a positive drive, and I have long lost any comparative passion in my own heart.
I may correct this later, but given the time I wanted to get this to post tonight.
Showing posts with label maine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label maine. Show all posts
Friday, June 08, 2018
Saturday, September 05, 2015
The Goldenrod--York Beach, ME
Taking a break from the movie write-ups to recount my outing for lunch this past Thursday. I am thinking about doing a series of 'cheap restaurants of New England' posts, at least through the fall, as all of the children are back in school now except for the baby, and it gives me an excuse to get out of town and take a ride once a week during this really lovely season of the year. Of course I have to be back by 2:30 to hand the baby off to her mother and go to work so I cannot go very far away or linger in a place for very long, but I can manage anywhere within 90 minutes if I leave by 10 am, which given my location covers a fair amount of good territory, including most of the state of New Hampshire. I have also devised some internet word search games to generate restaurant possibilities, though for this initial excursion I opted to finally go to a place that I have had a hankering interest in going to for many years, but which has not been practical because it was either too crowded or I have had too many children with me, and which I also mentioned in my summer vacation post, the old-fashioned luncheonette attached to the Goldenrod taffy-candy-gift store, both because of this interest and because I thought they might be closing for the season after Labor Day (though in fact they are remaining open through Columbus Day; maybe I will go down again before then).
I am going to set these posts up in the category style, which has always been popular with consumers of ephemeral media.
The Ride
Usually when going to Maine from Concord I take US-4 to Portsmouth and pick up I-95, or if I am really not in any hurry, US-1. This is a pleasant ride, 50-55 mph the whole way, minimal stoplights, antique stores, book stores, old barns and churches, lakes and lake houses, woods, farms, the famous New Hampshire Trojan horse (said to have been built by a disgruntled old isolationist Yankee in the 50s as a protest against the U.N.), and it takes a hair over an hour to get to the Maine state line, and a further 15-20 minutes to get to York Beach. However all of the internet mapping sites claim that the fastest way to get to the ocean from Concord is to take the interstate south to Manchester and go east on NH-101, which is a highway on that stretch, so I tried that, but that way took me 90 minutes (and route 101 from Manchester to Hampton is for New Hampshire an unusually blah road as far as scenery goes, though the part of it that runs west to Keene, a humbler two-lane blacktop, is a quite beautiful, if plodding route). I took Route 4 home and it was the usual 75. I have really come to love the old U.S. highways in recent years, most of which outside the congested Boston-D.C. corridor you can keep up a good speed on most of the time (and even in some places in it, such as US-301 from Wilmington to Annapolis, and even US-1 between Philadelphia and the Verrazano Bridge and Holland and Lincoln tunnels is usually just as fast as taking the turnpike) and I try to take them now whenever possible.
The Location
I think it is perfect, 100 yards from the beach, but as the beach isn't visible the view out the curtained windows gives the sense of being in a densely built little city through which a constant stream of pedestrians are moving, a really charming effect that, due to the rarity of it anywhere in this country, I had forgotten about in recent years.
The Day
It was nearly 90 degrees, so it still felt like summer, though with school being back in session the beaches on a Thursday had only about half the crowds they would normally have, and the amusement arcades, though still open, were practically deserted. I am guessing they will close up after the Labor Day weekend. As I left home an hour later than I wanted to, I was only able to take a quick peek at the beach before I had to hurry off home.
The Ambiance
Well, I'll read to you from their brochure: "Step back in time to when things were simpler...the classic New England dining room...The heavy beamed ceilings, oak tables and stone fireplace set the stage." It's a great space. It is one big room, but it has a long, not entirely straight perimeter, with a little alcove in the back that I actually could not see. I was given probably the worst table (as I usually am, I guess because I am so ugly and unimportant looking), in the middle area right next to where the people stand when they are waiting to be seated. My ambition for my next visit is to get a seat by one of the windows. The bathrooms are up an interior, dark, narrow, carpeted, wood-paneled staircase lit by yellow light bulbs in sconces, reminiscent of one of the better old bars in Boston. The bathroom itself was more modern, but it did have nice dark-wood doors, both at the entry and in the stalls, that looked legitimately old.
The Crowd
Due to the absence of school-age children, it was mostly older people and people with very young (pre-preschool age) children. I was with my own 7 month old daughter, who is so well-behaved that I do not have the slightest pause about bringing her out with me on these excursions. There were a couple of 20ish New England rocker chicks out for the day with their biker-looking parents, and one MILFy type, petite and wearing glasses, long curly-ish hair, who was giving off a moderately "I'm not dead in that way yet" vibe. I did overhear an overweight, slovenly dressed, doofus-y looking family discussing having seen The Philadelphia Story recently, with the mother claiming it as one of her favorite movies and expostulating a little on the appeal of Cary Grant, which surprised me, especially as in appearance she looked about as far from the Cary Grant style ideal as it is possible to get. As at an increasing number of restaurants in touristy areas around here, the wait staff consisted entirely of young people from non-western countries--the ones here looked to me to be Russian or elsewhere in the former Soviet Union.
The Food
My waitress was the cutest one of the bunch, though by 'cute' I mean in the way a serious, mildly severe Russian girl would be cute, not like a cheerleader. She was not especially friendly, but she was not unfriendly either. Neither was she terribly conscientious, though she was not completely indifferent. She was busy, I guess (the dining room was about 60% busy) and her mind was elsewhere. The first time she came to take my order I was not quite ready, so she went away and didn't return for 20 minutes. I began to wonder whether this was deliberate, that the hard Russian girl was going to amuse herself by ignoring me and making me have to loudly call after her or make some public complaint which she would know at a glance someone like me would be inherently loath to do. However, I think she just forgot about me, as she did apologize, sincerely if not weakly or obsequiously, when she came back. I just ordered a BLT, but I am happy to report that it was a extremely good one, the lettuce and bacon and even the side pickles, which I usually skip, were of a perfect crispness. So I am a believer in the product now, whatever I get the next time. Due to my late start and the additional 20 minute delay in taking my order, I was up against it for time and was unable to linger any longer to have coffee or dessert, which of course I love to do, because I really don't have anything important to do in my life, ever, or anywhere to get to accomplish amazing things, unless someone else has arranged for me to have to be somewhere. But I had frittered away all of the time that was my own and I had to get back. But I will return now, for certain.
I am going to set these posts up in the category style, which has always been popular with consumers of ephemeral media.
The Ride
Usually when going to Maine from Concord I take US-4 to Portsmouth and pick up I-95, or if I am really not in any hurry, US-1. This is a pleasant ride, 50-55 mph the whole way, minimal stoplights, antique stores, book stores, old barns and churches, lakes and lake houses, woods, farms, the famous New Hampshire Trojan horse (said to have been built by a disgruntled old isolationist Yankee in the 50s as a protest against the U.N.), and it takes a hair over an hour to get to the Maine state line, and a further 15-20 minutes to get to York Beach. However all of the internet mapping sites claim that the fastest way to get to the ocean from Concord is to take the interstate south to Manchester and go east on NH-101, which is a highway on that stretch, so I tried that, but that way took me 90 minutes (and route 101 from Manchester to Hampton is for New Hampshire an unusually blah road as far as scenery goes, though the part of it that runs west to Keene, a humbler two-lane blacktop, is a quite beautiful, if plodding route). I took Route 4 home and it was the usual 75. I have really come to love the old U.S. highways in recent years, most of which outside the congested Boston-D.C. corridor you can keep up a good speed on most of the time (and even in some places in it, such as US-301 from Wilmington to Annapolis, and even US-1 between Philadelphia and the Verrazano Bridge and Holland and Lincoln tunnels is usually just as fast as taking the turnpike) and I try to take them now whenever possible.
The Location
I think it is perfect, 100 yards from the beach, but as the beach isn't visible the view out the curtained windows gives the sense of being in a densely built little city through which a constant stream of pedestrians are moving, a really charming effect that, due to the rarity of it anywhere in this country, I had forgotten about in recent years.
The Day
It was nearly 90 degrees, so it still felt like summer, though with school being back in session the beaches on a Thursday had only about half the crowds they would normally have, and the amusement arcades, though still open, were practically deserted. I am guessing they will close up after the Labor Day weekend. As I left home an hour later than I wanted to, I was only able to take a quick peek at the beach before I had to hurry off home.
The Ambiance
Well, I'll read to you from their brochure: "Step back in time to when things were simpler...the classic New England dining room...The heavy beamed ceilings, oak tables and stone fireplace set the stage." It's a great space. It is one big room, but it has a long, not entirely straight perimeter, with a little alcove in the back that I actually could not see. I was given probably the worst table (as I usually am, I guess because I am so ugly and unimportant looking), in the middle area right next to where the people stand when they are waiting to be seated. My ambition for my next visit is to get a seat by one of the windows. The bathrooms are up an interior, dark, narrow, carpeted, wood-paneled staircase lit by yellow light bulbs in sconces, reminiscent of one of the better old bars in Boston. The bathroom itself was more modern, but it did have nice dark-wood doors, both at the entry and in the stalls, that looked legitimately old.
The Crowd
Due to the absence of school-age children, it was mostly older people and people with very young (pre-preschool age) children. I was with my own 7 month old daughter, who is so well-behaved that I do not have the slightest pause about bringing her out with me on these excursions. There were a couple of 20ish New England rocker chicks out for the day with their biker-looking parents, and one MILFy type, petite and wearing glasses, long curly-ish hair, who was giving off a moderately "I'm not dead in that way yet" vibe. I did overhear an overweight, slovenly dressed, doofus-y looking family discussing having seen The Philadelphia Story recently, with the mother claiming it as one of her favorite movies and expostulating a little on the appeal of Cary Grant, which surprised me, especially as in appearance she looked about as far from the Cary Grant style ideal as it is possible to get. As at an increasing number of restaurants in touristy areas around here, the wait staff consisted entirely of young people from non-western countries--the ones here looked to me to be Russian or elsewhere in the former Soviet Union.
The Food
My waitress was the cutest one of the bunch, though by 'cute' I mean in the way a serious, mildly severe Russian girl would be cute, not like a cheerleader. She was not especially friendly, but she was not unfriendly either. Neither was she terribly conscientious, though she was not completely indifferent. She was busy, I guess (the dining room was about 60% busy) and her mind was elsewhere. The first time she came to take my order I was not quite ready, so she went away and didn't return for 20 minutes. I began to wonder whether this was deliberate, that the hard Russian girl was going to amuse herself by ignoring me and making me have to loudly call after her or make some public complaint which she would know at a glance someone like me would be inherently loath to do. However, I think she just forgot about me, as she did apologize, sincerely if not weakly or obsequiously, when she came back. I just ordered a BLT, but I am happy to report that it was a extremely good one, the lettuce and bacon and even the side pickles, which I usually skip, were of a perfect crispness. So I am a believer in the product now, whatever I get the next time. Due to my late start and the additional 20 minute delay in taking my order, I was up against it for time and was unable to linger any longer to have coffee or dessert, which of course I love to do, because I really don't have anything important to do in my life, ever, or anywhere to get to accomplish amazing things, unless someone else has arranged for me to have to be somewhere. But I had frittered away all of the time that was my own and I had to get back. But I will return now, for certain.
Wednesday, August 05, 2015
The Annual Vacation Picture Post (Only Without Any Pictures)
I don't have easy personal access to (others') saved photos at the moment. Our various stand alone digital cameras have either ceased to work, been lost by being left in public bathrooms, or fallen into stone crevasses on mountains from which they could not be extracted, and the other members of the family now have their own camera-equipped tablets now which they scarcely ever relinquish their tight grips upon, even in sleep. So no pictures from me. Given the ridiculousness of my computer situation--especially when given my status as a significant blogger--being reduced at home to the use of a wheezing 8-year old Acer setup with the aforementioned kale-strength childproof block on the internet, I have promised myself that someday soon, perhaps when certain bills are paid off, I am going to get my very own little computer device with a camera on it, mainly because I am irritated that circumstances related to my equipment are causing me to be a less prolific producer of social media and blog content than I might be.
We did not go very far afield for vacation this year. Besides the matter of there being a baby, we have to go everywhere in two cars now, as we cannot fit the whole family in one anymore. Going anywhere also requires hours of preparation, making lunches, filling water bottles, filling multiple bags with bathing suits, towels, toys, etc. Also as the children get older and more numerous the threat of socially unacceptable behavior, conflict, etc, breaking out at any time seems to increase, and while I am somewhat accustomed/resigned to enduring social mortification if I ever want to leave the sanctity of my bedroom, my dear spouse is not. So our vacation mainly consisted going to our camp in Vermont and taking day trips.
Not counting the first day spent packing, cleaning the house, fixing the lawnmower/cutting the grass, doing laundry and finally around 7pm driving over to Brattleboro, the days of the vacation were passed thus:
Day 1: Drive on Route 9 West (VT) to the Hogback Mountain overlook and gift shop, and then onward 3 miles further to Molly Stark State Park and a 0.8 mile climb up Mt Olga. We had done this once before a few years back. We have actually climbed almost all of the easier mountains within an hour of Brattleboro at this point. The group had to be coaxed through this activity, as the younger children especially would prefer to be taken somewhere with amusements and junk food. I like those places too, but unfortunately it costs a lot of money to go to them with five children. After the hike my car was nearly out of gas, so rather than risk not making it back to Brattleboro (about 20 miles), I went a few miles further west and got the people who were with me got donuts or popsicles at the gas station, which seemed to be the highlight of their day.
The gift shop at Hogback Mountain
Day 2: Drive to Manchester, VT, about an hour to 75 minutes through the Green Mountain National Forest. Manchester is popular with the affluent, and consequently there are a lot of attractive restaurants, shops, inns, and restored/kept up hundred year old houses. We were not able to go into any of these places, though I had hoped to go the Northshire bookstore, which I had been to before and which is one of those places where you know you are surrounded by the right people, the ones who have achieved some mastery over the modern economy and education system. Their children's area, which takes up most of the upper floor, is considered by some to be the best in New England. But as it turned out, it was too late in the day and everyone was too tired and fussy at the end of the day's main activity, which was visiting Hildene, the summer estate of Robert Lincoln, son of the revered sixteenth president, and, as president (himself) of the notorious Pullman Railroad Corporation, a considerably wealthier man than his father, though one destined to be eternally dogged with the reputation of a lightweight in comparative character. His too open enthusiasm for golf--he served for a while as president of the local country club--expensive automobiles and (apparently) exploitative capitalism could not have been worse calculated to endear him to his father's most fervid admirers. As a tourist attraction, I was most impressed by the size of the grounds--the amount of land that they retain strikes me as huge, and the house, in its approach, layout, design, portal, furnishings, etc, are handsome in that 1910s-1920s way that is suggestive of weekend parties or endless summer days of lounging in windows reading or writing letters and waiting for it to rain. However, unless you paid extra for a guided tour, which, as it was already fairly expensive to get in, I opted not to do, you walked through the house and garden yourself, which normally I think I would like, but in this instance I did not know very much about the occupants of the house and what happened there, and there was no very informative written information to help with this, and also I had most of my children with me as I went through the house and was distracted by having to watch them (usually if there is a guided tour my wife and I will go on alternate sessions, leaving such children as are too twitchy to endure the ordeal to run around in the surrounding grounds). So I did not feel like I learned anything or had the satisfaction of an encounter with anything pleasingly intelligent, which was disappointing.
Hildene in the snow
They had a farm on the grounds with goats, sheep, cows, chickens, etc. The barns where these animals were kept were tended by young and very serious girls, whom I took to be college students who were studying something in the agricultural way because of this seriousness and because they were intelligent-looking in the college rather than the traditional country wisdom kind of way. I noted this because there are lot of girls of this type in these parts, in Vermont especially, and they reminded me of the kinds of girls I thought I might have been able to get along with when I was that age (because they were smart but not evidently fixated on clothes or money, which were areas of life that seemed at the time especially beyond any abilities I had to gain mastery over) but could never quite puzzle out either where they were or how I might ingratiate myself with them. Now that my oldest son is going into eighth grade I can already see that any verbal advice one might offer on these subjects is neither going to be welcome or adhered to--but I think the parent can still steer and expose the child as much as possible to the kinds of environments and activities where the parent thinks he will be most likely to meet the kinds of people whose association has a positive influence on him (assuming the parent is a competent arbiter of taste and his child's nature in these matters, of course).
Day 3: We went to Boston on day 3. I would have rested after the Hildene trip and gone another day, but this was a Wednesday, which is the day the MFA is free after 4pm. Since it is impossible for us to get out of any house before noon, the afternoon was well along by the time we got there. We stopped first at the Common, which was a hotbed of activity. There was some kind of festival going on (The Outside the Box Festival, the internet informs me) in various locations all around the grounds, which seemed to be celebrating diversity, tolerance, and left-wing politics, all things that are certainly outside the box for me (just kidding, though the credibility of any man with six white children can only be stretched so far with all of the matters and peoples that demand enlightened tolerance now). I took my older two sons to visit the Massachusetts State House, which we had never made it into before, while my dear wifey stayed with the younger children around the Frog Pond and the playground nearby. The sky appeared to be threatening thunderstorms all afternoon, which made for a great atmosphere, though potentially stressful with so many little children, but other than a few drops nothing ever came of it. The Massachusetts State House, or at least the older part of it anyway, was very pretty and inspiring in the classic state house style, and most of the people and events from the state's history memorialized in paintings or statues are readily recalled, certainly by me, and many even by the children. In contrast with the usual state capitols that are located in smaller cities (and less self-important states), the politicos, media people, and government employees milling about the building tended to move and scowl a little more urgently and brusquely than we are used to certainly in Concord, where the idea of the state house as the possession of the People still holds some sway. The scene in Boston was more like a mini-Washington D.C., especially with all of the television crews around (Even though we get all kinds of television crews in New Hampshire during the primary season, there is always a carnival atmosphere about it that was decidedly missing from the clench-jawed reporter we saw breaking down the day's political activities for one of the local TV news broadcasts). The contrast between the names and pictures all over the walls and staircases and ceilings and the current occupants of the building was hard not to remark upon. The Puritan strand, and even the old Boston Brahmin strand were nowhere in evidence among the living, at least those whom we saw.
The MFA is always something of a challenge with the children, but it is one of the better art museums in the country, and if I only get to really look closely, by whatever confluence of circumstances, at two or three things on a visit, it is usually worth it to me. I am actually thinking of becoming a member, since coming down on Wednesday nights is inconvenient most of the year now, and paying the full admission price for a single day's visit, for us, puts a certain amount of pressure on the visit, in the event that someone is unable to behave that day or whatever. Family membership is not that much for the year, for us barely more than two regular visits (I think I won't mention how many children I have).
I did make it up to the Impressionist room to check out the Monet painting of his wife wearing a geisha that was the source of controversy earlier in the summer (in case you missed it, to recap, the museum, in some kind of marketing stunt that I don't really understand, was encouraging people to try on replicas of the geisha in the painting and pose for a *selfie* with it [the painting]. Some people protested that this was racist or imperialistic and the museum promptly ditched the promotion. I should note that when I arrived in the room, there was a twenty something man wearing a geisha with a group of about five other young people--they all looked Japanese to me but I don't really know--posing in front of the picture and getting a big laugh out of it. Unfortunately we could not stay long in that area because our mortal MFA enemy, the guard who looks like somebody sort of famous whose name I can't remember now** and who hates children, was working in the room and yelling at my children every two seconds for talking too loud, wandering off, reaching a hand threateningly in the direction of an exhibit. The last time we went he was working in the modern art area, which I thought the children would like but which was actually a bad idea because everything there looks to them like something you can touch. On that occasion I actually thought the guy might pull out a revolver and start shooting my four year old he was so worked up. But he obviously loves art, knows art, feels art, lives and breathes art, and we are really little better than a pack of animals descending on this sanctuary of real civilization, the symbol of everything most abhorrent to this man. There is no middle ground there. I wish I could describe this guy. He's pretty young, though he might be getting on to thirty by now. Very styled wavy froofy blondish hair, stylish black-rimmed 1962 glasses, knows how to wear a blazer. Excellent posture. Gay, I would suppose. And boy, does he hate us.
This was what the controversy was about.
Day 4: We stayed home and hung around the pool at the camp (the pool is a small in-ground pool that dates from the 1960s). I suppose I should note, for the sake of thoroughness, that there was swimming every morning and, if time permitted, in the evening after returning from our outings as well.
Some of the unamused protestors.
Day 5: By this late phase of the vacation people were ceasing to get along. Even under normal circumstances all of our games and activities, even when eagerly anticipated and nominally enjoyed, end in tears, accusations of cheating and deception, death threats; the early part of Day 5 featured all of this, but much more extreme than usual. It was decided that the group needed to be broken up, so I ended up taking a group of three to Mt Ascutney State Park, an easy hike that I discovered that was only 40 minutes from Brattleboro that we had not been to yet. Ascutney is one of the older state parks, dating from the 1930s, and consequently there is an auto road to within 0.7 miles of the summit, families, or at least women and children, one supposes, not being expected in those days to devoting the better part of a day in scaling a mountain. As with other of our activities, the increase in the family has had the result of our having to cut down on our ambitions with regard to hiking, at least for the time being. When my two oldest sons were four and five even we used to take on 2+ mile climbs, Mts Monadnock and Major in New Hampshire, Haystack in Vermont and a few others, but the younger children as yet have not demonstrated that kind of stamina, 1.3 miles being about the outer limit of what we can ask of them, besides that it is impossible for us to get out early enough in the day now to undertake a longer hike anyway. That said, the 0.7 mile stroll up the immaculately maintained and public-friendly Mt Ascutney trail after driving up the auto road past the numerous fitness warriors who are running or bicycling up the same feels about equivalent to going down into the cellar to retrieve a beer from the reserve fridge (I don't have a wine cellar per se. That is, my cellar would actually be an excellent wine cellar, only I don't have any actual wine in it). The mountain and trail are very pretty however, cool and shaded, lots of moss and northern birds such as woodpeckers and a bluish-blackish mountain bird that is attractive though I don't know what its name is. There is an observation tower at the top with illustrated signs telling you what other mountains and natural features are in view, and unlike what often happens in such instances, I really could make out the outlines of the other famous mountains. The summit gave me some satisfaction also, with its electric wires, communications towers and the abandoned bases of (presumably) a former fire tower playing off against the natural beauty. In the evening, after dinner back at the camp, we went home for the night.
Mt Ascutney at a distance
Day 6. The vacation was not quite over yet though, as when we got up in the morning we had another fun trip ahead of us, to Wells Maine for an overnight camping trip. Our time there on Day 6 was taken up with meeting some relatives of mine from Pennsylvania whom I had not seen in several years who were passing through the area. This social interaction put a little strain on me but the other people enjoyed seeing the children, whom they allowed to use the pool at their hotel and bought pizza, and I got to hear some of the gossip from the extended family and the old social network, which I otherwise do not get news apart, as I do not have any of these people as Facebook friends, if they are even on there.
This guy is doing something right.
Day 7. This social visit out of the way, the last day was spent battling to find parking spots and then with the high tide at Wells Beach. My children got to go to the amusement arcade with an allowance of $10 in quarters apiece, and we also explored several of the gift shops near the beach, which made everybody temporarily happy, as that is all some of them wanted to do anyway, and the tension of not knowing whether or when these events were going to happen was the cause of excessive stress in the others. There is a large used book store on Route 1 that I keep intending to go to every time we go down there but there is never time. I went to it one time back in 1986 when I lived in Maine as a teenager, just a few weeks after I moved there, and bought a number of old classic type books from collectible sets that I still have, so the place has positive associations for me. We are going back for four more days this weekend, so maybe we will get there. One of my children (the sensitive one) did say that he felt bad when I did not get to go the last time. I took some consolation in getting a very fresh, crisp and vacation-y fried shrimp dinner from the to-go window of a restaurant on Route 1 before starting out for home. One thing I do miss with having all of these children is that we really cannot go out to restaurants at all, even apart from the expense. I am susceptible to videos like this one the New York Times put up about Martha's Vineyard the other day--how nice it would be, I imagine, to go to a gastropub, or some place exuding prosperity and brains and good looks in its patrons, or to a bar after dark (!) though my wife pooh-poohs all of these supposed social yearnings I have as vanities not properly considered. My shrimp was the only meal I had 'out' the whole week. When we to Boston we took one group of children to Subway and another to Sal's Pizza. I was supposed to get something at one of the cafes when we went to the MFA--that was going to be my special treat*, to indulge my ego and play the part of the kind of guy who eats light meals at museum cafes, complete with miniature wine bottle or $5.50 bottle of microbrew ale, but there was an issue with parking the two cars and the two parts of the group not meeting up for some time--for of course we don't have cellular telephones, though with each bumbling of this kind, my wife threatens to make us get them. It has come to the point now where it is something of an inconvenience not to have them, just because everyone expects you to, but it's also another expense, and I just can't take any more expenses.
The inside of the book store at Wells that I have not been able to get in to see
We were here.
While it is sad to depart from Maine on a Sunday night in the rain at the end of one's vacation, we live near enough (about 90 minutes) that it is always there for us to go back to, and indeed when it was over 90 degrees the following Friday my wife took the children back down (to York Beach) for the day. When school starts again I might even be able to sneak down to York for lunch and be back in time to go to work at 3. There is an old-style luncheonette there that looks like the kinds of places my grandparents took me to when I was a child, square tables with four chairs set around, paper place mats, wood paneling, lamps with yellow light bulbs in sconces on the walls, heavy curtains framing the windows. I've had a desire to go there for a number of years, but it has never been convenient. I know, I know, the real man makes sure everyone else is committed to making things convenient for him, or their presence is not tolerated. But I'm going to try to make it down there one day in early fall before it closes for the season.
Goldenrod Kisses, York Beach. Object of planned pilgrimage
*Doubtless some suspicious types will say: What about your wife? Doesn't she get to eat? But I assure you, my wife eats whenever and wherever she feels moved to do so. Lately she has taken to bringing her own food everywhere both for health reasons and not to be at the tyranny of whatever limits the food situation in unfamiliar locales might present her.
**Just remembered. The guard looks like Jonathan Franzen, the writer.
We did not go very far afield for vacation this year. Besides the matter of there being a baby, we have to go everywhere in two cars now, as we cannot fit the whole family in one anymore. Going anywhere also requires hours of preparation, making lunches, filling water bottles, filling multiple bags with bathing suits, towels, toys, etc. Also as the children get older and more numerous the threat of socially unacceptable behavior, conflict, etc, breaking out at any time seems to increase, and while I am somewhat accustomed/resigned to enduring social mortification if I ever want to leave the sanctity of my bedroom, my dear spouse is not. So our vacation mainly consisted going to our camp in Vermont and taking day trips.
Not counting the first day spent packing, cleaning the house, fixing the lawnmower/cutting the grass, doing laundry and finally around 7pm driving over to Brattleboro, the days of the vacation were passed thus:
Day 1: Drive on Route 9 West (VT) to the Hogback Mountain overlook and gift shop, and then onward 3 miles further to Molly Stark State Park and a 0.8 mile climb up Mt Olga. We had done this once before a few years back. We have actually climbed almost all of the easier mountains within an hour of Brattleboro at this point. The group had to be coaxed through this activity, as the younger children especially would prefer to be taken somewhere with amusements and junk food. I like those places too, but unfortunately it costs a lot of money to go to them with five children. After the hike my car was nearly out of gas, so rather than risk not making it back to Brattleboro (about 20 miles), I went a few miles further west and got the people who were with me got donuts or popsicles at the gas station, which seemed to be the highlight of their day.
The gift shop at Hogback Mountain
Day 2: Drive to Manchester, VT, about an hour to 75 minutes through the Green Mountain National Forest. Manchester is popular with the affluent, and consequently there are a lot of attractive restaurants, shops, inns, and restored/kept up hundred year old houses. We were not able to go into any of these places, though I had hoped to go the Northshire bookstore, which I had been to before and which is one of those places where you know you are surrounded by the right people, the ones who have achieved some mastery over the modern economy and education system. Their children's area, which takes up most of the upper floor, is considered by some to be the best in New England. But as it turned out, it was too late in the day and everyone was too tired and fussy at the end of the day's main activity, which was visiting Hildene, the summer estate of Robert Lincoln, son of the revered sixteenth president, and, as president (himself) of the notorious Pullman Railroad Corporation, a considerably wealthier man than his father, though one destined to be eternally dogged with the reputation of a lightweight in comparative character. His too open enthusiasm for golf--he served for a while as president of the local country club--expensive automobiles and (apparently) exploitative capitalism could not have been worse calculated to endear him to his father's most fervid admirers. As a tourist attraction, I was most impressed by the size of the grounds--the amount of land that they retain strikes me as huge, and the house, in its approach, layout, design, portal, furnishings, etc, are handsome in that 1910s-1920s way that is suggestive of weekend parties or endless summer days of lounging in windows reading or writing letters and waiting for it to rain. However, unless you paid extra for a guided tour, which, as it was already fairly expensive to get in, I opted not to do, you walked through the house and garden yourself, which normally I think I would like, but in this instance I did not know very much about the occupants of the house and what happened there, and there was no very informative written information to help with this, and also I had most of my children with me as I went through the house and was distracted by having to watch them (usually if there is a guided tour my wife and I will go on alternate sessions, leaving such children as are too twitchy to endure the ordeal to run around in the surrounding grounds). So I did not feel like I learned anything or had the satisfaction of an encounter with anything pleasingly intelligent, which was disappointing.
Hildene in the snow
They had a farm on the grounds with goats, sheep, cows, chickens, etc. The barns where these animals were kept were tended by young and very serious girls, whom I took to be college students who were studying something in the agricultural way because of this seriousness and because they were intelligent-looking in the college rather than the traditional country wisdom kind of way. I noted this because there are lot of girls of this type in these parts, in Vermont especially, and they reminded me of the kinds of girls I thought I might have been able to get along with when I was that age (because they were smart but not evidently fixated on clothes or money, which were areas of life that seemed at the time especially beyond any abilities I had to gain mastery over) but could never quite puzzle out either where they were or how I might ingratiate myself with them. Now that my oldest son is going into eighth grade I can already see that any verbal advice one might offer on these subjects is neither going to be welcome or adhered to--but I think the parent can still steer and expose the child as much as possible to the kinds of environments and activities where the parent thinks he will be most likely to meet the kinds of people whose association has a positive influence on him (assuming the parent is a competent arbiter of taste and his child's nature in these matters, of course).
Day 3: We went to Boston on day 3. I would have rested after the Hildene trip and gone another day, but this was a Wednesday, which is the day the MFA is free after 4pm. Since it is impossible for us to get out of any house before noon, the afternoon was well along by the time we got there. We stopped first at the Common, which was a hotbed of activity. There was some kind of festival going on (The Outside the Box Festival, the internet informs me) in various locations all around the grounds, which seemed to be celebrating diversity, tolerance, and left-wing politics, all things that are certainly outside the box for me (just kidding, though the credibility of any man with six white children can only be stretched so far with all of the matters and peoples that demand enlightened tolerance now). I took my older two sons to visit the Massachusetts State House, which we had never made it into before, while my dear wifey stayed with the younger children around the Frog Pond and the playground nearby. The sky appeared to be threatening thunderstorms all afternoon, which made for a great atmosphere, though potentially stressful with so many little children, but other than a few drops nothing ever came of it. The Massachusetts State House, or at least the older part of it anyway, was very pretty and inspiring in the classic state house style, and most of the people and events from the state's history memorialized in paintings or statues are readily recalled, certainly by me, and many even by the children. In contrast with the usual state capitols that are located in smaller cities (and less self-important states), the politicos, media people, and government employees milling about the building tended to move and scowl a little more urgently and brusquely than we are used to certainly in Concord, where the idea of the state house as the possession of the People still holds some sway. The scene in Boston was more like a mini-Washington D.C., especially with all of the television crews around (Even though we get all kinds of television crews in New Hampshire during the primary season, there is always a carnival atmosphere about it that was decidedly missing from the clench-jawed reporter we saw breaking down the day's political activities for one of the local TV news broadcasts). The contrast between the names and pictures all over the walls and staircases and ceilings and the current occupants of the building was hard not to remark upon. The Puritan strand, and even the old Boston Brahmin strand were nowhere in evidence among the living, at least those whom we saw.
The MFA is always something of a challenge with the children, but it is one of the better art museums in the country, and if I only get to really look closely, by whatever confluence of circumstances, at two or three things on a visit, it is usually worth it to me. I am actually thinking of becoming a member, since coming down on Wednesday nights is inconvenient most of the year now, and paying the full admission price for a single day's visit, for us, puts a certain amount of pressure on the visit, in the event that someone is unable to behave that day or whatever. Family membership is not that much for the year, for us barely more than two regular visits (I think I won't mention how many children I have).
I did make it up to the Impressionist room to check out the Monet painting of his wife wearing a geisha that was the source of controversy earlier in the summer (in case you missed it, to recap, the museum, in some kind of marketing stunt that I don't really understand, was encouraging people to try on replicas of the geisha in the painting and pose for a *selfie* with it [the painting]. Some people protested that this was racist or imperialistic and the museum promptly ditched the promotion. I should note that when I arrived in the room, there was a twenty something man wearing a geisha with a group of about five other young people--they all looked Japanese to me but I don't really know--posing in front of the picture and getting a big laugh out of it. Unfortunately we could not stay long in that area because our mortal MFA enemy, the guard who looks like somebody sort of famous whose name I can't remember now** and who hates children, was working in the room and yelling at my children every two seconds for talking too loud, wandering off, reaching a hand threateningly in the direction of an exhibit. The last time we went he was working in the modern art area, which I thought the children would like but which was actually a bad idea because everything there looks to them like something you can touch. On that occasion I actually thought the guy might pull out a revolver and start shooting my four year old he was so worked up. But he obviously loves art, knows art, feels art, lives and breathes art, and we are really little better than a pack of animals descending on this sanctuary of real civilization, the symbol of everything most abhorrent to this man. There is no middle ground there. I wish I could describe this guy. He's pretty young, though he might be getting on to thirty by now. Very styled wavy froofy blondish hair, stylish black-rimmed 1962 glasses, knows how to wear a blazer. Excellent posture. Gay, I would suppose. And boy, does he hate us.
This was what the controversy was about.
Day 4: We stayed home and hung around the pool at the camp (the pool is a small in-ground pool that dates from the 1960s). I suppose I should note, for the sake of thoroughness, that there was swimming every morning and, if time permitted, in the evening after returning from our outings as well.
Some of the unamused protestors.
Day 5: By this late phase of the vacation people were ceasing to get along. Even under normal circumstances all of our games and activities, even when eagerly anticipated and nominally enjoyed, end in tears, accusations of cheating and deception, death threats; the early part of Day 5 featured all of this, but much more extreme than usual. It was decided that the group needed to be broken up, so I ended up taking a group of three to Mt Ascutney State Park, an easy hike that I discovered that was only 40 minutes from Brattleboro that we had not been to yet. Ascutney is one of the older state parks, dating from the 1930s, and consequently there is an auto road to within 0.7 miles of the summit, families, or at least women and children, one supposes, not being expected in those days to devoting the better part of a day in scaling a mountain. As with other of our activities, the increase in the family has had the result of our having to cut down on our ambitions with regard to hiking, at least for the time being. When my two oldest sons were four and five even we used to take on 2+ mile climbs, Mts Monadnock and Major in New Hampshire, Haystack in Vermont and a few others, but the younger children as yet have not demonstrated that kind of stamina, 1.3 miles being about the outer limit of what we can ask of them, besides that it is impossible for us to get out early enough in the day now to undertake a longer hike anyway. That said, the 0.7 mile stroll up the immaculately maintained and public-friendly Mt Ascutney trail after driving up the auto road past the numerous fitness warriors who are running or bicycling up the same feels about equivalent to going down into the cellar to retrieve a beer from the reserve fridge (I don't have a wine cellar per se. That is, my cellar would actually be an excellent wine cellar, only I don't have any actual wine in it). The mountain and trail are very pretty however, cool and shaded, lots of moss and northern birds such as woodpeckers and a bluish-blackish mountain bird that is attractive though I don't know what its name is. There is an observation tower at the top with illustrated signs telling you what other mountains and natural features are in view, and unlike what often happens in such instances, I really could make out the outlines of the other famous mountains. The summit gave me some satisfaction also, with its electric wires, communications towers and the abandoned bases of (presumably) a former fire tower playing off against the natural beauty. In the evening, after dinner back at the camp, we went home for the night.
Mt Ascutney at a distance
Day 6. The vacation was not quite over yet though, as when we got up in the morning we had another fun trip ahead of us, to Wells Maine for an overnight camping trip. Our time there on Day 6 was taken up with meeting some relatives of mine from Pennsylvania whom I had not seen in several years who were passing through the area. This social interaction put a little strain on me but the other people enjoyed seeing the children, whom they allowed to use the pool at their hotel and bought pizza, and I got to hear some of the gossip from the extended family and the old social network, which I otherwise do not get news apart, as I do not have any of these people as Facebook friends, if they are even on there.
This guy is doing something right.
Day 7. This social visit out of the way, the last day was spent battling to find parking spots and then with the high tide at Wells Beach. My children got to go to the amusement arcade with an allowance of $10 in quarters apiece, and we also explored several of the gift shops near the beach, which made everybody temporarily happy, as that is all some of them wanted to do anyway, and the tension of not knowing whether or when these events were going to happen was the cause of excessive stress in the others. There is a large used book store on Route 1 that I keep intending to go to every time we go down there but there is never time. I went to it one time back in 1986 when I lived in Maine as a teenager, just a few weeks after I moved there, and bought a number of old classic type books from collectible sets that I still have, so the place has positive associations for me. We are going back for four more days this weekend, so maybe we will get there. One of my children (the sensitive one) did say that he felt bad when I did not get to go the last time. I took some consolation in getting a very fresh, crisp and vacation-y fried shrimp dinner from the to-go window of a restaurant on Route 1 before starting out for home. One thing I do miss with having all of these children is that we really cannot go out to restaurants at all, even apart from the expense. I am susceptible to videos like this one the New York Times put up about Martha's Vineyard the other day--how nice it would be, I imagine, to go to a gastropub, or some place exuding prosperity and brains and good looks in its patrons, or to a bar after dark (!) though my wife pooh-poohs all of these supposed social yearnings I have as vanities not properly considered. My shrimp was the only meal I had 'out' the whole week. When we to Boston we took one group of children to Subway and another to Sal's Pizza. I was supposed to get something at one of the cafes when we went to the MFA--that was going to be my special treat*, to indulge my ego and play the part of the kind of guy who eats light meals at museum cafes, complete with miniature wine bottle or $5.50 bottle of microbrew ale, but there was an issue with parking the two cars and the two parts of the group not meeting up for some time--for of course we don't have cellular telephones, though with each bumbling of this kind, my wife threatens to make us get them. It has come to the point now where it is something of an inconvenience not to have them, just because everyone expects you to, but it's also another expense, and I just can't take any more expenses.
The inside of the book store at Wells that I have not been able to get in to see
We were here.
While it is sad to depart from Maine on a Sunday night in the rain at the end of one's vacation, we live near enough (about 90 minutes) that it is always there for us to go back to, and indeed when it was over 90 degrees the following Friday my wife took the children back down (to York Beach) for the day. When school starts again I might even be able to sneak down to York for lunch and be back in time to go to work at 3. There is an old-style luncheonette there that looks like the kinds of places my grandparents took me to when I was a child, square tables with four chairs set around, paper place mats, wood paneling, lamps with yellow light bulbs in sconces on the walls, heavy curtains framing the windows. I've had a desire to go there for a number of years, but it has never been convenient. I know, I know, the real man makes sure everyone else is committed to making things convenient for him, or their presence is not tolerated. But I'm going to try to make it down there one day in early fall before it closes for the season.
Goldenrod Kisses, York Beach. Object of planned pilgrimage
*Doubtless some suspicious types will say: What about your wife? Doesn't she get to eat? But I assure you, my wife eats whenever and wherever she feels moved to do so. Lately she has taken to bringing her own food everywhere both for health reasons and not to be at the tyranny of whatever limits the food situation in unfamiliar locales might present her.
**Just remembered. The guard looks like Jonathan Franzen, the writer.
Monday, April 06, 2015
Picture Meme
I was looking around for one those picture memes that sometimes go around on the internet--the kind that goes 'open the eighth file on your computer and choose the 23rd picture in it and explain what it is' or something along those lines--but I couldn't find one so I decided to pick a few numbers and do my own. I got lucky with the results, insofar as being able to explain the pictures and also for their comparative quality.
1. Late Last Summer (Probably August), Camp in Brattleboro
This camp in Vermont was my wife's grandfather's house. He died about 20 years ago but it has been kept to this point in the family mostly as a weekend getaway. There is a pool there that this grandfather dug out and poured himself back in the 1970s. The house itself is small and still has something of a 1970s time warp effect, though occasionally a piece of furniture is updated. There is no internet service or cell phone reception, and there was no television there until a few years ago, when some basic service was installed. I actually buy newspapers and magazines when I go there, and I enjoy this, especially in the summer when I can sit out on the patio and read them. It reminds me of some of the parts of my childhood that I like. Anyway, we are very lucky--privileged, really--to have this old place to go to, and we usually have it to ourselves, especially outside of the summer months.
2. Last April Vacation--Acadia National Park, Maine
We went back to Acadia last April after having finally gone there for the first time the summer before. There are so many wondrous places to go just in New England, and I am pretty conscious of this, but time slips by all the same, and especially with six children now it is tough to coordinate more than a couple of outings beyond an hour or two from home in a year. But as I noted on the site I think previously, I was very excited to go to Bar Harbor and Mount Desert Island on that first visit, and I enjoyed our second trip also, though it was out of season and a little less glamorous as far as places being open and the crowd around town and at sites goes. The real travellers, writers, etc would have liked the spring trip much better, or claimed to, but I am kind of mesmerized by crowds, especially if they seem to be from the expensively dressed and educated segment of society, and are not overwhelmingly large, which I almost never feel to be the case in North America as compared with the famous tourist centers of Europe. It was much more the regular Maine people on the spring trip, though as I went to high school in that state I still feel some emotional affinity for the place and the people.
I think this hike was on Gorham Mountain by the way.
3. Just Last Week. New Baby Daughter.
In her Easter costume. It is hard most of the time to get a clear look at her face in real life, because she is either thrashing her head around, or crying, or has her eyes closed, or has a pacifier in her mouth.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Some Pictures From the Summer (Part 1)
These are not all in order. I had to go through over 1,000 pictures from three different cameras for a decidedly limited number of people who are going to look at them, so it won't bother me if they are not arranged perfectly.
Tallulah Gorge State Park, Georgia.
This was this year's vacation spot determiner from the 1960s encyclopedia. The state park as currently organized seems to date only from the 1990s or so. Like the rest of society, the leisure opportunities at Tallulah Gorge are increasingly bifurcated between expert level rock climbing and walking along smooth paved footpaths to a series of marked and designated views. There were steps at various points leading down into the gorge, but the danger/warning signs posted at the beginnings of these descents were so dire that they scared us off of going down them, though my older children were interested in doing so. Near the end of our visit I came to a vantage where I could see down to the chain footbridge that crossed the gorge and it looked like there were plenty of ordinary fitness level tourists and other visitors walking across it, so I think we probably could have gone down. They have a good museum there too.
The place was beautiful, though due to having all of the children with us we only walked on one side of the gorge and did not go down into it at all, so for my own sake I felt that I did not commune with the nature very closely--the park is not very wild if you follow the designated paths. I was not psychologically prepared for that.
There was another site from the 1960s encyclopedia's family recommendations that I attempted to see on the way south--Elephant Rock in Talleyville, Delaware, just north of Wilmington. I couldn't find it however. One assumes it is still there, though other than my encyclopedia the only reference to it I have found to it anywhere is from a guide book from 1976 that is on the internet. This gave a pretty precise location, being presumably on US route 202 3.5 miles from the Pennsylvania border on the left side driving south. However I did not see any rock that looked like an elephant at this general spot, but a string of shopping centers and then a suburban housing development. Perhaps the rock was dynamited to clear the way for this real estate. I am going to be going that way again soon, so maybe I will try to find out what's going on with this once vaunted and now apparently unknown attraction.
The two younger children on the beach at Wells, Maine. We went to a campground there for four days in August. While I do like to see other parts of the country, summer in New England is special too, and I don't want us to miss out on those experiences either.
On the trolleybus in Wells. The two little ones are getting a lot of face time so far. They still smile for the camera, I guess
Our campsite in Virginia, with #s 1, 2 & 5.
Representation of Smokey the Bear at the visitors' center for Anna Ruby Falls in the Chattahoochee National Forest, which is adjacent to Helen and Unicoi State Park.
There are actually two falls facing each other at about a 45 degree angle. This is also a very beautiful walk, but again the path is paved and perfectly maintained and the walk is only about 0.4 miles, so it is as if all the work has been done for you. Our trails in New England, even the most popular ones, are not quite so completely streamlined for the convenience of visitors.
#2, back in Helen.
I would come back to this place sometime, to eat some German food and see what the bar scene is like. Even though it is in Georgia, it is in the northern part, at the edge of the Appalachian mountains, and it feels more like Gatlinburg and the Smokies than your Flannery O'Connor/Ray Charles idea of Georgia.
Back in Helen at the pancake house (which was adorned outside in the Heidiesque manner). This is the reclusive, camera shy child #3.
Child #2's collection of patches from the trip. On the way home we drove up through Smoky Mountains National Park (where we have gone twice on vacation--pictures somewhere on the site) and stopped at the visitors' center on the North Carolina side so he could get that patch.
Really on the way home now, looking at New York City from I-287 in Brooklyn.
We only went to Atlanta for the day, which really ended up being about six hours, and we only saw two things. I had never been there before. My impression was much more positive than I was expecting. Having lived my entire life basically in the Northeast (north of D.C.), the rest of the country, other than a few obvious cities such as Chicago and the great cities of the Pacific coast, really is portrayed in a very negative light. My ideas of Atlanta were that the traffic was biblically horrific, that the downtown was nothing but an endless stretch of hotels, parking garages and highways, and completely devoid of people, and that any structure that had character or predated the 1970s was compulsively torn down to make way for some garish corporate enterprise, So I was pleasantly surprised to find that it really did not differ all that much in its general feel from being in most of our northeastern cities on a weekday, that there were people out, and busy shops and restaurants on Peachtree Street, and that there were a few pockets (such as the area around the State House) that evoked something of the sense of the charm that many people do associate with the South, notwithstanding the ugly truths of history that you are always aware of lying behind it. It probably helped that I had the good luck to be there on an 83 degree day in July with no humidity. I would like to go back to Atlanta now too. There is actually quite a lot to see and do there. It is a major city now.
Tallulah Gorge State Park, Georgia.
This was this year's vacation spot determiner from the 1960s encyclopedia. The state park as currently organized seems to date only from the 1990s or so. Like the rest of society, the leisure opportunities at Tallulah Gorge are increasingly bifurcated between expert level rock climbing and walking along smooth paved footpaths to a series of marked and designated views. There were steps at various points leading down into the gorge, but the danger/warning signs posted at the beginnings of these descents were so dire that they scared us off of going down them, though my older children were interested in doing so. Near the end of our visit I came to a vantage where I could see down to the chain footbridge that crossed the gorge and it looked like there were plenty of ordinary fitness level tourists and other visitors walking across it, so I think we probably could have gone down. They have a good museum there too.
The place was beautiful, though due to having all of the children with us we only walked on one side of the gorge and did not go down into it at all, so for my own sake I felt that I did not commune with the nature very closely--the park is not very wild if you follow the designated paths. I was not psychologically prepared for that.
There was another site from the 1960s encyclopedia's family recommendations that I attempted to see on the way south--Elephant Rock in Talleyville, Delaware, just north of Wilmington. I couldn't find it however. One assumes it is still there, though other than my encyclopedia the only reference to it I have found to it anywhere is from a guide book from 1976 that is on the internet. This gave a pretty precise location, being presumably on US route 202 3.5 miles from the Pennsylvania border on the left side driving south. However I did not see any rock that looked like an elephant at this general spot, but a string of shopping centers and then a suburban housing development. Perhaps the rock was dynamited to clear the way for this real estate. I am going to be going that way again soon, so maybe I will try to find out what's going on with this once vaunted and now apparently unknown attraction.
This is back at home, just a regular afternoon. It's a happy picture. The two little ones are very photogenic, which is good, because in an overpopulated world in which resources are running out, 4th and 5th born children need to justify their existence in as many ways as possible.
The two younger children on the beach at Wells, Maine. We went to a campground there for four days in August. While I do like to see other parts of the country, summer in New England is special too, and I don't want us to miss out on those experiences either.
On the trolleybus in Wells. The two little ones are getting a lot of face time so far. They still smile for the camera, I guess
Now we are back in July on our southern trip. We camped on the way to Georgia in the George Washington and Jefferson National Forest in western Virginia. This is a view from there.
Our campsite in Virginia, with #s 1, 2 & 5.
In Georgia we stayed in cabins in Unicoi State Park (a very beautiful park with great facilities and what appears to be a man-made lake), which is near the tourist town of Helen. Helen is famous for having all of its buildings being decorated in the Bavarian style. There are consequently numerous beer halls and German-themed restaurants, though unfortunately I did not get to sample any of these (having to feed five children numerous times a day away from home precludes all but a couple of restaurant outings on a week long vacation).
Representation of Smokey the Bear at the visitors' center for Anna Ruby Falls in the Chattahoochee National Forest, which is adjacent to Helen and Unicoi State Park.
There are actually two falls facing each other at about a 45 degree angle. This is also a very beautiful walk, but again the path is paved and perfectly maintained and the walk is only about 0.4 miles, so it is as if all the work has been done for you. Our trails in New England, even the most popular ones, are not quite so completely streamlined for the convenience of visitors.
#2, back in Helen.
I would come back to this place sometime, to eat some German food and see what the bar scene is like. Even though it is in Georgia, it is in the northern part, at the edge of the Appalachian mountains, and it feels more like Gatlinburg and the Smokies than your Flannery O'Connor/Ray Charles idea of Georgia.
Underneath the dome of the Georgia State House in Atlanta. This picture is out of order.
Back in Helen at the pancake house (which was adorned outside in the Heidiesque manner). This is the reclusive, camera shy child #3.
Child #2's collection of patches from the trip. On the way home we drove up through Smoky Mountains National Park (where we have gone twice on vacation--pictures somewhere on the site) and stopped at the visitors' center on the North Carolina side so he could get that patch.
Really on the way home now, looking at New York City from I-287 in Brooklyn.
Back in Atlanta, the group hanging out in some kind of southern tree that I can't think of the name of on the Georgia State House lawn.
We only went to Atlanta for the day, which really ended up being about six hours, and we only saw two things. I had never been there before. My impression was much more positive than I was expecting. Having lived my entire life basically in the Northeast (north of D.C.), the rest of the country, other than a few obvious cities such as Chicago and the great cities of the Pacific coast, really is portrayed in a very negative light. My ideas of Atlanta were that the traffic was biblically horrific, that the downtown was nothing but an endless stretch of hotels, parking garages and highways, and completely devoid of people, and that any structure that had character or predated the 1970s was compulsively torn down to make way for some garish corporate enterprise, So I was pleasantly surprised to find that it really did not differ all that much in its general feel from being in most of our northeastern cities on a weekday, that there were people out, and busy shops and restaurants on Peachtree Street, and that there were a few pockets (such as the area around the State House) that evoked something of the sense of the charm that many people do associate with the South, notwithstanding the ugly truths of history that you are always aware of lying behind it. It probably helped that I had the good luck to be there on an 83 degree day in July with no humidity. I would like to go back to Atlanta now too. There is actually quite a lot to see and do there. It is a major city now.
Last picture from Wells Beach. I will probably do another set of these at some point, as a few things got left out. It will probably be a month or two though.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Fourth of July
We went to York Beach in Maine. The holiday happened to coincide with the day last week's hurricane came up our way, so it was rainy and chillier than usual. Of course it also cut down on the crowds. On a regular warm and sunny July 4, the beach would be shoulder to shoulder with people.
When we first got there they weren't even letting people go in the water--the lifeguards were standing at the edge of the water keeping you away--but after about an hour they abandoned their posts and anyone could go in.
One of the famous amusement halls along the shore at Short Sands beach.
The even more famous Fun-o-Rama (with child #3 running down the steps). Both of these buildings are at least pre-war and are built like old barns. Once glance up at the rafters and psychologically I am transported back about 28 years, to the impression I had at that time of being transported back fifty or sixty years while being simultaneously more fully engaged in the moment than I am now. That is to say, I am really thinking of all that has changed and passed away in this area since 1986, but even in 1986 I was thinking the same thing with regard to 1936.
Four of the five children playing or picking things up on the beach. #4 is out of the picture. They were all in the picture when the button was pushed. Our cameras all have 2-3 second lapses which means you need to have luck to get a good picture of the children.
#5 doesn't like having sandy hands.
Here is #4 inside Fun-o-Rama. This composition was another victim of slow camera syndrome.
Cashing in the game tickets.
Mechanical fortune-teller (and my daughter).
It stopped raining and they letting people into the ocean again, so we went back to the beach.
Some relatives of my wife's used to have a house here, a little further down from these off to the right, which is one of the reasons why York is one of the main beaches we go to. They sold it off some years ago and naturally the new owners knocked it down and built a bigger house. The old house probably dated from the 30s or 40s and was a real classic New England, Summer of '42esque beach house, no air conditioning, whipping white curtains, creaking screen doors, a bookshelf that hadn't been augmented since before I was born. By the end though the surrounding atmosphere had changed enough that it almost felt like it didn't really belong anymore. Keeping it more or less exactly as it was for so long, pleasing though that was in some ways, seemed to suggest either ambitions or financial limitations on the part of its owners that were unacceptably modest for contemporary times. Feeling this way about things that don't change or innovate eagerly and rapidly enough, even when one is sympathetic to the laggards, has become second nature to me, and I would presume many people who have absorbed the dominant attitudes of the past twenty years.
Child #2 draws a map of the northeast in the wet sand.
Back at home, but a good picture of daughter by #4, who seems to have something of an artistic temperament and flair about him.
When we first got there they weren't even letting people go in the water--the lifeguards were standing at the edge of the water keeping you away--but after about an hour they abandoned their posts and anyone could go in.
One of the famous amusement halls along the shore at Short Sands beach.
The even more famous Fun-o-Rama (with child #3 running down the steps). Both of these buildings are at least pre-war and are built like old barns. Once glance up at the rafters and psychologically I am transported back about 28 years, to the impression I had at that time of being transported back fifty or sixty years while being simultaneously more fully engaged in the moment than I am now. That is to say, I am really thinking of all that has changed and passed away in this area since 1986, but even in 1986 I was thinking the same thing with regard to 1936.
Four of the five children playing or picking things up on the beach. #4 is out of the picture. They were all in the picture when the button was pushed. Our cameras all have 2-3 second lapses which means you need to have luck to get a good picture of the children.
#5 doesn't like having sandy hands.
Here is #4 inside Fun-o-Rama. This composition was another victim of slow camera syndrome.
Cashing in the game tickets.
Mechanical fortune-teller (and my daughter).
It stopped raining and they letting people into the ocean again, so we went back to the beach.
Some relatives of my wife's used to have a house here, a little further down from these off to the right, which is one of the reasons why York is one of the main beaches we go to. They sold it off some years ago and naturally the new owners knocked it down and built a bigger house. The old house probably dated from the 30s or 40s and was a real classic New England, Summer of '42esque beach house, no air conditioning, whipping white curtains, creaking screen doors, a bookshelf that hadn't been augmented since before I was born. By the end though the surrounding atmosphere had changed enough that it almost felt like it didn't really belong anymore. Keeping it more or less exactly as it was for so long, pleasing though that was in some ways, seemed to suggest either ambitions or financial limitations on the part of its owners that were unacceptably modest for contemporary times. Feeling this way about things that don't change or innovate eagerly and rapidly enough, even when one is sympathetic to the laggards, has become second nature to me, and I would presume many people who have absorbed the dominant attitudes of the past twenty years.
Child #2 draws a map of the northeast in the wet sand.
Climbing on the rocks. Another time-honored Maine pastime.
Back at home, but a good picture of daughter by #4, who seems to have something of an artistic temperament and flair about him.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
My Life in Bridges
marietta violacea wind surface omitted bees
Honorable Mention: Pulaski Skyway, Route 1-9, Newark, New Jersey
I've only been on this once (though you can see it from the Turnpike). It's a big black 1930s iron bridge near the Newark airport. I thought it was pretty nifty the one time I was on it. I must be due for another trip.
12. The Triboro, New York
Historically important, and makes you feel like you are in the heart of one of the real New Yorks. I don't think I was on it until I was around 30.
11. Verrazano-Narrows, New York
Similar to above. I usually only take this going north, to avoid the $13 toll. Anything that reminds me of the old days, before I was born.
10. The Hamilton Fish Bridge over the Hudson River, I-84 in New York.
I only go on this road every other year or so--maybe less than that now--as a change from routine. There is nothing special about this bridge except that it is very gloomy, especially in the dark, in winter, and during a snowstorm. I only ever feel impelled to go this way in winter, the whole length of which in New York is quite gloomy, and some of the gloominess even continues into Connecticut as far as Hartford. I find much of upstate New York--and this is not even very far upstate--to be gloomy compared with most of New England. Even at night.
I couldn't find any pictures of this bridge in the winter.
9. The Bridge to the Outer Banks (Rte 12?), North Carolina.
My old family--not only my parents but my grandmother and my father's five younger siblings and various of their cousins and other friends--vacationed here for a week every August from 1976-1979, and again in 1981. I have not been back since. I think this area has been considerably altered and built up during the interval. This bridge carried one from the ramshackle rural North Carolina mainland instantly into the magical world of sand dunes and waving cattails and seashells and mini-golf courses and motorcourts and swimming pools and the potential for, if not adventures, at least drama or memorable stories. I still get this feeling once in a while in famous vacation spots--I felt it at Bar Harbor, which similarly features a bridge from a comparatively dreary mainland onto an island where everyone seems to be happier and better looking and has more purpose than than the run of people you find in life. One year we arrived at the island to ominous, albeit very striking and dramatic, dark skies and learned that a hurricane was on the way--apparently we did not have a working car radio at the time. It was right at the beginning of the trip. My parents fled to the dreary mainland in the pouring rain, backed up for hours along the bridge and the one road leading out. The rest of our group, being either young and adventurous or old and cantankerous, stayed behind to ride out the hurricane. Though there was a great fear on the part of some that the bridge would be taken out, apart from a couple of days of heavy rain the storm did little damage, and we had to slink back in once the danger was out of the way in mild disgrace at not having braved the storm, though being seven or eight years of age it is not as if I had had any say in the matter. But the cool people had all chosen to stay and party, and even at that young age I knew they would be all right.
8. George Washington Bridge, New York.
This is the New York bridge I've been over the most. I also walked across it once when I was depressed and failing, though obviously I kind of enjoyed it. I can't believe failing in New York, while a more decisive and public humiliation, is more fundamentally depressing than failing in some nothing place. I don't go over this bridge much anymore because there is always too much traffic, but if you come down the Palisades, at night especially, you see it in all its glory, and it signifies "New York" to the children.
7. Delaware River Bridge Between PA & NJ turnpikes
The bridge by which I usually enter my home state these days with all of the nostalgia and regret and bitter feelings that comes with that. The bridge itself is a pretty run of the mill green arched truss bridge. The ones further down the river that go directly into Philadelphia are more distinguished, but I never went on them much. My father, for reasons that were never fully explained to me, hated the Jersey shore and for that matter the entire state of New Jersey so much that we practically never went there. I went a couple of times to Wildwood or Sea Isle City with my grandparents, but on the whole I don't think I have been to the ocean in New Jersey more than five or six times in my life.
6. Piscataqua River Bridge, I-95 Maine-New Hampshire Border
Due to my largely positive associations with both of these states, this is a bridge where I feel pretty good going in either direction. With most of these there is at least one side where I feel a little deflated upon descending from the bridge, because I am leaving a place that holds excitement or meaning for me and coming into one that holds neither. But I feel pretty comfortable and familiar almost everywhere in both of these states.
5 & 4 Bay Bridge & Rte 450 Bridge, Annapolis
These rate where they are because when I was actually in school I never drove back and forth from Annapolis to anywhere else. I only started to use these bridges after my time there. Still, they have a drama and a poignancy about them. The Bay Bridge is one of those bridges that puts a psychological distance between you and the town when you go over it. Once you are in the flat farmland of the Eastern Shore, you know St John's College and its idiosyncracies and colonial mouldings and all those Greek books have vanished again into the mists they probably came from. The Severn Bridge, with the romantic view of the water and the city of Annapolis with its domes and cupolas and spires (the Naval Academy mainly) on the approach to it, I did go over on the day I first came to Annapolis to begin school. It was years before I came that way again though so I have never developed a consistent emotional response upon arriving this way.
I have read that the Bay Bridge is considered by many to be one of the scariest bridges in the world to drive across, and someone did drive over the side of it earlier this year (though she survived, swimming to one of the piers and hanging on there). I suppose it is a little scary, though I have gotten used to it. I took the Bay-Bridge Tunnel in Virginia for the first time last year, which is much longer, and found that a little anxiety-inducing due to that length, though the bridge itself is not as high up, or at least does not seem so. As I have written before, I have a greater, and probably irrational, faith in tunnels, bridges, etc, built in the 1930s, 40s and 50s compared to more recent constructions, especially if they are in some way 'marvels' or otherwise spectacular engineering feats. This is because my mind cannot comprehend new developments and advancements as having any relation or proportion to it. These new environments do not belong to me or have much to do with me, so therefore my instinct is that they are likely to kill me sooner rather than later.
3. George C Platt Bridge, Rte 291, South Philadelphia
I-95 and the Schuylkill Expressway (I-76) don't have a direct interchange. Coming from the south, you get off 95, take this bridge over the Schuykill, are greeted on the other side by oil refineries on your left as far as you can see and a giant car demolition/scrap metal lot on the right. Welcome to Philadelphia! (although I must admit the pollution and air of menace in this little section is much less striking today than it was in say 1979). There used to be a forlorn little newsstand/hog dog cart on the corner where you turn for the Schuylkill, as well as guys walking up and down the median selling flowers and soft pretzels, but I haven't seen any of this in years. It is a very fitting scene for entering/leaving the city. Particularly on the trip to Annapolis when you go the Eastern shore route, which is only two and a half hours, but you pass through 5 or 6 very sharp geographical and cultural gradations during that drive. This little stretch obviously is one of the major gateways you pass through.
2. Route 9 Bridge over the Connecticut River, Brattleboro, Vermont
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This is is the major bridge in my children's life, since this is the one we pass over when we go to our camp, which is about 2 miles beyond it, and thus means we are essentially there. This is an hour and a half trip mostly through (beautiful) woods and alongside rivers and lakes. The bridge is a significant landmark. This trip passes through about five subtly distinct geographical and social regions as well, once you get to know it. The new bridge was built about ten years ago, so I remember when the old bridge, which is rusting but has been kept up as a foot/bicycle bridge, was used by cars. Some of the twee, healthy-eating, marathon training, technologically adept, visibly educated (I say this to distinguish them from myself, as I appear to be invisibly educated, for social purposes) Brattleboro crowd has hung up a handmade banner which reads "Welcome to Our Bridge" on this old bridge, which annoys me, since A) I don't consider myself to be part of them, so I cannot collectively share anything with them, and B) I also consider it to be my bridge. Do any of them really think it can mean more to them than it does to me?
1. I-295 Bridge into Portland, Maine (South End)
This bridge has no distinguishing features--no trusses or arches of any kind--but at the time it represented a border between the romantic hopes and images I had about my life, and emptiness and despair. I should explain: when I went to high school in Portland I did not actually live in the city--I was able to go to school there because my father was a teacher and they let me attend, which sort of thing they don't do anymore because the taxpayer vigilantes are more alert to it. So having to go out of the borders of the city, where my life, or my best hope for my life was, was a kind of emotional death at the end of every day, and my return again in the morning a kind of rebirth. I don't deny looking back that it was very strange, but that was how I felt. I don't have quite the same response anymore going over this bridge, because almost everything from that time is gone now, and my connection to it, for whatever reason, does not seem to have been very deep. Also even the exit that I used to get off at and that descent from the road into the city, the buildings I saw every day, etc, has been altered, and is almost futuristic now, bears no resemblance to the old days. Still, I like to stop in if I am passing through the area. Sometimes it is possible to get something of the old feeling, if one is lucky.
Honorable Mention: Pulaski Skyway, Route 1-9, Newark, New Jersey
I've only been on this once (though you can see it from the Turnpike). It's a big black 1930s iron bridge near the Newark airport. I thought it was pretty nifty the one time I was on it. I must be due for another trip.
12. The Triboro, New York
Historically important, and makes you feel like you are in the heart of one of the real New Yorks. I don't think I was on it until I was around 30.
11. Verrazano-Narrows, New York
Similar to above. I usually only take this going north, to avoid the $13 toll. Anything that reminds me of the old days, before I was born.
10. The Hamilton Fish Bridge over the Hudson River, I-84 in New York.
I only go on this road every other year or so--maybe less than that now--as a change from routine. There is nothing special about this bridge except that it is very gloomy, especially in the dark, in winter, and during a snowstorm. I only ever feel impelled to go this way in winter, the whole length of which in New York is quite gloomy, and some of the gloominess even continues into Connecticut as far as Hartford. I find much of upstate New York--and this is not even very far upstate--to be gloomy compared with most of New England. Even at night.
I couldn't find any pictures of this bridge in the winter.
9. The Bridge to the Outer Banks (Rte 12?), North Carolina.
My old family--not only my parents but my grandmother and my father's five younger siblings and various of their cousins and other friends--vacationed here for a week every August from 1976-1979, and again in 1981. I have not been back since. I think this area has been considerably altered and built up during the interval. This bridge carried one from the ramshackle rural North Carolina mainland instantly into the magical world of sand dunes and waving cattails and seashells and mini-golf courses and motorcourts and swimming pools and the potential for, if not adventures, at least drama or memorable stories. I still get this feeling once in a while in famous vacation spots--I felt it at Bar Harbor, which similarly features a bridge from a comparatively dreary mainland onto an island where everyone seems to be happier and better looking and has more purpose than than the run of people you find in life. One year we arrived at the island to ominous, albeit very striking and dramatic, dark skies and learned that a hurricane was on the way--apparently we did not have a working car radio at the time. It was right at the beginning of the trip. My parents fled to the dreary mainland in the pouring rain, backed up for hours along the bridge and the one road leading out. The rest of our group, being either young and adventurous or old and cantankerous, stayed behind to ride out the hurricane. Though there was a great fear on the part of some that the bridge would be taken out, apart from a couple of days of heavy rain the storm did little damage, and we had to slink back in once the danger was out of the way in mild disgrace at not having braved the storm, though being seven or eight years of age it is not as if I had had any say in the matter. But the cool people had all chosen to stay and party, and even at that young age I knew they would be all right.
8. George Washington Bridge, New York.
This is the New York bridge I've been over the most. I also walked across it once when I was depressed and failing, though obviously I kind of enjoyed it. I can't believe failing in New York, while a more decisive and public humiliation, is more fundamentally depressing than failing in some nothing place. I don't go over this bridge much anymore because there is always too much traffic, but if you come down the Palisades, at night especially, you see it in all its glory, and it signifies "New York" to the children.
7. Delaware River Bridge Between PA & NJ turnpikes
The bridge by which I usually enter my home state these days with all of the nostalgia and regret and bitter feelings that comes with that. The bridge itself is a pretty run of the mill green arched truss bridge. The ones further down the river that go directly into Philadelphia are more distinguished, but I never went on them much. My father, for reasons that were never fully explained to me, hated the Jersey shore and for that matter the entire state of New Jersey so much that we practically never went there. I went a couple of times to Wildwood or Sea Isle City with my grandparents, but on the whole I don't think I have been to the ocean in New Jersey more than five or six times in my life.
6. Piscataqua River Bridge, I-95 Maine-New Hampshire Border
Due to my largely positive associations with both of these states, this is a bridge where I feel pretty good going in either direction. With most of these there is at least one side where I feel a little deflated upon descending from the bridge, because I am leaving a place that holds excitement or meaning for me and coming into one that holds neither. But I feel pretty comfortable and familiar almost everywhere in both of these states.
5 & 4 Bay Bridge & Rte 450 Bridge, Annapolis
These rate where they are because when I was actually in school I never drove back and forth from Annapolis to anywhere else. I only started to use these bridges after my time there. Still, they have a drama and a poignancy about them. The Bay Bridge is one of those bridges that puts a psychological distance between you and the town when you go over it. Once you are in the flat farmland of the Eastern Shore, you know St John's College and its idiosyncracies and colonial mouldings and all those Greek books have vanished again into the mists they probably came from. The Severn Bridge, with the romantic view of the water and the city of Annapolis with its domes and cupolas and spires (the Naval Academy mainly) on the approach to it, I did go over on the day I first came to Annapolis to begin school. It was years before I came that way again though so I have never developed a consistent emotional response upon arriving this way.
I have read that the Bay Bridge is considered by many to be one of the scariest bridges in the world to drive across, and someone did drive over the side of it earlier this year (though she survived, swimming to one of the piers and hanging on there). I suppose it is a little scary, though I have gotten used to it. I took the Bay-Bridge Tunnel in Virginia for the first time last year, which is much longer, and found that a little anxiety-inducing due to that length, though the bridge itself is not as high up, or at least does not seem so. As I have written before, I have a greater, and probably irrational, faith in tunnels, bridges, etc, built in the 1930s, 40s and 50s compared to more recent constructions, especially if they are in some way 'marvels' or otherwise spectacular engineering feats. This is because my mind cannot comprehend new developments and advancements as having any relation or proportion to it. These new environments do not belong to me or have much to do with me, so therefore my instinct is that they are likely to kill me sooner rather than later.
3. George C Platt Bridge, Rte 291, South Philadelphia
I-95 and the Schuylkill Expressway (I-76) don't have a direct interchange. Coming from the south, you get off 95, take this bridge over the Schuykill, are greeted on the other side by oil refineries on your left as far as you can see and a giant car demolition/scrap metal lot on the right. Welcome to Philadelphia! (although I must admit the pollution and air of menace in this little section is much less striking today than it was in say 1979). There used to be a forlorn little newsstand/hog dog cart on the corner where you turn for the Schuylkill, as well as guys walking up and down the median selling flowers and soft pretzels, but I haven't seen any of this in years. It is a very fitting scene for entering/leaving the city. Particularly on the trip to Annapolis when you go the Eastern shore route, which is only two and a half hours, but you pass through 5 or 6 very sharp geographical and cultural gradations during that drive. This little stretch obviously is one of the major gateways you pass through.
2. Route 9 Bridge over the Connecticut River, Brattleboro, Vermont
This is is the major bridge in my children's life, since this is the one we pass over when we go to our camp, which is about 2 miles beyond it, and thus means we are essentially there. This is an hour and a half trip mostly through (beautiful) woods and alongside rivers and lakes. The bridge is a significant landmark. This trip passes through about five subtly distinct geographical and social regions as well, once you get to know it. The new bridge was built about ten years ago, so I remember when the old bridge, which is rusting but has been kept up as a foot/bicycle bridge, was used by cars. Some of the twee, healthy-eating, marathon training, technologically adept, visibly educated (I say this to distinguish them from myself, as I appear to be invisibly educated, for social purposes) Brattleboro crowd has hung up a handmade banner which reads "Welcome to Our Bridge" on this old bridge, which annoys me, since A) I don't consider myself to be part of them, so I cannot collectively share anything with them, and B) I also consider it to be my bridge. Do any of them really think it can mean more to them than it does to me?
1. I-295 Bridge into Portland, Maine (South End)
This bridge has no distinguishing features--no trusses or arches of any kind--but at the time it represented a border between the romantic hopes and images I had about my life, and emptiness and despair. I should explain: when I went to high school in Portland I did not actually live in the city--I was able to go to school there because my father was a teacher and they let me attend, which sort of thing they don't do anymore because the taxpayer vigilantes are more alert to it. So having to go out of the borders of the city, where my life, or my best hope for my life was, was a kind of emotional death at the end of every day, and my return again in the morning a kind of rebirth. I don't deny looking back that it was very strange, but that was how I felt. I don't have quite the same response anymore going over this bridge, because almost everything from that time is gone now, and my connection to it, for whatever reason, does not seem to have been very deep. Also even the exit that I used to get off at and that descent from the road into the city, the buildings I saw every day, etc, has been altered, and is almost futuristic now, bears no resemblance to the old days. Still, I like to stop in if I am passing through the area. Sometimes it is possible to get something of the old feeling, if one is lucky.
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