Alexandersmap

    Category: Lifestyle

    • In Search of Mark Twain

      Growing up on Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, I have an affinity for Mark Twain.  As a kid I always thought of him as a Mississippi River guy.  No wonder given his most memorable characters and the settings for his greatest work.  But Mark Twain moved from Missouri to Hartford, Connecticut and spent summers at his wife Olivia’s family farm in Elmira, New York.  These are the places where he wrote most of his novels.

      Both places have developed and changed since Mark Twain’s death in 1910.  The Hartford neighborhood beyond the block on Farmington Avenue is grittier and more urban, while Elmira beyond Quarry Farm has grown more industrial.  Mark would surely look around in wonder at both.  I have a lot to say about this guy.  More than one blog post possibly can contain.

      I visited Elmira a couple of weeks ago to visit Mark Twain’s study and grave site.  I was envious when I visited his study in Hartford, but seeing the octagonal study with it’s fireplace made me positively jealous.  It once was perched on a hill at Quarry Farm overlooking Elmira and the river below.  Since 1953 it’s been at Elmira College, where it’s open to the public.  Mark Twain viewed it as a place away from distraction where he could focus on his writing.  In Hartford he would chat with friends and neighbors, or play pool in his study there.  In Elmira he could draw inspiration from the views and simply write.

      On the day I visited it was raining and I found myself alone looking in the windows of the study.  I made a point of checking the door knob just to see if it was open, but also imagining Mark Twain grabbing this same door knob on his way in to write The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  I’d had a similar feeling walking up the stairs in his home in Hartford, sliding my hand up the railing, which was one of the only things you were allowed to touch there.  I wonder if the door knob is original, it certainly looked like it.

      I’ve written before that I like to chase ghosts.  Not the poltergeist kind, but the living history kind.  Visiting Hartford and Elmira brought me a little bit closer to Mark Twain.  And gave me a little inspiration.  I’m not sure how long I’m going to live in the house I’m in now, but I think I’m going to build myself a study.  Perhaps not as ornate as Mark Twain’s, but something that gets me out of the house and looking at the trees out back.  Maybe I have a novel in me, or maybe I just use it as a base of operations in my current job, but either way I think of it as a way to be a little more like Mark Twain.  That’s not such a bad goal.

    • The Beer Run

      The last twenty years has seen an explosion in micro brewing.  There was a time when I talked about starting a brewery myself, and sometimes I wonder what might have been.  Some of the breweries from the late 1990’s have come and gone, others sold out to the mass market brewers, and a few have stood their ground and grown organically.

      As a lover of good beer, I’ve been known to make a side trip or two in search of a great brewery.  A trip to Halifax brings with it an obligatory stop at Alexander Keiths.  A trip to St John’s demands a visit to Quidi Vidi brewery.  Breweries are popping up everywhere now and it makes drinking local easier than ever.

      No trip stirs the beer lover’s imagination like a trip to Vermont.  Some of the best beers in the world are brewed in Vermont.  According to Beer Advocate’s rankings, The Alchemist, Lawson’s and Hill Farmstead consistently rank in the top tier of brewers.  There’s something in the water up there in Vermont.

      Yesterday I found myself with extra time in Burlington, Vermont.  My last meeting cancelled on me and I recalled a beer fridge at home that needed a refresh.  So I went to a local beer store I’ve been known to check in with on occasion and purchased some Sip of Sunshine and Focal Banger.  Two worthy beers for sure.  But I was out of Heady Topper and wasn’t sure when I’d be back in Vermont again, so I planned a side trip on my drive home that would take me to Stowe for a visit to The Alchemist.  This is a route I know well and I was able to secure my designated share of Heady Topper, along with a four-pack of Holy Cow.

      Beer purchases complete, I plugged my home address into Waze and backed out of my space for the trip back to I-89.  And then it hit me.  I’ve done this drive a dozen or more times.  Every time I say to myself that I need to visit Hill Farmstead.  I’ve had some of their beers before, but always felt the side trip to Greensboro was tough to justify.  Today was feeling like one of those days too.  I’d picked up my favorite Vermont beers already, why get more?  Maybe just plug the address into Waze and see how much time it would add?  Sure, what’s the harm of that?  What’s this – it will only add a little more than an hour to the trip?  That’s not so bad!  Let’s do it!

      I thought of that as I drove down Vermont’s route 15, turned northward onto route 16 and watched my cellular signal fade from 3 to 2 to 1 to no bars.  Waze kept me on track anyway, but boy this place is out there.  But that’s where the adventure comes in.  While driving down Hardwick Road, I came across a monument that marked the Bayley-Hazen Military Road, built during the Revolutionary War for troop movement towards Quebec.  Sadly I didn’t take a picture of it, which means I clearly have to return to it another time.

      If you ever want to see what some of the areas near Boston looked like before they were built up, visit this part of Vermont.  There’s nothing but farms, woods and general stores that time forgot.  As I drove closer to Hill Farmstead, it became clear to me that brewing beer was the best thing that’s happened in this area in a long time.  Great beer brings beer tourism, as people make the pilgrimage to the brewery, buy beer and maybe stop at a few of the other businesses in the area while they’re here.  It’s an economic boon for an area that otherwise relied on dairy, maple syrup and livestock.

      As I got closer to Hill Farmstead, the roads got progressively narrower, and finally the pavement itself ended.  Great reminder that April is the beginning of mud season.  Did I mention that it was snowing lightly too?  Did I mention I was wearing business attire and dress shoes?  Did I mention that there was nobody else around?  This was my view of Jaffin Flats Road as I drove closer to Hill Road.

      I finally arrived at Hill Farmstead and glanced around.  Bit of snow on the driveway but a few cars parked there put me at ease.  Walking up to the building, I was crushed to see a sign saying they were closed.  Damn, I hadn’t checked that on their web site.  This was Tuesday and the sign said they’re only open Wednesday through Saturday.  Damn.  Long way to go for nothing.  As I was cursing myself for not checking the schedule first a guy walked out of the building with a keg over his shoulder.  I joked about not checking the schedule before I drove out here and he clued me in that there were people inside who might still sell me beer.  It turns out Tuesdays are for locals only, and I was feeling a bit local myself, even if I wasn’t dressed that way.  The bartender and locals were gracious with me, gave me a few pointers on the extensive beer menu and sold me a couple of growlers full of liquid gold.

      Not all beers are created equal.  I generally curse the artificial scarcity that some brewers inflict on their beer-loving public.  But supply and demand dictates that some beers are harder to get than others.  The Alchemist makes some outstanding beer, but they’re invested heavily in the hype with a shiny new tasting room and gift items for sale.  Hill Farmstead is charmingly authentic, dictated in no small part by how far off the beaten path they are.  Both are worth the pilgrimage.  Maybe just not Sunday through Tuesday, and perhaps not during mud season.

       

    • Ice Out

      The changing of the seasons is well underway in the northeast.  While the calendar says spring, Mother Nature decides when it’s really upon us.  In New Hampshire spring is marked by Ice Out; the time when the ice on Lake Winnipesaukee has melted enough that the Mount Washington can sail to all of her ports of call on the lake.  This is determined when one designated guy, currently Dave Emerson, flies over the lake and gives it his blessing.
      In 2017 Ice Out was on April 17th.  The year before it was on March 18th.  Looking at the dates it seems like the average is late April over the last 131 years.  Honestly, it’s a big deal if you’re on the lake, but for the rest of us its check box indicating another winter has passed.  I live in Southern New Hampshire, where the local ponds thaw out a little faster than Lake Winnipesaukee does.  A walk around town over the weekend showed that we’re getting close.
      Back when I rowed, melt off got us out of the weight room and erg room and onto the water.  It was a huge milestone after a long winter.  Being on the Merrimack in college, the melt off meant a swollen river.  The coxswain and coach had to keep a sharp eye out for floating debris.  I recall a few bumps as submerged logs were detected a bit too late.
      They say back in the early days of our country that people would walk across or skate up the river.  That seems insane now.  You never know what the current on a river does to the thickness of the ice, and nowadays you just don’t seem to have that kind of sustained deep freeze that would build up the ice to those levels.
      Climate change is happening, no matter what the fake news crowd says.  Facts don’t lie.  As much as I embrace spring and the chance to be on the water again soon, I wonder what kind of planet we’re leaving for our grandchildren.

    • Clusters

      I read a great book called Geography of Genius that focuses on the tendency of communities of like-minded people to form and thrive, often changing the course of history.  Essentially people feed off each other, and are inspired by the geniuses around them to do more in their own lives.  Rome, Athens, Vienna, Edinburgh and other places are covered in the book.

      It got me thinking about the clusters of geniuses in the northeast.  Maybe we didn’t have Beethoven, Mozart and Freud running around Boston as Vienna had, but we sure had Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Louisa May Alcott and Nathanial Hawthorne roaming around Concord, Massachusetts at roughly the same time, and all are buried at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord.

      Down in New York in another Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, you have the titans of industry Carnegie, Rockefeller, Chrysler all clustered in their final resting place after building empires just down the river from Tarrytown.  The New York Sleepy Hollow Cemetery is where Washington Irving, writer of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, is buried.

      In Boston, you can visit the graves of Sam Adams, John Hancock, Paul Revere and other notable figures from the Revolutionary War at the Granary Burying Grounds.  They fed off each other in life, building on each other’s ideas, one-upping each other.  In death, they’re still neighbors.

      Down in Hartford, Connecticut you had Mark Twain living right next door to Harriet Beecher Stowe.  Talk about a literary one-two punch.  While the neighborhood has changed significantly, becoming grittier, the homes of these two literary giants remain much as they were when they lived there.  I’ve toured the Twain house, and will carve out time for Stowe another time.

      As the weather gets warmer, I’m going to spend a little more time visiting the homes of notable people.  Walking around the homes of Robert Frost and Mark Twain reinforce that they were just regular people with extraordinary talent and the grit necessary to produce.  Visiting their graves reminds you that their time was brief, and so too is ours.

    • Blackbirds

      They’re back.  The rebel bike gang of the skies have come back to New Hampshire.  Where I once filled my bird feeders once or twice a week, I have to fill them daily when these swarms of Red Winged Blackbirds and Common Grackles come to town.  They swarm the feeders and you can almost watch them empty in moments.  There’s no taking your fair share and moving on with these thugs – it’s all or nothing.

      I’ve read up on changing up the feed, putting chicken wire around the feeders, or buying new feeders that they don’t like to go to.  But I’m not spending money or time on that.  With a snow storm coming in tonight, I’m not taking down the feeders either.  I’m going to fill them up and let them run out – quickly mind you, but unnaturally natural.  Maybe the desirable birds will get their fill too, maybe not.  But sometimes you need to let nature decide.  The feeders come down in a month.  I’ll continue to feed the bluebirds, which has been a pleasant success in the yard.  Maybe even the finches, depending on how quickly they blow through the thistle.  But the cardinals, jays and other birds are going to have to live off the land once the snow melts.  For now it’s ever bird for itself.

    • Walking in Circles

      In my attempt to keep some frail momentum going in my 21 day challenge to work out every day, I got up early and walked the circular driveway that rings the front of the Sheraton Mahwah.  I’m not a runner.  Walking is my thing and I managed to get about 2 1/2 miles or 5000 steps in before I had to come back in to get ready for the day.

      The show at 5 AM is unique, the darkness is different from the evening walks I take with Bodhi as you start to see a gradual brightening of the sky to the east (obviously) and the celestial show has shifted completely.  This March 6th sky in Mahwah brought the march of the planets, as Jupiter, the star Antares, Mars, Saturn and Pluto followed the moon from right to left across the Southeastern sky.  I’ve been guilty of geeking out over stars before, and this morning was no exception.

      Thankfully there were no witnesses in the cold dark circle.  Well, except for three wild rabbits who glanced at my warily as I marched past them every ten minutes.  The Mahwah Sheraton sits in a bowl rings by hills, with I-287 cutting through the valley on one side and the Ramapo River doing it for a lot longer on the other side.  The hotel sits prominently in the valley, pointing towards the sky.  It’s a classic 1980’s hotel style; bold glass and steel that looks out of place in this beautiful valley.

      Back on my walk, I run through my checklists of things to do today, take stock of a few aches and listen to the constant rumble of trucks and cars grunting along I-287.  The highlight was the march of the planets, gradually fading in the coming day.

       

    • Trolley Parks

      Canobie Lake Park is dormant now, this first day of March.  But spring is in the air, and we’re close to turning the corner on another winter.  Soon the gates will open for another season for this salty veteran.  Canobie Lake Park is a survivor, one of a baker’s dozen trolley parks still in existence today.

      Trolley parks were built in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s as a destination at the end of the trolley line to give people a reason to use the trolleys on the weekend.  After a long week of commuting to the mills, you needed a good reason to jump back on the trolley on a Sunday afternoon after church.  Trolley parks were a destination.  Set out in the countryside, next to a lake or along the river, it gave families a fun place to picnic and play together.  Adding rides, a midway and a dance hall expanded the appeal.  With more people came more money.  And these people were coming in cars.

      The 1920’s saw the rapid decline of the trolley.  And over the next few centuries the decline of the original trolley parks followed.  I remember going to Whalom Park in Lunenburg, which closed in 2000 after a 107 year run.  It was once celebrated as one of the oldest trolley parks in the world.  The site is now condominiums and most of the rides were scrapped or sold off.  I’m sure the condos are lovely but I don’t ever want to see them.

      Back at Canobie Lake Park, you enter a time warp when you walk in and stroll past the original Looff-Dentzel Carousel from 1903, past the Yankee Cannonball, bought from another dying trolley park and installed here since 1936.  According to Wikipedia the roller coast was named to commemorate the Civil War, and was painted in blue and gray, united on the red, white and blue superstructure.  That color scheme is long gone, but the Yankee Cannonball survives.  And walking through the park you can see the old charm in the picnic grounds, midway, Dancehall Theater and the old pine trees that have seen a lot of thrill seekers over the years.

      There were another 15 or so trolley parks that have faded into history over the years, just as the trolleys that spurred their construction faded.  Time marches on, and with cars and relatively cheap flights going to Six Flags or the parks in Orlando are within reach of most families.  I’m glad that Canobie survives and thrives.  Right down the road from Canobie are the grounds of Rockingham Park, opened just a few years after Canobie, but closed permanently and bulldozed into history for condos, retail and restaurants.  Time passed Rockingham by while the old trolley park up the road marches on.

    • Dunes

      Separating the surf from the mainland, dunes are a critical protective barrier.  When storm surge threatens inland areas, it’s often the only thing standing in the way.  Dunes aren’t just piles of sand, they’re an ecosystem of dune grass, small shrubs and other plants adapted to survive this hostile environment.  Birds and other animals live in this buffer zone, protected from the waves and wind.

      The MVP tenant in the dune is dune grass.  Its deep roots literally hold the dune together, creating a more resilient barrier when the winds and waves kick up.  Wind blows the sand against the dune, where it is trapped by the grass and helps to build the dune up, grain by grain.  Wave action erodes the sand, and the cycle continues.

      Complicating this endless dance are humans.  People walking in the dunes trample the grass, creating paths that erode in the wind.  The other contributor to erosion of the dunes in some areas is the jetty.  Jetties are constructed by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and serve to stop erosion of the beach while also trapping sand between each.  Jetties are essentially piles of boulders stacked in a pyramid and running perpendicular to the beach.  Trapping sand, they serve their desired purpose when engineered properly.
      When jetties are constructed without regard for the downward drift the can destroy the protective dunes and dramatically change the beach.  In Quogue, New York, a part of the Hamptons on Long Island, jetties built in 1992 stopped the natural drift of sand from Shinnecock Inlet and wiped out the dunes.  This exposed the homes that line the coast in this area to storm surge.  Visiting the beach in Quoque ten years after the construction of the jetties, I was shocked at how much the beach had changed.  The double dune was gone, and so was the pristine sloping sandy beach.  It was a great lesson in responsible civil engineering.
      The dunes on Plum Island have faced similar threats over the years.  The jetties built on either side of the Merrimack River serve to stabilize the drift of sand, hopefully keeping the channel wider and deeper than it might otherwise be.  Sand that would otherwise clog the channel is better served as a barrier beach.  Were it only so simple.  Jetties, while built with good intentions, can be a blessing or a curse, depending on where you are on the beach.  While the wind and waves are far more powerful over time than the jetties, the impact they’ve had is transformative here and now.  Dunes, while appearing timeless, are fragile ecosystems that need protection from people.

       

    • The Buzzard in the Bay

      Buzzards Bay is a 28 mile long body of water lined on one side by the mainland of Massachusetts and Rhode Island, and on the other by Cape Cod, the Elizabeth Islands and Martha’s Vineyard.  Buzzards Bay is named after the osprey’s that thrived along the bay.  Osprey are very different from buzzards, but the name stuck anyway.  Names have a way of doing that.

      The saltiness and warmth of Buzzards Bay make it an attractive place to bob around in during the late summer and early fall.  The bay is considered “an estuary of national importance” in the late 1980’s.  There’s no doubt that the bay teams with thousands or millions of fish, shellfish and the birds and wildlife that feed on them.  The king of all feeders is the osprey.  Watching them float and dive for fish is one of the highlights of being down here.  Thankfully they’ve rebounded from the catastrophic introduction of DDT and other insecticides into the environment.

      That  some explorer 400 years ago can mistake an osprey for a buzzard and name the place after that mistake is interesting.  What even more interesting is it didn’t evolve over time to something more accurate.  I guess once you start associating a location with a name it would be confusing to suddenly call it something else.  So the genie has left the bottle and there’s no changing the name now.  Which is a shame because Osprey Bay is a pretty damned good name if you ask me.

    • The NJ to NH Run

      As a road warrier, I’m used to long drives.  Honestly, I don’t even blink when I drive 6-7 hours anymore.  The one exception to that is the drive back from New Jersey to New Hampshire.  The timing of the drive is critical, and so is the weather.  This afternoon neither worked in my favor.

      From New Jersey, there are basically two viable options over the Hudson River; the Tappan Zee Bridge or George Washington Bridge.  When you drive over the GW you assume the worst, no matter what time of day it is.  Heavy traffic and a rough and bumpy road surface are a given 90% of the time.  Usually crossing the GW means placing all your chips on I-95 all the way to New Haven.  That’s a scary bet.

      The Tappan Zee is less predictable, but generally lighter than the GW.  I’ve always found it to be an interesting and enjoyable bridge to cross, largely because of the width of the Hudson at this point, and the beautiful cliffs that line the shores, particularly at Hook Mountain State Park.  The challenges come after you cross the Hudson.  You either roll the dice on the Sawmill Parkway or on the Merritt Parkway.  Parkways sound lovely, but they’re narrow, unforgiving roads built at a time when cars were driving 35-40 MPH.  Quaint.  Of the two parkways the Merritt is more appealing, with rest areas, a tunnel and importantly, no traffic lights.  The Sawmill has multiple traffic lights along the parkway, which puts the park in parkway.

      From the parkways you’ve eventually got to get through or around Hartford before you finally catch a cruise control breather on I-84 from Manchester, Connecticut to the Mass Pike.  This moment of bliss is usually interrupted by the realities of the Pike.  Channeling thousands of drivers from from parts west with thousands of drivers from parts south can lead to epic traffic on the turnpike.  Summer and holiday traffic is especially delightful along this stretch of Americana.

      Life at highway speed isn’t all its cracked up to be, but its still better than bumper-to-bumper speed.  The math has never worked taking the train or a plane to New Jersey.  So we all enter the grinder and hope for the best.