Prince Edward Island - Through Anne's Eyes

I arrived on Prince Edward Island with a giant gap in my childhood cultural experience, having never read Anne of Green Gables and therefore with no frame of reference for the fictional Avonlea, the Haunted Woods or Lovers Lane, all of which author Lucy Maud Montgomery modeled after a family farm near Cavendish. The story line of the children’s novel centers on Anne, a red haired precocious girl adopted by a couple living in a house called Green Gables. They were mistakenly sent an orphan girl instead of a boy, yet decided to keep her. But I knew none of this. I needed a crash course. So, with a friendly  PEI library recorded book loan, I embarked on my driving tour of the island while listening to the eleven hour unabridged version of Anne of Green Gables.

Through the eyes of the red-haired orphan who has captured the hearts of readers for 100 years, I learned a few things about Prince Edward Island; some things are the same, others she never dreamed of. I crossed the Northumberland Strait onto Canada's smallest province on the13 km Confederation Bridge, completed in 1997. Anne, adopted from Nova Scotia, came by ferry and then by train to arrive at her new home. Today, the trains are gone and the rail bed is a hike and bike path stretching from one tip of the island to the other. Hiking or biking the gravel path between the storybook small towns of Prince Edward Island is gentle, since the highest elevation of the island is 152 metres (499 feet). Hike and Bike Trails. PEI is laid back in geography and atmosphere. I could feel myself decompressing with each mile. Except for the capital, Charlottetown, and a few major towns, commercial development is understated.

Russet apples and potatoes are unchanged from the early 1900's. PEI is home to miles and miles of potatoes, growing on small farms in ruddy soil, red from iron oxide, and with a spectacular view. If you like your potatoes distilled into Artisan Vodka, take a tour of the Prince Edward Distillery on the East Cape. Polish off your potato experience by visiting the Potato museum  in O'Leary. Potato Museum

PEI is pristine and pastoral. Lawns are mowed almost daily and in June, giant lupines that have naturalized over the island fill the ditches with pinks and blues and whites. PEI calls itself the gentle island, embracing a laidback attitude, but also gentle in its rolling hills of cultivated land, farmhouses and churches crisp and white, just as they were in Anne’s time, and endless coastline, harbors, fishing villages, and 52 lighthouses. (After the first 40 lighthouses, I developed lighthouse numbness). Most lighthouses have been moved from their original locations due to erosion as the fragile sandy red soil of the island washes away with every winter storm. Lighthouses serve no useful purpose today, modern navigational devices having made them obsolete. They are points in history, preserved to commemorate events they have witnessed during Anne's time and before and lure tourists like me into quaint fishing harbors and onto points for a closer look at a lighthouse and the water, never more than 20 kilometers away from any point on the island. Lighthouses

I am puzzled that Anne, who lived only a few kilometers from the popular Prince Edward Island National Park, never mentioned outings to the beach. PEI’s beaches are human friendly, with wide swaths of white or red sand. At the National Park on the North Shore, the water is quite temperate for swimming in summer. I will suspend my disbelief that Anne was not a fan of the beautiful water that laps at PEI, just as I suspended disbelief that Anne’s adopted family would ask a distant acquaintance to pick out an orphan for them while they were selecting their own.

I doubt that Anne dreamed that one day PEI would call itself Canada’s Green Island and use wind turbines for 5% of its electricity. The North Cape Wind Energy Interpretive Center filled my mind with facts and opinions about alternative energy sources. PEI was my first experience with green garbage. By the time I left the island I had the system down: compost the leftover fries and napkin, trash the plastic fork, recycle the water bottle, and take the wine bottle back for a refund. (Anything bottled on the island must use refundable bottles.) PEI is home to the original recycler, Édouard Arsenault, an Acadian who, after returning from World War II, collected thousands of glass bottles and built a house, a tavern and a chapel at Cap-Egmont on the Western Cape before he finally became compost himself in 1984. Coincidentally, he was also a lighthouse keeper. Bottle Houses

Anne talked only of food served at tea, but if she had discussed dinner, surely fish would have been prominent. After potatoes, fishing is the second largest industry. PEI gave me my first taste of hake, which is popular in Ireland and now appearing in North American waters. It was the luncheon special at the Blue Fin in Souris, where a generous serving of pan fried hake, biscuits, coleslaw and mashed potatoes was difficult to finish. The special included desert, for me a moist bread pudding the friendly waitress packed to go. Lobster was in season in June, but I was early for the church lobster suppers of  July and August. I was also early for tuna.  Scallops are another local favorite, along with oysters and quahogs, which one waitress described as "like a clam but slimier". Along the Western cape, at the Seaweed Cafe in Miminegash I had my first Acadian meat pie and a seaweed pie made from Irish moss harvested from the ocean. I’ll try anything once, except maybe not quahogs. Seaweed Pie

By the time I reached Cavendish and the Green Gables house, I was in love with Anne the island’s heroine, referred to by Mark Twain as the most lovable child in fiction since the immortal Alice. The world has remained in love with Anne for over a century. Since publication in 1908, the book has been translated into 17 languages, has 7 sequels and has been adapted to film many times. I confess to butterflies as I approached the house made famous by Lucy Montgomery. I walked down Lover’s Lane, into the Haunted Wood, and up the stairs to Ann’s room under the small green gable. And I felt at home, as though Anne might walk through the door and offer me a raspberry cordial and some biscuits with jam. Green Gables

Anne of Green Gables made me fall in love with Montgomery's island. I was wistful when I finished her book, and reluctant to leave her island. Montgomery felt the same way. She married a minister and moved to Ontario where she raised three sons and continued to write until her death. But her heart never left the island. She asked to come home to the island of her birth to be buried, near Green Gables in Cavendish Community Cemetery. I understand why.  And I heartily recommend that you too make the book part of your vacation reading when visiting her island.

Photos - Counterclockwise driving tour of Prince Edward Island


End Notes: 

tourismpei.com, the official site for Prince Edward Island, is excellent.

 Welcome centers with information are located near all entry points and additional sites are easy to find throughout the island. PEI maps available there showcase three scenic drives, all with good roads, and pinpoint camping and tourist attractions. Ask for the Hike and Bike Trail maps at the same centers. Lodging and dining information is available as well.

Approaches to PEI :
Major airlines connecting to Charlottetown include Air Canada, Delta, Northwest and West Jet
Driving from New Brunswick, the Confederate Bridge spans 13 Kilometers, a 12 minute drive across the strait of Newfoundland.
From Nova Scotia, Northumberland Ferries operates between Caribou and Wood Island PEI, a 75 minute trip.
Entry to the island by bridge or ferry is free. Fares are collected on the return, approximately $42 for a passenger vehicle on the bridge and $64 on the ferry.

How long should you spend? I spent five leisurely days driving the scenic routes. Add more time for Charlottetown, especially during the summer festival season. In 2010 Circ du Soleil participated in the Canada Day parade and fireworks displays. Summer theatre in the capital city features Anne of Green Gables, of course.

When to go? June and September are less crowded, but you will miss the church lobster suppers and the festivals of July and August.

Through Anne's Eyes

I arrived on Prince Edward Island with a giant gap in my childhood cultural experience, having never read Anne of Green Gables and therefore with no frame of reference for Avonlea, the Haunted Woods or Lovers Lane. With a friendly Cornwall PEI library recorded book loan, I embarked on a crash course, listening to the unabridged version of Anne of Green Gables, 10.5 hours, while driving the island.

Through the eyes of the red-haired orphan who has captured the hearts of readers for 100 years, I learned a few things about Prince Edward Island; some things are the same, others she never dreamed of.  I crossed the Northumberland Strait onto Canada's smallest province on Confederation Bridge, completed in 1997.  Anne, adopted from Nova Scotia, came by ferry and then by train to arrive at her new home.  Today, the trains are gone and the rail bed is a hike and bike path stretching from one tip of the island to the other.

Russet apples and potatoes are unchanged from the early 1900's.  Miles and miles of potatoes, growing on small farms in ruddy soil, red from iron oxide, and with a view......where else can a potato farmer enjoy such scenery?  And where else does a potato have its own museum but in O'Leary, PEI? 

PEI calls itself the gentle island, embracing a laidback attitude, but also gentle in its rolling hills of cultivated land, farmhouses and churches crisp and white, just as they were in Anne’s time, and endless coastline, harbors, fishing villages, and 52 lighthouses.  (After the first 40 lighthouses, lighthouse numbness has been known to occur).  Lighthouses serve no useful purpose today, modern navigational devices having made them obsolete. They are points in history, preserved to commemorate events they have witnessed and lure tourists like me into quaint fishing harbors and onto points for a closer look at a lighthouse and the water, never more than 20 kilometers away from any point on the island.

I doubt that Anne dreamed that one day PEI would call itself Canada’s Green Island and use wind turbines for 5% of its electricity.  The North Cape Wind Energy Interpretive Center filled my mind with facts and opinions.  PEI was my first experience with green garbage. By the time I left the island I had the system down:  compost the ketchup, leftover fries and napkin, trash the plastic fork, recycle the ketchup bottle, and take the wine bottle back for a refund. (Anything bottled on the island uses refundable bottles.)  PEI is home to the original recycler, Édouard Arsenault, an Acadian who, after returning from World War II, collected thousands of glass bottles and built a house, a tavern and a chapel Cap-Egmont at before he finally became compost himself in 1984.  Coincidentally, he was also a lighthouse keeper.

Anne talked only of food which was served at tea time, but if she had discussed dinner, surely fish would have been prominent.  After potatoes, fishing is the second largest industry.  PEI gave me my first taste of hake, which is popular in Ireland and now appearing in North American waters. It was the luncheon special at the Blue Fin in Souris, where biscuits, coleslaw and mashed potatoes generously covered my plate.  Then there was desert, the moistest bread pudding which the friendly waitress packed to go.  Lobster is in season, but we are early for tuna.  Scallops are another local favorite, along with oysters and quahogs, which one waitress described as like clams but slimier.  Along the Northern Acadian cape, at the Seaweed Cafe in Miminegash I had my first meat pie and a seaweed pie made from Irish moss harvested from the ocean.  I’ll try anything once, except quahogs.

By the time I reached Cavendish and the Green Gables house, I was in love with Anne the island’s heroine, referred to by Mark Twain as the most lovable children’s book character since Alice.  I confess to butterflies as I approached the house made famous by Lucy Montgomery, who tried five publishers before one accepted her manuscript.  She was only 19 when she wrote the book.  Since it was published in 1908, it has been translated into 17 languages and has 7 sequels. 

Anne of Green Gables made me fall in love with Montgomery's island.  I was wistful when I finished her book, and reluctant to leave her island. Montgomery felt the same way. When she was 37, she married a minister and moved to Ontario where she raised three sons and continued to write until her death.  But her heart never left the island.  She asked to come home to the island of her birth to be buried, near Green Gables in Cavendish Community Cemetery. I understand why.

                        





Links:  Seaweed Cafe /Miminegash PEI

Parks Canada Anne of Green Gables Historic Site

PEI Hike and Bike Trails 


Bottle Houses

Potato Museum

The pull of the moon

Tourist attractions along New Brunswick's Fundy Coastal Trail require a minimum of twelve hours for full appreciation.  Over twelve hours you can witness high tide, low tide, high slack tide and low slack tide. And during those twelve hours, you can watch one of the maritime wonders of the world through  full cycle.

St. John's big attraction is the Reversing Falls.  I watched for a minute and it was a yawn.  Then I paid $2.50 for the movie and saw the full tide cycle in 14 minutes, a fast forward feature that I found worthwhile.  For six hours the Bay of Fundy forces the St. John River back upstream.  Then for six hours, the St. John River has its way.  At low tides, the rapids are exposed.  At slack tide, which I understand as the time when both forces are pushing equally,  the rapids are a flat pool and boats travel through the narrows of the river.  When the tide rises again, whirlpools are created by sea water pushing upstream underneath the downstream fresh water.  All this makes the Reversing Falls on of the seven maritime wonders of the world.

Along the coast are other maritime attractions.  At Hopewell Rocks, visitors walk out on the ocean floor and look up at rocks many times their height.  Then, they wash their shoes, mucky from the red river silt on the beach, and wait for the tides to cover the rocks six hours and thirty nine feet later.

In Moncton, the Peticodiac River's attraction is a tidal bore. Years ago the tidal bore was a very impressive high wall of water that surged in through the narrow river opening, a large wave pushing the river to reverse. However, a causeway built across the river has blocked the bore, and usually the river-wide wave is only a few inches high. Erma Bombeck wrote after seeing the tidal bore: "A trickle of brown water, barely visible, slowly edged its way up the river toward us with all the excitement of a stopped-up toilet."

Most of the tides are more interesting than the Tidal Bore.  Even in the smallest of coves along Fundy Bay, all the boats are stranded at low tide, resting on a cradle of wood so they don't topple over.  The difference between high and low tide on the Bay of Fundy can be as much as 46 feet.  It's not uncommon to see 300 yards of exposed beach when the tide is out.

Last night, camped on Fundy Bay at St. Marten, Daisy and I walked about 50 steep yards down to the water's edge.  A few hours later, we would have drowned standing there.  We might also have gotten lost in the fog, which changed a sunny evening to a seafarer's nightmare in five minutes.

The tides move on schedule; the weather changes on a whim. It's important to ignore the forecast when planning the day's activities.  This morning, the Fundy coast was forecast for rain, but instead it was a magnificent blue day, my reward for slogging along the foggy Fundy Trail yesterday,  and a long blue summer solstice's day, light from 4 am till 10 pm. The light of a summer day in the north is magic.

Guilty until Proven Innocent

Two years ago when we went to Alaska, we crossed the Canadian border many times. The border crossings were a yawn. No one looked in the refrigerator to see what contraband fruit or meat we might have. A cursory glance at the passport, a question about guns, liquor and currency, and we were waved on our way. I remember crossing the border three times in a day in Hyder, Alaska, going from our Canadian camp to the river in Alaska to see bears fishing for salmon. The agent at the border didn't raise an eyebrow.

This time, even though we were only going to the island of Campobello, a tiny Canadian island with an international peace park commemorating Roosevelt’s summer home, a border crossing agent came on board and opened every cupboard. She remarked about my labeling system. On our return we got a shorter onboard inspection on the US side.

That night Carl and I laughed about labeling one of our storage cabinets “Contraband”, even though we were sure the agents might not see the humor. We joked as I cleaned the RV. We were crossing into Canada again, and I was cleaning to be ready for unexpected guests.

We approached the New Brunswick border with trepidation, hoping that we’d slide through this time. But once again we were asked to pull to the inspection station. We thought we knew the drill. The agent would come on board and open the cupboards and we would be off again.

An hour later, we were still detained. Carl and I were separated to answer questions about our criminal backgrounds. I was rattled. I felt guilty even though I have never been arrested. What was going on?

They kept our passports. Two Canadian agents wearing gloves and bullet proof vests combed through every compartment inside and outside the RV while we waited on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, other RV's were waved through without inspection. We began to wonder if we were on a terrorist no fly list.

Finally, the search was complete and our passports returned. We quizzed the agents. Why were two geezers in an RV searched two days in a row? We got the party line. They inspect a lot of vehicles for contraband every day at random. I guess I didn’t really expect more of an answer than that, but I wanted one.

Tonight I feel vulnerable. This was different than finding an inspection tag in my checked luggage after an airplane flight. This time, a non-American looked into my eyes and then came into my home to see if I was breaking a law, a law whose rules and consequences I wasn't familiar with. A stranger rustled through my underwear and looked in every drawer while I watched from outside my home.

I wanted to cry out “I have my rights” even though I know there are valid reasons that Customs has the right to inspect whatever they want. I had to prove my innocence.  

Post Script:  We've been chatting with the tourist information centers about our experience since arriving in New Brunswick.  As it turns out, random commando searches are common and frustrating on both sides of the border here in the Northeast.  In addition to well known contraband, they are looking for potatoes.  Spud missiles, anyone?

Saturday Night at Hilltop Campground

I knew Hilltop was going to be a great spot the minute I turned in the driveway. Children were playing on a grassy hill and the pool was filled to capacity. It’s the first official weekend of summer here in “Down East” Maine. (I am unclear about the “down” part of the designation for this region, since you can’t get any more “up” than this and still be in the US.) All along the Maine coast summer's kickoff is celebrated with free days at museums, the beginning of seasonal ferries, the first sail of whale and lighthouse watching cruises. And it is a glorious first weekend, sunny skies, long warm days, cool and breezy nights. The natives are giddy, and so am I.

The Hilltop Campground celebrated with games all day and Bingo and Karaoke in the evening. And Bingo on a Saturday night at the Hilltop Campground, just south of the border to New Brunswick, ranks a close second to the shuttle liftoff on this summer’s RV trip. It started as a “why not, I’m just waiting for the laundry to dry anyway” and built to a fevered gambling experience. I bet against grandmothers, families, children and Canadians who paid for their bingo cards with loonies. There was no age limit for gambling at the Hilltop Campground.

I learned new things about Bingo, which has changed somewhat since my childhood days of sliding covers on permanent cards. Now the cards are disposable and there’s a see-through inker to cover the number. I watched the more savvy eleven year olds and got some tips. The first thing they did was mark the pattern of the game being called. “Small picture frame” meant fill in a square around the free box in the middle. “Plus sign” was more obvious and even I knew “blackout”. My personal favorite was “H”, because the numbers started rolling my way. When my H was missing two numbers, my heart started beating faster. The next number called was fifty five, pronounced "fitty five" by the caller and repeated “fitty five” by the crowd. I didn’t have it. But Granny playing six cards all taped together marked off "fitty five" several times. My tummy tightened. We’d been playing a long time. Someone was due to Bingo at any minute.

I heard a man on TV just the day before explaining that we could actualize our wishes through focusing. It was PBS and there was science to back his claim, so I focused. The caller said “G 46”. I had it! Now all I needed was B 10. I looked at the caller. He looked at me. He picked up the ball. “B…..” he paused, gathering dramatic effect. I nodded. I motioned come on. I focused on him. He focused back. “10!” “Whoop” I yelled. Folks turned and stared. I still needed to say the magic word. “Bingo!” Their faces sank; I celebrated in the end zone.

“What happens now?” I asked the lady who came to check my card. “They bring you the money.” Two fives American, two fives Canadian, two toonies and a Canadian quarter. I had played five rounds of Bingo, washed a load of clothes and was up about $18.00.

Later in the evening, I returned to the Pavillion with Daisy for Karaoke night at the Hilltop Campground. Once again there was no age limit, and also no talent minimum. Camper after camper struggled to read the words on the prompter and carry a tune. The crowd was there for the duration, no matter how much their ears hurt. Daisy howled and howled. Another camper turned to her and said, “My sentiments exactly.” I too agreed. It was a night to howl.

The Rain in Maine

It has been sunny every third day of my visit to the coastal splendor of Maine. When the sun shines, the blue sky reflects on the water, turning it into a deep sapphire jewel. Mountains run headlong into the sea and waves pound and pulse with a jagged rhythm mile after rocky mile. It’s easy to be swept away by the vigorous landscape on a sunny day.

When the rains and fog take their turn, thoughts turn to long yellow slickers and a cup of tea by a potbelly stove. The reason the residents call themselves Maineiacs? It takes a hardy breed to survive the gray days. Last year in June it rained twenty seven days. When it rains, it’s a great day for an LL Bean outlet trip, where plenty of slickers, rain hats, and fleece pullovers are available to round out a southerner’s wardrobe.

On gray days, the lighthouses work overtime guiding the lobster boats safely to harbor. A lobster fisherman may run five hundred traps marked by distinctly painted buoys and check them every other day. On peninsula back-roads, every house has traps stacked in the yard. So many people depend on the fertility of a crustacean....not an easy life, and one that is threatened by a proposed ban on lobster trapping for five years.

The rain doesn’t seem to affect the attitude of the RV park operators. They attract seasonal volunteers who are so happy to be here that they can’t wait to hand out advice on attractions no one should miss. The farther out the peninsula the campground, the funkier. Near Bass Harbor, the campground coffee pot is ready at 7 am, and the summer resident retirees aka volunteers aka workmen show up to discuss the myriad of projects going on. There’s an addition to the office under way, and it looks like the insulation on the side of the building has been exposed during several rainstorms. There’s talk of a new water heater. The desk clerk is getting a lesson on closing up, which involves putting a board across the front door in lieu of locking it.

Another work camper attempts to rewire the internet connection; he’s trying to thread eight tiny wires into a plug. Should he succeed, I’ll post this blog. Then I’ll have another cup of hot coffee before putting on my new LL Bean slicker and walking out to the lighthouse, where I will think about the family living in the lighthouse and the families of the men in the lobster boats. I wish for them the bluest of skies.

New Hampshire Moments

Near wildflowers, lakes, bogs and country roads
in the yarn shop the ladies spin and share their lives

on a quiet road a sway back horse lives out his days

and long departed settlers rest with their memories
of days when they walked along these streams
looked up at these mountains

and left their legacy to the flinty people of New Hampshire

like my friend Brenda
who has climbed 48 peaks over 4,000 feet

and other flinty folk
who honored the fallen of 9/11
by raising the flag on every one of those 48 peaks

in memory

9/11 story

Ghosts of Cape Cod

Duck Creek Cemetery is the final resting place of many a soul. This particular soul seems a little restless. I have been presented with a refractory explanation for the Orb of light over the gravestone, but I cling to my belief that this is the soul of one who has not been able to move on. So many who might have unfinished business here......mothers who died in childbirth, interred with their babies; children, marked by tiny stones next to their parents; second wives, interred next to the first; an entire family dead within a week, victims of diseases we no longer fear; men washed away at sea; veterans of the civil war.
Epitaphs tell of their love, their despair, their hopes for the beyond.
"This youth in the midst of present youthfulness and future promise was lost in the disastrous wreck of the Schooner Warrior..."
"Friends pray stop awhile, here I'm buried with my child...."
"Snatched from her loving mate in the bloom of life...."
"Tree and fruit shall spring again.."
"In the firm belief of a glorious resurrection...."

I pass this way and remember them, imagining their lives, and I offer a prayer that they are in peace.

Who was Roger Williams?

 

If you were raised Baptist, I'll bet you know that Roger Williams was a separatist minister banished from Plymouth colony in 1636 for his radical views that each person had a right to worship without interference from the state. He established the first Baptist church in America in Providence. So if you want some choices in religion, this is the state for you. First Jewish synogogue, first Catholic Church...Roger welcomed them all.

The Rhodys continued to be a free thinking group after Roger was gone. They declared independence from England two months before the rest of the colonies and were the first state to outlaw slavery.

Little Rhode Island is 48 miles wide with 400 miles of coastline. With a jagged profile around Narragansett Bay, there's plenty of lighthouses and their stories. What seafarer's wife waited for the return of her man? What lightkeepers lived and raised families there?  Who perished, like the lighthouse keeper who died on Whale Rock in the hurricane of 1938?

And with water comes bridges. What is it about a bridge that fascinates? Starting over the bridge, there's anticipation, the jitters before takeoff.  Then from the top, I can see for miles, and I am flying. Add in the architecture, the graceful cables, buttresses, metal lacework. Finish with the mystery of the other side, still to be discovered. One minute, five minutes....the journey is short for me; but for early inhabitants, before the bridge, what waits on the other side was worth a day's journey.



(Texas fact:  Harris county is 50% larger than Rhode Island)

If I were a Nutmegger

I wouldn't mind being from the third smallest state, because Connecticut is the most manicured and green state in the US.

I would live in a turn of the century white clapboard house...turn of 1800 or maybe even 1700.... on a village green, a manicured grassy parkland with a gazebo or a monument. I would share my green with the ghost of Harriet Beecher Stowe or Mark Twain or Marian Anderson or Eugene O'Neill. And I would belong to St. James Episocopal Church....every town has one.

I'd live in a town with an English name, like York or Kent or Cornwall or New London on the Thames River.  Maybe I would cross a covered bridge into the town. I would buy fresh strawberries in June and later in the summer, corn on the cob at the Farmer's Markets. I would stop at Tag sales. I would hang out the bunting on Memorial Day and not bring it in till time for pumpkins.

I'd have a landscape rock sticking out of my lawn because it would be too massive to move. With all the other rocks I would build low walls of set stone, no mortar. In the summer I would manicure the lawn around the rock, and in the fall, I wouldn't mind raking leaves, because they are so splendid on the maples and elms in the fall. In the winter, I'd snowplow with my 4x4 vehicle.

I would drive the coast of Long Island Sound or up the Connecticut River for peekaboo views of sailboats and harbors.

I would order Mystic Pizza delivered.

I think I see the delivery driver now.

Does this count?

 

Since my days as a Scout and after reading Bill Bryson's "A Walk in the Woods" I have fantasized hiking the Appalatian trail. Today, Amanda drove me to the trailhead and took my picture. So I ask you, does this count?

How quickly life moves on. Amanda, who first came into my scout troop in 6th grade, is now teaching 6th grade with four years seniority. She welcomed me into her lovely two story home, took me to the top of the highest mountain in Massachusets, then to dinner with her husband. All the while she was the gracious hostess. Daisy got bottled water, and in the morning we had free access to her shower, her refrigerator, anything we desired.

Here's to a mini reunion of troop 2010, Scouts everywhere, and hiking the Appalatian trail.

Tilley Trivia

Carl Tilley Lincoln checked out his roots this morning at Tilley Hall in Hyde Park NY. The dates all sound right for him to be related to Charles Tilley, born sometime about 1830. In the 1860's Charles moved to Hyde Park and built tract houses for the workers of the town, most of them employed by the rich and famous in their country homes. Later he built Tilley Hall on the site of a burned declining hotel in Hyde Park. Tilley Hall housed a general store, The Oddfellows Lodge and a Dance Hall. All was prosperous at Tilley Hall until the 1980's. Eventually the site went up for sale for back taxes. In the early 2000's the current owner, Roger Larsen, got involved. It is now the site of Cranberry cafe (good coffee, baked goods, breakfast, lunch) and has offices on the upper floors.

Was Charles Tilley a brother of Admiral Tilley, Carl's great grandfather?  Admiral Benjamin Franklin Tilley was born March 29, 1848, the sixth of nine children, in Bristol, Rhode Island.^[1] During the American Civil War, Tilley enrolled in the United States Naval Academy on September 22, 1863, at the age of 15. Could there be a connection?

Hudson Pastoral

It only takes a few miles on the Palisades Parkway to leave Manhattan behind. And less than 100 miles farther north are monasteries, country homes, bucolic views of the Hudson, and history for the casual or serious presidential scholar. 

Hyde Park,  where FDR's home, burial place and presidential library are run by the Park Service, is our destination via a scenic meander along the Hudson. Nearby the Vanderbilts left a  little 56 room country mansion to the National Park Service as well.  Together, the Roosevelts and the Vanderbilts can occupy a whole day.  Of the two, I prefer the Roosevelts..... old money vs new money.....

But if I were to choose the highlight of Hyde Park, it would be the CIA. The Culinary Institute of America, housed in a former Jesuit Seminary perched on a bluff above the Hudson, is the best lunch spot in the United States.  Attentive service and preparation by the students at the Institute, culinary ecstasy ranging from elegant to cafe fare, delightful views of the red brick monastery and its spires, Hudson vistas.....I could go on, but here comes my chicken pot pie.  Ummmmm!