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Western MassachusettsMay 27 to June 3, 2001. |
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Day One, Sunday After spending a few days with friends and family in New York's Hudson Valley, I began the real meat of my vacation at around 1pm on Sunday afternoon by driving from Kingston to my first destination, the Mount Frissell trailhead, where I arrived at about 4pm. It took me so long because I had some difficulty figuring out how to get there. I eventually took the long way, as is often my wont. Mount Frissell South Slope is the highest point in Connecticut. It shares a unique distinction with only one other state high point -- it's located on the slope of a mountain whose peak is in another state, in this case Massachusetts. The other high point like that is Nevada's Boundary Peak, which is shared with California. When I arrived Sunday afternoon, I contented myself with having found the trailhead, on a bumpy dirt road in the middle of nowhere, deeming it a bit too late to start out on a hike of unknown length. Instead I decided to check out nearby Bash Bish Falls. Bash Bish is a relatively small waterfall, and not especially impressive, but nice nevertheless. I wanted to see it because of its alliterative name, and because a book I read recently (The Forgotten Nature of New England by Dean B. Bennett) noted it had not changed much from when it was first described in the sixteenth century. I suppose he's right -- the waterfall itself doesn't look much different from the illustrations he included in his book -- but I suspect the paved roads, railings, walkways, and restrooms haven't always been there. Many of the surrounding boulders are inscribed with graffiti. Due to a lack of time, patience, and/or skill, recent inscriptions are merely scraped on, whereas older ones are neatly chiseled. Bash Bish Fall State Park I next drove to my first campground in October Mountain State Forest, a little north of Lee, Massachusetts, arriving at about 6:15pm. The campground seemed to be about half full -- a little unusual for the time of year, but I think the weather kept many Memorial Day campers away. I set up the tent and went into town to take a look around and find some food. I immediately broke one of the three vacation rules I'd mentally made for myself when I set out that morning. The rules were:
I broke rule #1 by getting dinner at Pizza Hut. I managed to keep the other two rules throughout the rest of my vacation, but the food one was just too difficult to adhere to while still keeping a schedule. During my meal I read in a brochure about Colantha Mooie, a local celebrity of sorts. Colantha was a cow who produced 205,928.5 pounds of milk during her lifetime (1919-1937), a world record at the time. The brochure said she had a grave marker in Lee, so of course I had to go find it. The monument is on property that was once part of Highland Farm, owned by a Mr. John G. Ellis, but which is now someone's front yard. I found the monument at about 8:20 that night without much trouble. The inscription says: HIGHLAND COLANTHA MOOIE A HOLSTEIN-FRIESIAN COW WHO HELD THE WORLD RECORD FOR LIFETIME MILK PRODUCTION BORN, LIVED, AND DIED ON THIS FARM 1919-1937 Grave of Colantha Mooie After this feat, I went back to camp and, despite my having set up the tent earlier, I went to sleep in the back of my car. I had decided at some point that, based on the weather forecast for the upcoming week, it might be more comfortable to stay in the Volvo. I was correct, and I afterwards had several dry and restful nights stretched out in the back of the station wagon. This arrangement had the added advantage that I didn't need to fuss with equipment every morning and evening -- everything I needed was right there in the car. Sure, it kind of defeated the purpose of staying in a campground, reducing my camp to a mere parking spot, but I wasn't really out there to camp anyway -- I was out there for an intense roadtrip. Day Two, Monday The Volvo had been making some rattling noises for several months, so it was no big surprise when the exhaust system fell off on the way back down to Mount Frissell. Luckily I was prepared for just such an emergency -- I still had a coil of wire in the car from the time when the exact same thing had happened three cars previously, in 1989. I used some of the wire to tie up the exhaust system so it wouldn't drag on the ground, and continued on my way. I was driving the loudest automobile in the Berkshires, but I wasn't going to let it stop me from enjoying my vacation. I felt pretty sure there wouldn't be a Midas open on Memorial Day anyway, so fixing the car would just have to wait. I arrived at the Mount Frissell trailhead at 9am. The skies were overcast, and while it wasn't raining, I took an umbrella with me just in case. The trail wasn't very steep, but I was out of shape and had to rest every dozen steps or so. According to a trip account from AmericasRoof.com, Connecticut tries to de-emphasize their highpoint, directing hikers to nearby Bear Mountain (2316 feet) because it lies completely within the state. "Bear Mountain boasts a handsome rock tower. Frissell-South Slope has the green stake." The green stake is a bar of green-painted metal that marks Connecticut's real high point (2380 feet). I made my way up Round Mountain, then down to a small valley, then back up Frissell. Eventually I reached the peak, turned left, and began working my way around the edge of the mountain to the Connecticut high point. It wasn't long before I found it. I paused there long enough to take pictures (notice I didn't take pictures on the peak!), then continued down another half mile or so to a concrete post that marks the spot where the borders of Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New York meet. That was as far as I needed to go and I retraced my steps to the peak of Frissell, where I located and signed a register book before returning down the other side. I passed a fellow of about 65 or 70 on his way up. As he chugged past he asked, "Do you think it will hold off?" He meant the rain. I replied that I didn't know, but I hoped so. Fifteen minutes later, when I was almost within sight of the car, the sky opened up. I opened my umbrella. As I drove away, loudly, on the country road, I thought of the old guy getting drenched. Mount Frissell It had taken me three hours to do the Connecticut High Point. I arrived at my next destination, Bartholomew's Cobble, at about 12:45pm. I was at Bartholomew's Cobble to find a letterbox. What's a letterbox? I'll let an excerpt from the FAQ at Letterboxing.org tell you: Here's the basic idea: Someone hides a waterproof box somewhere (in a beautiful, interesting, or remote location) containing at least a logbook and a carved rubber stamp, and perhaps other goodies. The hider then usually writes directions to the box (called "clues" or "the map"), which can be straightforward, cryptic, or any degree in between. Often the clues involve map coordinates or compass bearings from landmarks, but they don't have to. Selecting a location and writing the clues is one aspect of the art. Right. I was at Bartholomew's Cobble to find the Craggy Knoll letterbox. I found it easily, but I'm not going to tell you where. Unfortunately, I didn't have my own ink pad yet, and there wasn't one in the box, so I just wrote a short note and left it at that. The Cobble is another of those places featured in Dean Bennet's book that hasn't changed much since white men first laid eyes on it. It consists of many, many glacially-strewn boulders that shelter as many as 800 species of plants, some of which are very rare. Five miles of trails wind around and over these boulders, through stands of hemlock, oak, and birch and down to the Housatonic River. The other side of the river is level pastureland, where cows can be seen grazing contentedly. After finding the letterbox, I paused to retie my mufflers to the underside of the car. While I was doing that, the staff ecologist was nice enough to offer to help by looking up a Midas shop for me in the yellow pages. Turned out the nearest one was in Pittsfield, but I was planning to be in Pittsfield the next day anyway, so it fit in with my plans. I thanked the guy for his help and roared away from the Cobble. Bartholomew's Cobble My next stop was for another letterbox, at Monument Mountain in Great Barrington. I arrived there at around 2:45pm. This box was also easy to find, and while it had an ink pad, I hadn't yet bought myself a stamp to use, so I used my thumb print. I decided to continue around and over the mountain on the loop trail, rather than return the short way. The steep parts still forced me to pause to catch my breath every dozen steps or so, but I imagined that it wasn't as tough as Frissell had been that morning. A brochure for Monument Mountain sez: Part of a range of hills between the Taconic Range to the west and the Hoosac Range to the east, Monument Mountain reaches 1,735 feet at its peak and overlooks the hills, marshes, and river valley of southern Berkshire County. Three miles of trails -- some steep, some gentle -- lead through a high canopy forest of white pine and oaks. Two legendary writers met for the first time in 1850 on Monument Mountain -- Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville. Hawthorne had just finished writing The Scarlet Letter and young Melville was contemplating a story involving a white whale. As a result of their friendship and discussions, Melville later dedicated his novel, Moby Dick, to Hawthorne. I didn't meet anyone famous while climbing Monument Mountain. Monument Mountain Next was the Guthrie Center. For any of you who remember the song "Alice's Restaurant," this is the church where Alice and Ray and Fasha the dog lived, up in the bell tower. The movie Alice's Restaurant was filmed there in 1969. Today the building is an Interfaith Church, a cultural and educational exchange, founded in 1991. The center was closed when I got there at 4:35pm, but I took pictures and considered coming back the following day. Might I actually be able to meet Arlo Guthrie? Probably not, but perhaps someone might be able to direct me to the very cliff where he dumped the garbage. Wouldn't that be cool? I took several pictures of the building and continued on me way. The Guthrie Center I arrived at the Norman Rockwell Museum at 5:05pm, to find my final letterbox of the day, too late to visit the museum itself. I located the box quickly and was surprised to discover a second box with it. It was called The Backpacker and turned out to be a hitchhiker -- a letterbox that has no home of its own but hitches a ride from location to location with each letterboxer who finds it. I left my thumb print in the Rockwell letterbox, grabbed the Backpacker, and continued on my way. Norman Rockwell Museum I next tried to find Norman Rockwell's grave, but I really had no hope of doing so, since the cemetery office was closed and there was no one to ask. Still, I drove slowly through the Stockbridge Cemetery (remember, I'm really LOUD), hoping to stumble across his stone. I had no luck and I soon gave up, intending to return the next day. I went instead to the Prime Outlets at Lee. It being Memorial Day, I figured it was my last chance to do some serious shopping before the sales ended. I arrived there at 6pm. This turned out to be the perfect time to shop at the outlets -- it was the end of the weekend and the crowds had dispersed. I spent a little over two hours going from store to store. In each I was pretty much the sole customer, waited on personally by one or more clerks. I felt like Michael Jackson, having rented Disneyland for the day, although not quite as much fun. Or weird. In the two hours I was there I dropped about $300 on three pairs of slacks, six polo shirts, a new pair of Reeboks, a pair of Topsiders, two pairs of shorts, and a package of socks. Not bad. I also had a hamburger at a place called Flamers. I was amused by the name, but the food was nothing to get excited about. I saved a ketchup packet for my friend Dan who has a page of rude wrappers on his website. I still had 45 minutes of prime shoppin' time left, but I had accomplished my mission, so I headed back to October Mountain to bed down for the night. Thankfully, I seemed to be the only person left in the whole campground by that point, so I didn't have to worry about pissing anyone off with my exquisitely thunderous vehicle. Lee Prime Outlets Day Three, Tuesday I got up early and growled my way north to Pittsfield, to the Midas Muffler Shop there. While mechanics tsk'd over the treatment I've meted out to my old workhorse over the past 120,000 miles, I stepped across the street to the Allendale shopping center to check out the shipwreck in a parking lot. As explanation, I offer this excerpt from Oddity Odyssey by James Chenoweth: Upended as the centerpiece of its parking area is the thirty-two-foot bow of the Sea Bee, a vessel used for many years to service and fuel fishing vessels working out of Boston Harbor. Built in 1948, the Sea Bee had finally been left sitting in saltwater and sinking twice a day at high tide. Sculptor Dustin Shuler arranged to have the fifteen-ton bow severed from the rest of the ship, rebuilt the bow's mast and rigging, and painted the bottom red, the hull black, the trim white, and the anchors silver. The bow is pointed skyward and planted firmly in a concrete block. Shuler says his concept is not political but simply art. Most observers would agree. Is the ship sinking, stern first? Or is it rising hopefully out of a troubled sea? The Sea Bee may seem inappropriate in a Berkshire shopping mall, but like a mustache on the Mona Lisa, it makes you stop and think. The Sea Bee has been making people stop and stare since 1990. Dustin Shuler is perhaps more well-known for his Chicago sculpture entitled "Spindle," which consists of eight automobiles impaled on a fifty foot pole. Shipwreck in a Parking Lot After examining the Sea Bee I walked around the not-yet-opened plaza, checking out other, smaller, pieces of sculpture. Unfortunately, most of them had either been vandalized or damaged by weather and weren't much fun. I returned to Midas for my estimate ($380-odd, if you must know), then went to the diner next door for a mediocre breakfast. The car was finished at around ten o'clock, and I continued my (much quieter) journey north. My next stop was the Country Charm Restaurant, which was said by a contributor to RoadsideAmerica.com to possess "an enormous statue of a white rooster (I'd estimate he's about 12 feet tall)." Well, the rooster was something of a disappointment. I'd say he couldn't have been taller than seven or seven-and-a-half feet. A fowl of very similar size can be seen in Rhode Island, along Allens Avenue/Narragansett Boulevard, between Providence and Pawtuxet. Giant Rooster Next was Cheshire's cheese monument. Again, I'll allow James Chenoweth to describe the significance of this object: Back in 1801, Baptist minister John Leland persuaded local farmers to contribute one day's milk toward making a colossal cheese for President Thomas Jefferson. On the appointed day, farmers came from miles around with donations collected from nine hundred cows. No cheese press was large enough to handle all of the curds, so they used a reinforced cider press, but even that wasn't enough. The main cheese wheel was as big as a bass drum and weighed 1,450 pounds, while three smaller cheeses weighed 70 pounds each. The giant cheese was pressed for a whole month, then carefully removed from the press and ripened for many weeks in a cheese house. It had to be turned over daily without cracking it. After being safely transported by land and water, it arrived at the White House in a cart drawn by six horses and bearing a sign: THE GREATEST CHEESE IN AMERICA FOR THE GREATEST MAN IN AMERICA. When presented to him on New Year's Day 1802 in the East Room of the White House, President Thomas Jefferson gave Leland two hundred dollars rather than accept a gift from poor farmers. As he cut the first slice, the president said, "I will cause this auspicious event to be placed on the records of our nation and it will ever shine amid its glorious archives." The cheese continued to be served at the White House for the next three years. The monument in Chester is a replica of the cider press and displays a tablet honoring Leland, Jefferson, and the cheese itself. Cheshire Cheese Monument The cheese press was fairly easy to find, but not so my next object of interest. Although I had a good article about the thing, which gave a pretty good idea of where it could be found, I spent almost three hours driving up and down a hill to the east of Cheshire, looking for it. After the first ride over the hill and back, I stopped at a gas station for gas and to ask directions. A local told me vaguely where it was and claimed, "you can't miss it." Another trip over the hill revealed that indeed, you can miss it. A brief walk through likely-looking fields and woods didn't turn it up either. I finally wised up and inquired at the town clerk's office. The woman there sent me up to the town assessor. This guy had the goods -- detailed real estate maps that accurately pinpointed the spot I was looking for -- at the end of an unmarked dirt road sandwiched between two house lots. The New Providence Monument, erected in 1927, commemorates the existence of a small town settled by Baptists from Coventry and Warwick, Rhode Island, in 1766. Almost nothing is left of the original town now, except for a cemetery and this monument. For whatever reason, the settlement never took firm hold and residents gradually left for the nearby town of Cheshire, or for Adams to the north. Anyway, the cool thing is that the monument was designed to be a replica of Newport's Old Stone Mill. The committee that chose the design thought it would be a tribute to the Rhode Islanders who founded the town, not realizing that Newport is on the opposite side of Narragansett Bay from Coventry and Warwick. The center of the tower contains a sarcophagus in which is buried Colonel Joab Stafford, the guy who originally surveyed the land for the town. New Providence Monument I rewarded myself for my tenacity by stopping at a Goodwill store on the way into North Adams, where I bought a few CDs. I next went to Natural Bridge State Park. The bridge in question was carved from marble over many millennia, yet it's not very impressive as such things go. If you're thinking of some of the stone bridges that one can see out west, for instance, one is bound to be disappointed. Still, it was a pleasant place to visit. The park also boasts the only dam in North America made entirely from marble. Natural Bridge State Park My next stop was Mass MOCA, an industrial-sized art gallery that had been recommended to me by several people, but d'oh! It was closed? Can you imagine? Closed on the day after Memorial Day? I moved on instead to Sand Springs, a warm spring in nearby Williamstown, to determine hours and prices. It was late in the day by then, and somewhat chilly, and I had no bathing suit, so I had no intention of doing any swimming that afternoon. Satisfying myself on those informational points, I zoomed back down south, arriving at the Norman Rockwell Museum with just enough time to ask directions to Norman's Grave and take a stroll around the grounds before the museum closed. I took some pictures of myself perched atop one of Peter Rockwell's climbing sculptures. You might imagine how much fun it is to try to get into position in the eight or so seconds before the camera takes your picture. I did it at least half a dozen times. Unfortunately, the three photos where I've actually managed to position myself correctly are all too dark to see any details. With the handy dandy directions from the museum lady, it was no problem to find Norman's grave. He's buried, along with his two wives, Mary and Molly, within an enclosure of hedges. A huge ant colony has taken up residence at the foot of the Rockwell stone. I wonder how far down they've dug? Grave of Norman Rockwell While in Pittsfield earlier in the day, I'd passed a restaurant called New England Chowder House, and because I thought that sounded like a place that knew what it was doing, I returned north for dinner. I tried their chowder and their broiled salmon. Both were less than I had expected, and in the case of the chowder, also more than I had expected. Their "award winning" or "famous" (whatever they were calling it) chowder had the look and consistency of pale vanilla pudding. I'm not kidding. You could stand a spoon upright in the stuff. There were, in fact, bits of clam in it, and that combined with the lack of sweetness was all that prevented that chowder from being mistaken for desert. The salmon was lackluster and a tad overdone. Needless to say, my meal didn't make me forget Rhode Island seafood. I had in mind to see a movie that night, and to that end, during the day I'd asked a few people I'd encountered about movie theaters in the area. The consensus seemed to be that there were theaters in Pittsfield, so at the restaurant I asked my waitress for directions. She thought a moment and then told me to go west out of town on Route 9, and that I would find what I was looking for a few miles out. I did find theaters there -- unfortunately, they were closed, and didn't appear to have been open for some months, judging by the movie titles on the marquee. So, disappointed once more, I turned the nose of my car south once again. Arriving back in Lee at about 8pm, I decided to try to locate Santarella, a house in Tyringham, just a few miles south. This time I knew before going that it would be closed -- it was too late in the evening for it to be open -- but I was surprised to discover that it would not be open even if I returned the next day. The house was undergoing renovations and, while they had apparently been aiming for a Memorial Day weekend opening, they had missed their mark. Santarella is the former home and studio of sculptor Sir Henry Hudson Kitson, who designed the place to look like something out of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. He worked there from 1916 to 1947. Kitson sculpted several national monuments, such as Lexington's "Minuteman" (the model for which was actually an Englishman). The place looks pretty cool, and I wish it had been open during my visit. Santarella My last stop of the day was another trip to Lee Prime Outlets to buy a bathing suit. As I mentioned, I had plans to get myself into that warm spring in Williamstown. Day Four, Wednesday I returned early to Santarella for pictures of the exterior of the house. I was especially intrigued by the construction of the roof, which appears to be made of dozens of overlapping layers of common tar shingles, sculpted to simulate an organic sort of fungus look. I then returned south to Bartholomew's Cobble. When I first visited the Craggy Knoll letterbox, I didn't have a notepad to collect stamps, nor an ink pad to stamp them with. In the intervening days I'd picked up both items, so I returned to the Cobble to collect my Craggy Knoll stamp. From there I headed east to Springfield, arriving around 11am. It didn't take me long to locate the Springfield cemetery, and after a quick ride around the outside edge, I stopped in at the office to get directions to the grave of Milton Bradley. The receptionist gave me a map, and then suggested I follow the caretaker who was going that way anyway. So that's what I did. The caretaker took me to the grave, which was located on the opposite side of the cemetery from where it was marked on the map. After paying my respects to the father of board games, and after examining a few other interesting gravestones, I reported the mistake back to the office. The receptionist blamed the mistake on the Girl Scouts, who she said had prepared the map for a merit badge or something. Grave of Milton Bradley The next stop of the day was in Chicopee, to see their giant southern gentleman. This is one of a race of roadside behemoths referred to by Roadside America as Muffler Men. Or, more specifically, it is of a sub-genre known as Service Station Men. This one reportedly was once painted like Uncle Sam and stood watch over a Springfield car dealership for more than 30 years. Now it stands watch over the Chicopee exit from the Mass Pike, from the parking lot of the Plantation Inn. Service Station Man Continuing on a meandering northward path, I next stopped off in Holyoke to check out their dinosaur footprints. The pull-off isn't well marked and I think I drove past them twice, but I finally found them. A class of school children had evidently been there earlier in the day, for most of the prints were outlined in chalk. A few things that weren't prints were also outlined in chalk, but that just goes to show that some kids have good imaginations. Or that they're morons. Whatever. It actually was convenient for me, because I don't think the prints would have shown up very well on film if they hadn't been outlined in chalk. A brochure sez: "The larger, meat-eating dinosaur (Eubrontes giganteus), more than twenty feet in length, lumbered slowly through the mud, leaving great three-toed footprints some fifteen inches long. The footprints and fossils are almost 200 million years old!" Dinosaur Tracks Not far from the dinosaur tracks is the abandoned Mountain Park Amusement Park. I learned about this place from a Roadside America contributor, Jeremy Smith. He sez: This is the remains of the once thriving Mountain Park, a mid sized New England amousement [sic] park that sprung up in the early part of the century. The park closed sometime in the mid 80's, but has yet to tear down many of the structures that housed many of the rides. There have been many fires to a lot of the structures, but the famous "midway" is still in good shape. It's a very spooky trip walking around this apocolyptic [sic] landscape, complete with graffitti [sic], weeds, and used paint balls. You can still walk into the structure that housed the classic merry-go-round, which was salvaged and placed in Holyoke's Heritage State Park located downtown. You can also walk through an overgrown miniature golf course, see the collapsed roof of the bumper car structure and much more. The area is mostly populated by reckless teenagers looking to improve their graffiti skills and get toasted, but during the day, (I would never go there at night. Too scary.) you can pretend that you are the only survivor after a nuclear attack from a third world despot. I didn't do any such pretending, and I didn't see any reckless toasted teenagers, although I saw plenty of evidence of their presence in the form of numerous skateboard ramps placed every which where. I agree the park would be kind of spooky at night. I've also been to Rocky point recently, and I'd have to say this place is in worse shape. It's a property begging for development. So many of the buildings have collapsed that it's almost not worth it to trespass and poke around. Not only is there not much to see, but what buildings remain might very well fall on you. I was interested to discover, however, a vintage recording booth in the basement of the carousel structure. You know, one of those booths where you pay a quarter and it records you singing or telling dirty jokes or whatever onto a small acetate disk? Someone ought to rescue that object and restore it. It should be in a museum, not falling prey to vandals. Mountain Park I had some trouble finding NASHional Dino Land. It was listed on Roadside America as being in South Hadley. I got directions at the post office in that town, but the guy didn't tell me I'd have to go into Granby to find it. So when I found myself entering Granby, I was certain I'd passed it. Deciding to go straight to the source, I drove all the way back into the center of South Hadley and called Edna Nash directly. She soon set me right. As she explained to me later, Dino Land is located in Granby, but they've always used a South Hadley mailing address. NASHional Dino Land is in some ways the highlight of this trip. I say that because it epitomizes the ramshackle sort of roadside attraction, well past its heyday (if in fact it ever had a heyday in the first place), that many of us think of when we think of roadside attractions. An empty, weed-strewn parking lot, a rusting antique truck, badly sculpted concrete dinosaurs, dubious exhibits, and an elderly, slightly deaf proprietress all make this a must-see destination. And then there are the dinosaur footprints, this little pit stop's raison d'être. Carlton S. Nash found the tracks in 1933, and recognizing a gold mine when he saw it, he soon purchased the land and opened Nash Dinosaurland. Footprints have been quarried out of the land ever since. Carlton died in 1997, but his son still carries on the tradition, with Edna, Carlton's wife, manning the shop on Wednesdays. After dutifully looking around at the meager exhibits outside and inside, I set myself to the task of picking out a suitable souvenir. I mentioned to Edna that I needed to buy a birthday present for a co-worker who had a pet iguana. She suggested I get a dinosaur footprint, but on looking over the offerings, some of which were quite nice, I told her I couldn't afford one. I may like my coworkers, but I don't like them $150 worth. She then suggested that maybe I could afford a toe. I had to turn that down as well. After all, a footprint is recognizable as a footprint, but a toe just looks like a dent. Besides, even the toes were too rich for my blood. I settled for some fossilized dinosaur dung instead -- got a piece for myself and a piece for my coworker. To learn more about Nashional Dino Land, check out Roadside America's excellent field report. NASHional Dino Land My next destination was the Quabbin Reservoir Visitors Center in Belchertown, where I hoped to learn some of the history behind the reservoir, but I wasn't able to find it that day. I did stop at Winsor Dam, one of the two earthworks that holds back the waters of the Quabbin, though. After spending too much time looking for the visitors center, I headed north along the west shore of the reservoir to Pelham, home of the Poison Oyster Stone. The stone is in Knights Cemetery and marks the grave of Warren Gibbs, who family members suspected had been poisoned with arsenic-laced oysters by his wife. The epitaph on the stone openly accuses her of the crime. died by arsenic poison Mar. 23. 1860. AE. 36 yrs. 5 mos. 23 dys. Think my friend when this you see How my wife hath dealt by me She in some oysters did prepare Some poison for my lot and share Then of the same I did partake And nature yielded to its fate Before she my wife became Mary Felton was her name. Erected by his Brother WM. GIBBS. According to James Chenoweth, the original "stone was stolen, recovered, and finally disappeared, probably destroyed. The duplicate stone that replaced it was stolen in 1940. Seven years later it was discovered buried in a dirt basement." Evidently someone very much wanted the past to remain the past, but after being discovered in the basement, the duplicate was moved to the Pelham Historical Society for safekeeping. The stone in the cemetery is a duplicate of the duplicate. Poison Oyster Stone duplicate duplicate Next stop: Amherst and the grave of Emily Dickinson. This wasn't hard to find, even though I arrived after business hours. There didn't seem to be an office anyway. The difficulty was in obtaining a good picture of Emily's gravestone, because a fence erected around the Dickinson plot had been placed right up against stone marker. I did my best. Grave of Emily Dickinson I noticed, while driving around the outside of the cemetery, a pretty good sized Salvation Army that was still open. Not being one to pass up such opportunities, I spend a little bit of time and money there. I bought a pair of jeans, two pairs of shorts, and a pair of dress shoes. I next proceeded a little ways up the street to the Mills River Recreation Area where I hoped to locate the This Little Pig letterbox. Finding this letterbox involved no mountain climbing, for which I was grateful. Instead a series of clues in verse led me around the recreation area and into the woods where I found the box exactly where it should be. I was amused to discover I'd also found another hitchhiker box, named Ready Freddy on the Open Road. Now I had two, because I hadn't thought to bring the first one with me. I performed my stamping and jotting (still using my thumb as my stamp) and placed the Little Pig box back where I'd gotten it. This Little Pig Letterbox Remember my efforts to see a movie last night? I hadn't given up on that idea, and I was rewarded, on my way out of Amherst, with the golden vision of a cineplex. I stopped in and was just in time for the 7:15 showing of Shrek. Later, it was dinner from Burger King and a long drive back to October Mountain State Forest to sleep. Day Five, Thursday Thursday morning I packed up the tent that I never slept in and broke camp, for that night I would be staying at a new camp ground. I drove north, back to North Adams, to visit Mass MOCA, but when I arrived, around 10am, it was closed. What? Closed again? Well, let's say, "not open." Somehow it slipped my notice when I was there on Tuesday that the museum doesn't open until 11am. Slackers. So, to kill a little time, I decided to drive to the top of Mount Greylock, the highest point in Massachusetts (3,491 feet). No one can accuse me of being a prima donna, though, because I had already climbed it on my own little legs the previous October. There were a sizable number of people at the top back then, but not so when I drove up that Thursday. In fact, I was tempted to think I was the only person on top of the mountain. I walked up to the observation tower and found it locked up tight. Looking around, I saw no one at all, and my impression that the place was devoid of life didn't change as I approached the lodge. I tried the door, expecting it to be locked, but instead it opened. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, a guy running a vacuum cleaner across the floor, some other guys walking back and forth importantly, and a girl girling the gift shop counter. It was like something out of a horror movie, where our hero steps through some sort of portal to find himself transported in time or something. The gift shop chick asked if she could help me, and I approached to ask why the observation tower was closed. She was surprised to find out it was and went off to find a manager. The answer that came back was that they only open the tower on weekends. How lame. Although the gift shop girl was kinda cute, I couldn't see any reason to remain on the mountain, and so I drove carefully down, pumping my brakes. Even with the care that I took, my brakes were a little mushy when I reached bottom. Mass MOCA was finally open when I got there, so I paid my six bucks and began looking around. Mass MOCA is an industrial-sized museum, a place for pieces of art that are too big or messy for traditional museums. I'd heard it was also more interactive, but I found that not to be the case -- there were signs everywhere that said, "Please do not touch the art." Still, there were a few pretty cool things to look at. The most impressive was the UberOrgan, a vast construction that filled an entire 300 foot long, 28 foot high gallery. An informational card described it as "a massive musical instrument, a Brobdingnagian bastard cousin of the bagpipe, piano and the pipe organ." It resembled a collection of enormous internal organs, and the sounds it produced reinforced that impression. I spent a good amount of time examining it and listening to its toots, rumbles, and farts. Other pieces that impressed me were a pair of giant kitchen gadgets -- an egg slicer and some sort of slicer-dicer. While I was admiring those objects an older man took a liking to a nearby slanted steel chair on wheels and sat down in it. A guard quietly admonished him to please not sit on the art. Then the guard came over and admonished me to please not take flash pictures of the art. Lame. Another exhibit consisted of found balls. There was a drop bin located outside the museum for those who wanted to contribute. The aim seems to be to eventually fill one whole gallery with balls that have been found in vacant lots, on the street, in the woods, etc. A sign requested that balls not be purchased or stolen for the project, but I must say I'm tempted to mail them the basketball that the kids next door keep leaving in my back yard. My other favorite piece was located outside and I was actually able to view it the first day I visited, when the museum was closed. It includes six small live trees, suspended upside down by wires, each with its own little self-contained pot of soil. The trees are watered by an automatic drip system. Growing upside down doesn't seem to have effected them all that much. A few of the trees have some small branches that bend up toward the sun, but I'd have expected to see the whole tree bent upwards. Mass MOCA Having disposed of Mass MOCA, I made my way once more to Sand Springs. According to Soak.net, Sand Springs "is situated on a site rich in early American History. Records show that Indians of the five nations used the area as their campgrounds." The first commercial mention of the springs and their curative values were documented in an advertisement in the Williamstown Advocate of 1827. Testimonials, by many, were made of the beneficial effects of the waters. Sand Springs was established as a resort in 1762. Recent excavation of the site revealed many Indian tools and arrowheads. The main attraction however, is the thermal mineral water that surfaces from deep inside the earth. Its flow is directed into a mammoth swimming pool. Before swimming became popular the Sand Springs mineral water was used for bathing, often times, by some of the most famous names in history. Today, after many years of restoration, the Frederick George family has developed the Sand Springs into a family style recreation area. People come from far and near to use the pure 74-degree mineral water for exercise, relaxation and attending to minor physical ailments. I paid eight bucks to the elderly proprietors, changed into my bathing suit, and headed out to the pool. I was the only patron, but I was assured that if I was still there when school got out, I'd have plenty of company. Unfortunately, Sand Springs is not a natural spring -- I mean, it comes out of the ground and all, but it's developed. The 74-degree water flows directly into the Olympic-sized swimming pool, and instantly mixes with water that is far below 74 degrees. Thankfully, Sand Springs also has a hot tub, and after numbing my ankles in the pool for a few moments, its bubbling warmth was very welcome. After about fifteen minutes of that I was feeling good enough that I imagined it might be possible to immerse myself in the pool. So I went back over there and got in up to my knees. When my shins went numb, it was back to the hot tub. Again, after a suitable warming period, I decided to try the pool again. After all, I'd paid my eight dollars, and I couldn't really say I'd been in the warm spring (however misleading the designation) until I'd gone in over my head. I propped my chin on the edge of the hot tub and gazed toward the pool, examining the depth markings painted around the sides. I didn't have my glasses on, so it took a bit of squinting, but I finally decided that the number at the far end was an 8. That was my jumping off point, then. I got out of the hot tub and walked around to the far end of the pool. I picked my spot. I looked down at the water. I took a deep breath. I looked toward the main building, where the proprietors were surely watching me with glee. I took a deep breath. I looked at the water. I shifted my weight from one foot to another. I took another deep breath. Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, I jumped. I plunged down into the water and it closed over the top of my head -- but just momentarily. I was back up almost instantly, gasping at the raw, biting, breath-stealing, heart-stopping cold. It took me a few moments to get myself under control, and then I started doing laps. Maybe if I moved around enough, I'd get used to it, I reasoned. It got better, but I never got used to it. After five or six laps, I felt I had some idea of how it must feel to experience the onset of hypothermia. I hightailed it back to the hot tub. I was soon feeling pleasant again and started thinking of the other things on my agenda for that day. Sure it would be nice to hang out until the kids got out of school -- especially the nubile, young high school girls -- but somehow that wasn't enough of an incentive to make me stay an extra hour and a half. So I got dressed, thanked the old couple, and got back on the road again. Sand Springs Pool & Spa I now headed east, along Route 2 -- the Mohawk Trail. Route 2 between North Adams and Greenfield is delightfully tacky. Right above North Adams is an honest to goodness hairpin turn, and there are cheesy gift shops sprinkled liberally all along the route. I stopped at one and bought a souvenir for friends who were watching my cats back home -- a trivet that featured the words "Mohawk Trail" and an illustration of an Indian -- a Plains Indian. For some reason I passed by "The Biggest Indian Gift Shop on the Mohawk Trail," although I did stop at another, simply called Big Indian Shop, that was closed. I stopped there because it had a big statue of an Indian out front -- another Plains Indian, judging by his headdress. Opposite from the Indian stands a statue of a bear, with a jury-rigged muzzle made from chickenwire. Either people have been feeding it too much, or else the bear has been feeding too much on the people. The Big Indian Shop also had a pen with live deer, sheep, and goats. I threw them some GORP that had been lurking in my glove compartment for about six months. They were into it. I arrived in Shelburne Falls at around 3:45pm. Shelburne Falls is famous for three things and I was there to see two of them. The first thing was the Bridge of Flowers, an old trolley bridge that was turned into a garden in the early part of the century. I'd visited there before, a few years ago, and it didn't look much different, but I took a few pictures anyway. Bridge of Flowers The second thing to see in Shelburne Falls are the glacial potholes. The potholes were made in the bed of the Deerfield River over the course of hundreds of thousands of years, by boulders set spinning by glacial meltwater. I'd also seen these on my previous visit to Shelburne Falls and I didn't bother to take a look at them again. The third item is far more recent than either of these things. It's the grave of Ennis Cosby, son of Bill Cosby, who was murdered in 1997. Armed with vague directions from archived news stories on the Internet, I followed a country road into the hills of Shelburne Falls, hoping I'd know what I was looking for when I saw it. I felt certain that I would not be able to see the grave itself. I knew it was on private property, and it was too much to imagine that the Cosbys would have arranged things so that fans could come visit. It wasn't so very long before I came upon a large, well-kept piece of property. I was fairly certain I'd found the right place when I came to the gates with the no trespassing signs, but I continued to the end of the road to be sure. On the way back I took a picture of the gates and the sign that read, "IF YOU ARE NOT INVITED, PLEASE DO NOT PASS THROUGH THESE GATES." Short of getting arrested, I was satisfied that was the best I could do. As I drove away I decided to stop and ask some landscapers for confirmation that this was indeed the Cosby Family estate. They told me I was correct. I thanked them and started to drive away, but then I stopped, because I'd spotted something. The Cosbys evidently did decide to provide something for fans to see, for there was a small memorial to Ennis on the side of the road. It consists of a short, curved rock wall with a trickle of water from a hidden pipe in the center. The water dribbles down on a piece of granite in which Ennis's name is chiseled. I took a few pictures and checked off another item from my list. By the way, let it be known that Bill Cosby employs white guys to do his yard work. Is this a great country or what? Ennis William Cosby Memorial My next stop was in Turner's Falls, to see their fish ladder, but I arrived too late and it was closed. I resolved to come back the next day. But there was still plenty of light left in the day so I went to Wendell State Forest to look for a couple of letterboxes. Again, I was seemingly the only person in the park, aside from a laconic ranger who seemed curious about my mission, but refrained from asking any questions as he took my five dollars. I arrived at the park at 5:45pm and knew I had only until 7:30 to find the letterboxes and get out before the gates were closed. The two boxes, El Corazon and Vincent, were pretty easy to find. I left the Backpacker, the hitchhiker box I'd found in Stockbridge, with El Corazon. The tough part was, there was a third box, a bonus box called Saint-Exupery. El Corazon contained a clue in verse to find Saint-Exupery, which was said to be located somewhere on the trail between El Corazon and Vincent. I felt I had a pretty good idea what the clue was telling me to look for, but although I examined the terrain very carefully as I went along, I wasn't able to pinpoint a likely spot. My frustration was turned up a notch when I found Vincent and discovered that the letterboxer who had been there only six days previous had written of having found Saint-Exupery. I would have liked to have stayed longer to look even more carefully, but I was mindful of the time, and since I had come to find two letterboxes, and I had found two, I felt I'd accomplished my mission. Wendell State Forest Letterboxes With the sun going down, it was time to call it a day and get my butt to my next campground by 9pm, the check-in deadline. I made it to Otter River State Forest by 8:15. The guy who signed me in had to have been the fattest ranger I've ever seen. Neither was he the friendliest, but perhaps this is a prerequisite for working the office at Massachusetts state parks, because the guy at October Mountain wasn't very personable either. Anyway, I asked this guy if he knew of a place to get food at 8:30pm on a Thursday. Otter River is located in the middle of the state, north of Route 2, near the border with New Hampshire. There's not a heck of a lot around, but the ranger suggested I try in the nearest town, Winchendon, where I might possibly find the A&P open. After checking out my camping spot, I did as he recommended. I didn't hold out a lot of hope, though. I was thinking less of supermarket-type food than I was restaurant-type food, or even fast food. I thought I'd be lucky to find a roadside stand and get a burger. As it happened, I passed at least two roadside stands on the way into town. If I didn't find anything better, one of those would do. In town I spotted a place called The Old Traveler. Now that looked promising -- maybe I'd be able to get a real good thick burger there. So I went in and took a seat near the window. Soon a waitress presented me with a menu. As I perused it I realized I'd come across a rarity -- an honest to god gourmet restaurant in the wilderness. I happily ordered the salmon with garlic green beans and baked potato. It was delicious -- so much better than the salmon I'd had in Pittsfield that they may as well have been different substances altogether. Upon finishing, I left a large tip. Satiated and feeling rather lucky, I returned to Otter River to sleep. Day Six, Friday I returned back along Route 2 to Turner's Falls to visit their fish ladder. A fish ladder is a constructed waterway that allows fish to swim upstream past dams and other obstructions so they can reach their spawning grounds. As I learned from some of the informational plaques around the installation, various forms of fish ladders have been in use for well over a century, but it wasn't until recently that anyone came up with one that worked well. Salmon, pike, sturgeon, etc., used to have to fight their way past rapids on their way upstream, now they fight their way up a series of staggered, concrete steps. The installation at Turner's Falls includes a viewing room where supposedly one can watch the fish as they swim past at the top of the ladder. Staffers watch at the window or review video tapes in an attempt to keep accurate counts of the various species that are using the ladder. A bulletin board, upstairs from the viewing room, is used to keep track of fish counts downstream at the Holyoke Fishway. By checking the counts at Holyoke, researchers can see how many fish might be expected, versus how many actually arrive, at Turner's Falls. While in the viewing room I saw only one fish, a lamprey, but then I didn't stay long. I was told when I arrived that a couple of busloads of kids were due any minute. I managed to escape before being confronted with that horror. Turner's Falls Fish Ladder On the way to my next destination I stopped at another of those Mohawk Trail gift shops, the Long View Gift Shop, where supposedly you can see "five states, including Canada." The tower cost a couple of bucks to climb, and I'd done it before, so I didn't feel I needed to do it again. Like the shop with the big Plains Indian out front, the Long View has a pen full of animals -- mostly of the common barnyard variety, but they also have a llama. I fed him/her a handful of pellets purchased for a quarter from a handy gumball machine. In the gift shop itself I purchased some postcards to remember the Mohawk Trail by. I noticed that some of the postcards were for other gift shops along the trail. I thought that was kind of strange to, in effect, advertise for your competitors, so I asked the counter girl about it. She said that there's actually an association of Mohawk Trail Businesses and that they all look out for one another. If one shop runs out of, say, rubber tomahawks, they'll send the customer to another shop that has them. And if a suspicious-looking character shows up in a shop in North Adams, the owner will call the next shop up the line and tell them to keep an eye out for him. Can you imagine McDonalds or Burger King looking out for one another that way? Next I headed south to Ashfield, home of the first maple syrup in space. According to Roadside America contributor Kittencat3, "Gray's Sugarhouse has two small containers of maple syrup that were taken up by local astronaut Dan Barry during a recent shuttle flight. They're behind the counter at the cash register. As far anyone knows, this is the first maple syrup to go into space." Of course, when I arrived, it was spring, and Gray's Sugarhouse was closed, so to my eternal disappointment, I never laid eyes on the celestial syrup. Will I bother to come back in the fall? Probably not. First Maple Syrup in Space My next stop, after extricating myself from the wilds of Ashfield, was the sprawling (100,000 square foot) Yankee Candle Company flagship store in South Deerfield. I went, ostensibly, to see the 800-pound King Candle, reputedly the largest candle in New England, but I found plenty else to see there. I sat in on an old fashioned candle making demonstration, checked out the Bavarian village, and strolled through the car museum. The car museum has everything from a reproduction of an 1885 Benz to a 1981 DeLorean, but I was most impressed by the Hippomobile, the 1963 Amphicar, and the 1956 BMW Isetta, a three-wheeled vehicle with the door on the front. Steve Urkel apparently drove one on the TV show Family Matters. I also liked the 1924 Buick Depot Hack. Its instructive plaque theorized that the vehicle was the first "station wagon," named for its use in picking up passengers from train stations. I actually managed to spend over an hour-and-a-half at Yankee Candle without buying anything (unless you count the Car Museum admission). Yankee Candle Company I grabbed a quick lunch up the street at the Sugarloaf Shops Cafe & Deli, and good thing too -- for my next trick I was going to need all the energy I could get. The next item on the agenda was a letterbox -- the North Mount Sugarloaf Letterbox, to be exact. It seemed easy enough, but due to my own alleged cleverness, it ended up taking me three-and-a-half hours to find. Mount Sugarloaf itself is easy to spot as it stands out by itself in the middle of a flood plain. Well, almost by itself -- it has a companion just to the north. I passed by an autoroad to the top of Sugarloaf while following the letterbox directions a mile-and-a-half around to the north side of the north mountain. When I reached the spot I was to begin hiking from, I was incredulous. According to my map, the top of Sugarloaf was far to the south of me and easily reached via the autoroad. It appeared I would have to walk over or around this northern mountain to get to Sugarloaf. It was 2 o'clock in the afternoon, I had a lot of other things to accomplish that day, and I was damned if I was going to take the scenic route. The instructions indicated plainly what landmarks to look for at the top in order to locate the letterbox. So, smart guy that I was, I turned around and went back south to take the road up to the summit. Sugarloaf isn't very high and it didn't take long to drive up. At the top I secured a trail map and noted there was only one scenic vista (one of the landmarks I was looking for) marked. It seemed obvious that was what I was looking for. Obvious, that is, until I got to the scenic vista and didn't find any of the other landmarks I needed. I walked halfway down the mountain looking for another vista before I gave up and turned back. The trail was going toward the northern mountain and I knew I didn't want to go there. I didn't know what it was called, but it obviously wasn't Sugarloaf, because I'd just come down Sugarloaf. Well, there was another trail that came up Sugarloaf from the opposite side, perhaps there was a vista down there. And indeed, there were views -- very nice views, in fact -- but nothing to indicate I was on the right track. Tired, sweaty, and thirsty, I was almost ready to give up, but I determined to push on. So far on my trip I had found everything I'd set out to find. I wasn't going to let a little letterbox escape my clutches. So I gave in and drove back to the trailhead that I'd been directed to in the first place. This trail wasn't shown on the map I'd picked up at the summit. I'd have to rely solely on the directions supplied by the person who had placed the letterbox. At first the instructions were easy to follow and landmarks were obvious, but soon things grew confusing. The trail branched and branched again. Trail markers (blue painted blazes and yellow and blue markers) seemed to have little or no rhyme or reason. Determined not to go the wrong way this time, I examined each side trail carefully, sometimes following them for several hundred yards before turning back. The route I followed went steadily up. It seemed I would indeed have to climb over this mountain before reaching my target. But perhaps you've already figured out what I didn't realize until I had almost reached the top of the unnamed mountain. I had been referring to my printed directions frequently. I'd read them over and over again, looking for subtle clues that told me I was in the right place. Near the summit of the northern mountain I read them again -- and finally read them correctly. The name of the box was North Mount Sugarloaf Letterbox. NORTH. Holy fucking goddamn Christ on a freaking pogo stick, there were two goddamn Sugarloaves! I felt like the biggest stupid idiot dumb fuck moron in the universe. Luckily I wasn't near any cliffs right at that moment, otherwise I might have thrown myself off. Feeling utterly chagrined, and weary in every muscle, I continued to trudge my way up. Somewhere up there was a clearing, and in the clearing was a tree stump, and a few steps from the stump was a vista, and a few feet from the vista was waiting the most hard-won of my vacation letterboxes. Eventually, I came across just such a clearing. The instructions said to follow a narrow path to the right. I looked to the right. No path. Damn, it still wasn't the right clearing. So I pressed on ahead, hoping to come across a similar clearing with a small path going in the correct direction. But soon the trail began to descend the mountain again. I began to think that the clearing I'd seen might still be the one I was looking for. The person who wrote the directions could easily have written "right" when they meant "left" -- it happens to me quite often. So I reversed direction and went back to the clearing, and by golly, I was correct. Once you substituted "left" for "right" the directions made sense. From that point finding the letterbox was no problem at all. I took my time stamping up. Before I left, I tucked Ready Freddy on the Open Road, the hitchhiker letterbox I'd picked up in Amherst, beside the North Mount Sugarloaf box. Considering how difficult it had been to find (admittedly, mostly my fault), I suspected Freddy might have a while to wait before he found himself on the road again. After my previous travails, the walk down was a piece of cake. I reached my car at 5:30. So much time lost. I was glad to have my Mount Sugarloaf march o' death over with, and eager to push on to the next thing. Let this story stand as a monument to the ease with which one can get lost by misreading a single word in a set of directions. I'd like to blame the person who wrote the directions. I'd like to say it wouldn't have happened if I'd been hiking with a friend. I'd like to say it wouldn't have happened if only the park brochure or my Arrow map book had noted there were two Sugarloaves. But the sad fact is, I fucked up, and I was punished by the universe for my hubris. North Mount Sugarloaf Letterbox The next thing to see was a giant cement milk bottle. According to Roadside America contributor Stephen Bond, the bottle is 17 feet high. Built in the late 1920s by Lincoln Bond for the Quonquont Dairy Farm's dairy bar, the bottle once stood on Rt. 5, greeting visitors to the area. In 1995, the bottle, which is owned by the Whately Historical Society, was moved to its present site and restored. It is now situated in front of the town building, which houses the Historical Society and is used several times a year to dispense ice cream. How it's used to distribute ice cream, I can't say, as it appeared solid to me. Perhaps there is an ice cream cannon located in the neck of the bottle, that fires frozen treats into the air for the children to catch. Giant Cement Milk Bottle My next stop was Mike's Amazing Minuteman Maze. Of course, it being spring, there was nothing to see but a field of short plants. In 2000, it was a giant maze in the shape of a Massachusetts quarter. Mike's design for 2001 is still under wraps. I got a good view of the evil Sugarloaf twins, though. Mike's Amazing Minuteman Maze A short trip south on Route 91 brought me to Northampton, location of a pretty spectacular complex of abandoned buildings. The Northampton State Hospital was opened in 1858 as a treatment facility for lunatics. It closed in 1993, and since then it has sat empty on a hill overlooking the city. Now there's talk of tearing it down or turning it into condos. Click here for more information about the history of the hospital. Roadside America warns that it's probably illegal to explore, and the nutjobs at Ironfist would have us believe the grounds are patrolled on a 24-hour basis by jack-booted security thugs. On my visit I couldn't help but notice the numerous large No Trespassing signs, however, any trepidation I may have felt about venturing onto the grounds was mitigated by the presence of all the dogs. And not just dogs, but walkers of dogs -- at least a dozen of them. I spoke with one woman who told me that dog owners regularly bring their pets to the hospital to play with one another. They park directly under the "STATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING" signs and walk brazenly about the grounds while their canine companions run and bark along the decaying asphalt roads and paths and through overgrown, weed-choked lawns. Knowing I wasn't alone in my lawbreaking allowed me to enjoy a leisurely walk around the grounds, where I snapped pictures of decaying architectural details and watched the dogs romp. Still, I didn't exactly feel safe enough to try to enter any of the buildings. I didn't see any means of entry anyway, and I hadn't come prepared to poke around in the dark. No, I was satisfied to remain outside. Northampton State Hospital After my jaunt around the hospital, I popped into Northampton itself and found a CD store, where I bought (surprise!) a few CDs. While in Amherst on Wednesday I had spotted a Newbury Comics, so I went there next. Graduation was in full swing in Amherst, and it seemed like there was a large tent party on every block. I didn't find anything to buy at Newbury Comics, though, so I finally called it a day and headed back to my campground. Day Seven, Saturday The weather had been generally crappy so far, with the exception of Friday, which was quite nice, but on Saturday the skies made up their mind to piss down rain for real. Yet, while the day was exceedingly wet and gloomy, it was also extremely productive in terms of finding stuff I was looking for. My first stop of the day was just up the road from my campground, in the center of Winchendon. Winchendon earned the nickname "Toy Town" in the early 20th century because it was the home of the world's largest wooden toy factory, Converse. One striking reminder of Winchendon's plaything past is a giant rocking horse that sits in a place of honor, under its own pavilion, in front of the VFW building. According to the informational plaque affixed to the pavilion: The original Toy Town horse was constructed in 1914 as a float for the town's 150th anniversary. Workers from the Converse Company... spent five months constructing the horse which was a four time enlargement of the Converse Company's No. 12 rocking horse. The original horse took 3,200 feet of two inch pine nailed together to complete. The horse rested at the town's railroad station for twenty years as a landmark for travelers passing through Winchendon. In 1934 the horse was moved to the Toy Town Tavern property (now the Winchendon School) for thirty years. At that location it was climbed on by children and well photographed. The horse was refurbished in 1964 and again in 1976, but after that it was neglected and fell apart. Then, at a point in time known as "recently" by the writers of the informational plaque, various town civic groups spearheaded a fund-raising drive to build a replacement horse. The new ten foot tall horse, weighing one and half tons, took one craftsman 18 months to complete. It debuted at Winchendon's July 4th parade in 1988, and was then installed beneath a gazebo in front of the VFW. This may well be the largest rocking horse in the world. Somehow that's a fact that is very important to know. Giant Rocking Horse Continuing on my search for Things That Are Big, I proceeded east along Route 2 to Gardner. Like Winchendon with its toys, Gardner has a thing for chairs -- they bill themselves as the "Chair City of the World." In 1976 the Rotary Club commissioned a guy named Leon W. LaPlante to design and build a real big Heywood-Wakefield chair in honor of the town's manufacturing bread and butter. The resulting butt-stop is over twenty feet high, but unfortunately not tall enough to claim the title of World's Largest Chair. Despite its size, Gardner's chair was hard to find. The main drag in town was decorated with banners depicting the chair, but there were no signs pointing the way. A stop at the police station eliminated my problem, however, and the dispatcher I spoke with even turned me on to another giant chair in nearby South Gardner. This might possibly be the fifteen-foot Mission chair mentioned in Roadside America's way cool overview of the giant chair wars. Giant Chair #1 The next objective on my list was another from James Chenoweth's Oddity Odyssey. Southwest of Gardner, in the town of Petersham... ...beyond the far end of the town common is a house that demonstrates how far New Englanders can go to express their opinions. Unlike most houses, this one doesn't face either of the two roads that pass it. In fact, the house has its back turned on the town. An early and ingenious owner named Forester Goddard had many talents and was an excellent stonemason who took great pride in his work. In 1886 he was hired by the town to repair and rebuild the west wall of the village cemetery. No doubt he did a good job; the wall appears as sturdy today as when it was built. But building it cost more than the town had agreed to pay. Unable to collect what he thought was right, Goddard decided to express his opinion about the town. With no one to help him but his wife, Goddard began to slowly and carefully jack up their house, which measured twenty-seven feet by ten feet. Then he placed leveling planks under it. Using croquet balls as ball bearings, he lowered his house until it rested on the croquet balls. Slowly he inched the house around until its backside faced the town he now despised. The house is in that same position today. And so it appears to be. But unless you know the story, the house probably won't look strange to you. In fact, even if you do know the story, it's likely you'll take a look, say, "So what?" and move on. That's what I did. Backwards House Another Roadside America contributor, Cokit, sent me to Leominster to see a giant frying pan. Much like the alleged giant rooster in Cheshire, this was a big yawn. And just like with the backwards house, I didn't deem it worth getting wet for, so I just took a picture from inside the car. Giant Frying Pan The grave marker of Joseph Palmer depicts his bearded face on the front and notes that he was "Persecuted for Wearing the Beard." According to Chenoweth, beards were frowned upon in the early 1800s: One day Palmer was set upon by four men armed with shears and razors, determined to remove his beard. Thrown to the ground and injured, Palmer swiped at their legs with an old jackknife. They turned him in for unprovoked assault and the judge found him guilty of "disturbing the peace by wearing a beard." As a matter of principle, Palmer refused to pay the twenty-dollar fine. Jailed, he successfully and physically defended himself against a regulation that prisoners be shaved once a week. Letters he smuggled out to his son about being jailed for wearing a beard began appearing in local papers and public apathy turned into public sympathy. Officials urged him to leave the jail but Palmer said he had been illegally incarcerated and would stay there until his right to wear a beard was publicly affirmed. In 1831 he was bodily carried out of the jail after more than a year behind bars -- and the jail door hastily locked behind him! Chenoweth also notes that there may have been other, more political reasons behind Palmer's persecution -- "He was a temperance man who refused to serve rum to the men working his fields." Palmer died on October 30, 1873, at the age of 84, so apparently beard-related violence did nothing to shorten his life. It took me awhile to find Palmer's stone, it being a Saturday and the cemetery office being closed. After a fruitless twenty minutes or so spent driving up and down the rain-drenched streets of the cemetery, lo and behold, I finally found Palmer on, what else, Palmer Street. A brief letup in the downpour allowed me to snap a few shots out the window of the car and I was once more on my way. Grave of Joseph Palmer Leominster apparently has some sort of ties to the plastics industry. At the very least, one of America's most beloved cultural icons, the pink plastic lawn flamingo, is manufactured there. So where else would you locate the National Plastics Center and Museum? I arrived on a bad day -- the museum had hosted some sort of plastics conference the night before and everything was discombobulated. Exhibits had been moved, some were blocked by folding tables, some that used electricity were unplugged, parts of some exhibits were missing. It seemed at first that the woman womaning the desk would let me in at a reduced rate, but then another customer showed up and she apparently didn't want to reduce the rate for both of us, so she charged me full price instead. Then, of course, the other customer decided he didn't want to see the museum that day, so he left. By the time I was done touring the museum I almost wished I'd done the same. Even considering that the museum wasn't at its best that day, I could tell the place was just an industrial afterthought. Not a lot of money had been expended by donors to extoll the virtues of plastics. Slapped-together exhibits tell the history of plastics, the story of plastics in medicine, and explain how plastics and the environment can exist in harmony. A hall of fame upstairs spotlights such luminaries as the guy who figured out how to use plastic to make billiard balls and the chick who had something to do with Kevlar. A library on the top floor supplies all your plastics research needs, and car parts bolted to the wall in the basement seem to be trying to tell you something about the use of plastics in auto manufacture. Before I knew it I'd seen the whole museum. I never knew there was so little to learn about plastics. I didn't even find anything to buy in the gift shop, although I was tempted by the many boxed flamingos which seemed to take up most of the shelf space. The problem with a gift shop in a plastics museum is that, well, all they can really offer you is things made of plastic. And you can find that anywhere. National Plastics Museum The birthplace of the pink plastic lawn flamingo, Union Products, Inc., is only a short way down the street from the Plastics Museum, but you can't buy a flamingo there. Incredibly, according to the woman in the museum gift shop, the nearest wholesale supplier of the ubiquitous lawn ornament is New York City, which is where the gift shop gets theirs. This article will tell you a bit about the history of the pink flamingo. Home of the Pink Flamingo My next stop was Lowe Street, mentioned on RoadsideAmerica as a "gravity hill." For those of you who don't know, a gravity hill is a place, a section of street or whatever, where objects roll uphill. Or at least they seem to. The phenomenon is really an optical illusion, caused by a peculiar configuration of the surrounding landscape. The usual set up is that there will be a spot where you'll stop your car and put it in neutral. It will appear that you are parked on level ground, or on a slight incline, and if anything, you might expect your car to roll backwards. Instead your car will slowly begin to roll forward. If it's a really good gravity hill you'll experience a weird sense of vertigo. Unfortunately, if Lowe Street is such a place, it is not marked. I drove along it's entire length and didn't see anything to indicate there was any particular spot where I should stop. It's not a very long street, but I didn't feel I had the time to try out every single section of road, looking for a place where my car would roll up hill. Disappointed, I moved on to my next destination. Alleged Gravity Hill With rain still pouring down, I ran into the Johnny Appleseed Visitor's Center on Route 2 to get directions to the next awe-inspiring roadside attraction. I soon got what I came for and dashed back out to me car. Then I dashed back to take a picture of the little bronze statue of Johnny Appleseed out front of the visitor's center. Then I dashed back to my car and proceeded on my way. Johnny Appleseed Visitor's Center I drove past it on my first ride up Johnny Appleseed Lane, and only found it by looking more carefully on the way back. The site of the birthplace of Johnny Appleseed, aka John Chapman, is marked by a granite cenotaph. In recent years, a stumpy replica of the cabin in which he was born was placed near the marker on the side of the road, as well. Chapman earned his moniker by traveling around the American frontier, from 1797 to 1845, disseminating both apple seeds and the Word of the Lord to homesteaders. The popular image of Chapman as a nut with no visible means of support and a pot on his head, scattering apple seeds hither and yon, is not quite right. He actually owned land in Ohio and Indiana, where he raised seed orchards, the produce of which he sold or gave away to those who were in need. Site of Johnny Appleseed's Birthplace Davis's Megamaze and Farmland, like Mike's Amazing Minuteman Maze, are two more attractions that I'll have to return to see in the fall. Davis's Farmland is a sort of agricultural amusement park that's usually open throughout the growing season, but if you'll remember, it had been raining all day, and when I arrived, it was closed due to weather. Davis's Megamaze and Davis's Farmland I couldn't feel too bad about missing out on Davis's Farmland, though, because just nearby was an item that no weather (short of a blizzard or a tornado) could prevent me from seeing. The town of Sterling claims the distinction of being the home of Mary Sawyer and her little lamb, and in recognition of that fact, they have a statue of the lamb on their common. Supposedly the school to which the lamb one day followed Mary still stands, albeit in Sudbury, where Henry Ford had it moved in 1926, but I didn't seek it out. The authorship of the poem is controversial. It was either written by John Roulstone, a classmate of Mary's, or by Sarah Josepha Hale, then a visiting Harvard student. The evidence would seem to favor the latter. But the incident commemorated in the poem certainly did take place. When she was ten Mary nursed a sick lamb named Nathaniel back to heath, and the lamb was thereafter likely to follow her everywhere she went. In 1878, Mary Sawyer Tyler donated pieces of her wool stockings that had been made from the fleece of her pet lamb in order to raise money to preserve Boston's Old South Meeting House. It's unclear from what I've read, however, whether this is the same Mary, or another trading on her name. Most people don't know the full text of the poem. I know I didn't. Here it is: Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go. He followed her to school one day, That was against the rule. It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school. And so the teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear. And then he ran to her, and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said, "I'm not afraid, You'll keep me from all harm." "What makes the lamb love Mary so?" The eager children cry, "O, Mary loves the lamb, you know," The teacher did reply. And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your will, If you are always kind. Mary Had a Little Lamb Statue Of all geographical attractions to see in the world, none is quite so dubious as the "geographic center." After all, these spots are based, for the most part, upon man-made boundaries, and even the positions of those whose coordinates are reckoned from shorelines may change with tide and climate. Still, we mark them, and so they MUST BE VISITED. The geographic center of Massachusetts is located on Center Tree Road in Rutland. The spot, in someone's yard, right at the end of their driveway, is marked by a medium sized red maple tree. The tree is enclosed by a small, deteriorating rail fence. Eric Landquist, another Roadside America contributor, notes that, "The maple tree replaced an older and larger elm tree that died in 1969 (or around then) from Dutch Elm Disease." Geographical Center of Massachusetts The rain sort of dribbled to a halt around this time, and good thing, because my next objective would require a bit of tramping about in the open air. But picture the scene -- it's four o'clock in the afternoon on a miserable overcast Saturday. The sun won't be going down until eight or eight thirty, but considering the quality of the light it might as well be dusk. Here are a few excerpts describing the place I'm looking for. The first is from LuCKyB, posting on ezboard. The second is from ghosttowns.com: A very dangerous cemetery. There are eight gates, hence the name, Spider Gates Cemetery. It is said that at the first gate, one will begin to hear whispers and leaves moving when there is no wind. As progression towards the eighth gate continues, sightings of wandering ghosts the sensations of someone brushing against them have been reported. Fainting often occurs as the images and sensations become too strong to bear. It is said that some have died from massive heart attacks when they were over come with fear. No one has ever made it to the eighth gate, or so they say. I found it pretty quickly by using vague hints gleaned from several Internet blurbs combined with my most excellent Arrow map book of Worcester County. I parked across from the entrance to the chained-off road. As I was gathering up my flashlight, cameras, and umbrella, a cop car pulled up next to me and we both rolled down our windows. The cop said something like, "What are you up to?" "Looking for Spider Gates Cemetery," I said. I felt no need to be dishonest. "For what purpose?" I held up a camera. "To take pictures." "And that's all?" "That's it." He seemed satisfied. "This is the way to Spider Gates, right?" I asked, pointing toward the road that lead into the woods. Nothing wrong with a little confirmation. "Yeah, it's just a little ways in there," the cop replied. And he drove away. I knew he'd probably be back pretty soon to see if my car was still there. He might even walk back to the cemetery to make sure I hadn't painted swastikas on all the gravestones. Let him. I crossed the street and walked into the woods on the old road to the cemetery. In only three or four minutes I was looking at the fabled gates of Spider Gates. The cemetery evidently got its name from the radiating pattern of the wrought iron gates themselves. It certainly didn't get it from the fact of its having eight gates, because that's not a fact at all -- there's only one gateway. The gates are lovely, though. I passed through them without hearing any whispers, feeling any strange sensations, or suffering any heart attacks. Hardly anything that's been said about the cemetery, as far as its paranormal aspects are concerned, appears to be true. It's not even abandoned. I spotted at least one grave with a 2001 date on it. Not even the prematurely dusky quality of the day's waning light could raise the hairs on my neck in that place. After taking a few pictures, I soon left, not because I was afraid, but because I had an appointment. Spider Gates Cemetery At 5pm I met my friends Ellen and Ken at their apartment in Worcester. We'd arranged to get together for dinner, since I would be in the area. Our friend Dave also showed up, and the four of us decided to go to a little pub-like place that Ellen and Ken suggested. Before we left we listened to some ads on the radio -- Ellen works part-time as a voice-over artist, and she's very proud of her vocalizations. I've known her since high school, but if I hadn't had it pointed out to me, I wouldn't have recognized her voice. My arrival in Worcester coincided with a huge annual motorcycle rally, and as we made our way to the restaurant we ogled the seemingly endless array of bikes and riders. Luckily, we seemed to have picked a good time to go out, for we didn't have long to wait for a table, despite the crowd out in the street. We ate surrounded by leather and tattoos. Ellen complained that one of the biker chicks kept giving her the evil eye. Dave, in his usual fashion, approached one biker to ask the origin of the term "hog," both as a description of Harley Davidson Motorcycles and as an acronym for Harley Owners Group. Dave then related the story back to us: My informant, a large, roundish man in his late forties, was pleasant and articulate. He said that back in the 1920s or so there were many local motorcycle races. He also mentioned "company races," meaning, I think, that the people (MEN) who built the bikes rode them in these races, which weren't really exclusive, presumably, because one guy who won many of these local and/or company races was a pig farmer. After he won a race, he would take a particular pig of his (probably a relatively small one) on his handlebars for a victory lap. This singular sight became a bit of local color (my informant did not include which locale this was, BTW) since there was, basically, a hog riding a bike. [A quick search on the Internet reveals that Dave's source was not far from the truth. According to the Harley-Davidson website: "1920: Leslie "Red" Parkhurst breaks 23 speed records on a Harley-Davidson 61 cubic inch racing motorcycle. Also, the "hog" association starts when the racing team's mascot, a pig, is carried on a victory lap after each race won by the team."] We finished our meal and left the restaurant without being menaced or roughed up even once, unless you count Ellen's ocular friend. On the way back to Ellen and Ken's apartment we stopped off and picked up a video at Blockbuster. They all wanted me to stay and watch it with them, but I declined, saying I had to get back to my campground that night. Well, it wasn't that I had to, but I'd paid for it, and it was part of the plan. So we watched the end of another of those reality-based shows, Fear, that seemed pretty cool. At least, Ellen and I were into it. Dave could barely contain his impatience to get to the video, while Ken didn't seem to care one way or the other. I left Worcester at 10pm, drove straight up Route 190, and was bedding down in Winchendon within the hour. Day Eight, Sunday The last day of my vacation dawned foggy. I checked out of the campground and drove south back to Pelham, where I had two more letterboxes to find -- the North Quabbin Reservoir letterboxes. This time I had no problem with the north/south thing. A pleasant walk along the highway, and then down a sloping woods road brought me to the site of the first box, called Moon and Stars. It was located near a collection of small stone tables that the hider of the box had dubbed "Quabbinhenge" in honor of the ridiculous stage prop from the movie This is Spinal Tap. The next box was called Salamander and was located even further down the road, on the shore of the reservoir itself. Although one of the landmarks, a "stand of tall pines," had been almost completely logged out, it wasn't hard to find the box. And I had an extra surprise -- an orange salamander was hanging out on a log right above the box. At first I thought it must be a plastic or rubber salamander that some mischievous letterboxer, perhaps the hider herself, had placed there. But it proved to be very much alive, although it showed no interest in moving from it's coincident spot despite my gentle poking. So I left it there to guard what he evidently regarded as his box. The way back to my car was not quite as pleasant as the way in -- it was all up hill. But luck was with my yet again. As it had done several times over the course of my vacation, it began raining just as I reached my car. North Quabbin Reservoir Letterboxes I was close to Belchertown again, so I determined that I would try once more to find the Quabbin Park Visitor's Center. And I did find it, right where it was supposed to be. The problem was it wasn't well-marked, at least not as such. It was located in a building that was plainly the Belchertown State Police Headquarters. Only on much closer examination did I discover a small sign pointing the way to the visitor's center in the basement. After all that the visitor's center was a disappointment. I had hoped it would have much more information on the building of the reservoir, but while there somewhat of a half-hearted attempt at that, most of the information had to do with the natural aspects of the park. There were tattered exhibits on the sorts of flora and fauna that could be found around the reservoir, and the ubiquitous admonition that "Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires." Needless to say, I didn't stay long. Quabbin Park Visitor's Center But while I was in the area, I took the time to check out Windsor Dam again (one of the two huge dikes built to hold back the waters of the reservoir), the tower on Quabbin Hill (no view to speak of -- the landscape was still fairly shrouded in fog), and Quabbin Park Cemetery. The cemetery holds the remains of all those who were buried in the cemeteries (34 of 'em) of the four towns that were flooded in 1938. My next stop was another fruitless weekend search for a grave, that of Robert H. Goddard, father of modern rocketry. Thirty minutes of riding slowly around Worcester's Hope Cemetery failed to reveal the physicist's grave to me, despite the fact that I had the specific interment location, right down to the section and lot. Unfortunately, the plots of the cemetery weren't publicly marked in that way. Grave of Robert H. Goddard My next stop, and it turns out, my last, was the Higgins Armory Museum, one of the finest collections of armor in the Western Hemisphere. It was pretty cool, but my weariness, and the plethora of kids careening about the place, may have prevented me from appreciating it fully. I passed through quickly, skimming the placards that described each piece of battle dress. Even the gift shop didn't hold my attention long. Higgins Armory Museum Back out in the car, with the sun just now, at 3:30pm, making an appearance through the clouds, I looked over the four items remaining on my list of things to see:
Couldn't see anything there -- it wouldn't be open on a Sunday.
A bit out of my way, and located on private property, so there was no guarantee I'd be able to see it, let alone find it.
Like Robert Goddard, the founder of the American Red Cross would have to wait until a day when I could get directions from the cemetery office.
Well, it was on my way and it probably wouldn't take much effort to locate a sign with the cumbersome name painted on it. I could certainly do this one last thing, at least... Ah, screw it. I called it a vacation and drove home. Postscript: I do believe it's taken me nearly as long to write this account as it took to live it. I hope that those of you who read it, enjoyed it. Those of you who couldn't find the time to read it, I'll remember you when it comes time to look at your insufferable baby pictures. Sunday, July 8, 2001 I drove up to Milford to visit my friend Cynthia. We decided to try to find the Mysterious Cave, the grave of Clara Barton, and the longest lake name. In keeping with the spirit of my vacation, the skies were overcast. We didn't listen to the radio, but we did drive on the turnpike, and we did end up eating in a chain restaurant of sorts. Upton is right next door to Milford, but the mysterious stone chamber was difficult to find because the information I had on it was vague. We first drove the length of Elm Street looking for anything obvious. When nothing presented itself we stopped off at the Kiwanis Beach. Cynthia thought there might be teenagers there, and lord knows that if anyone will know where one might find a cave, it's teenagers. After all, where else would they go to smoke pot, drink cheap beer, and have furtive sex? The only teenager we saw was the one girling the entry booth. We asked her about the chamber and she knew just what we were talking about. She had been there, she said, but she was unable to give us specific directions. Our next option was to ask at a police station, or to knock on the door of a local resident. I lobbied for the cops. Cynthia argued for the knock. Cynthia got her way. We picked a house and, while I waited in the car on the street, she marched up to interrogate the locals. A friendly and helpful guy answered the door. He also knew what we were talking about -- he had gone looking for it himself just a year before. He offered to lead us to it, and so let him. As we pulled up in front of a grey house that was set back from the road, he warned us that the property owners didn't take well to trespassers, and that they had two dogs that they kept tied up in the back yard. He suggested we might rather access the cave from a parking lot on the other side of the property. I was thinking that might be a good idea, but Cynthia insisted that we should stage a frontal attack. "I can talk our way out of anything we get into," she said. We thanked our guide and he drove away, leaving us to trespass on our own. It turned out that we didn't have to talk to anyone as there didn't seem to be anyone home. We first tried a promising looking clearing toward the rear left hand side of the property, but that didn't pan out. The right side of the house was more fruitful, and I soon spotted the entrance to the chamber a few yards below us. A quick scramble down the slope and we were shining our flashlight into the depths of the stone chamber, the floor of which was awash with about six inches of rainwater. Someone, probably the aforementioned teenagers, had dragged old tires, planks, and thick branches into the entryway in an attempt to create a dry passage. They didn't help Cynthia, though, as one misstep soaked her boots thoroughly. We didn't think to bring a measuring tape, but a website about unusual lithic sites in New England says that the "...15-foot long entryway leads to an 11-foot diameter room over 10 feet high." The interior room is shaped like a beehive, and is entirely underground. Experts have supposedly dated the structure to 710 A.D., well before the Vikings brought the first proven European contact to the New World. Cynthia was very impressed by the chamber and she sat on a convenient rock and made several appreciative noises while I snapped pictures. Still, there is only so much one can do in an ancient stone chamber with six inches of water on the floor, so we left after about ten minutes. On our way off the property I noticed there was a car in the driveway. Cynthia wouldn't allow me to hesitate, though -- "Keep walking, don't look up," she told me. As we approached the car and began angling up the driveway she nonchalantly told me there was someone in the car. "But keep going, if they bother us I'll talk us out of it." Not really my style, but it seemed to work, and we arrived back at the car without being hassled. Cynthia was pleased. So was I Mysterious Stone Chamber Our next stop was the grave of Clara Barton, founder of the American Red Cross, located in the town of Oxford. We found the cemetery easily enough, but we had a mild disagreement over the proper way to search for Clara's stone. It seems we're both somewhat anal, but our methods of compulsion differ slightly: Cynthia wanted to begin at the front of the cemetery and walk up and down every row until we found the proper plot, while I felt it made more sense to drive around the perimeter of the grounds first to see if we could spot the stone from the car. Because I was driving, my argument carried more weight, and I was vindicated when an obelisk topped by a cross of dark red marble came into view three quarters of the way around the property. We popped out of the car, examined Clara's obelisk and an adjacent large family monument, snapped a few photos, and were on our way. Grave of Clara Barton When I first found out about it, I couldn't believe that the lake with the longest name in the world could be only an hour's drive from my house. Surely a longer lake name could be found somewhere in the Andes? But no, it's right there in Oxford, Massachusetts, and the proof is on the signs leading into town. We stopped at the first one we saw and I got out to take a picture while Cynthia stayed in the car. Returning to the driver's seat, I paused to show Cynthia the picture preview on the digital camera. That's when a cop car pulled up beside us, lights flashing. I rolled down my window. "You folks need any help?" asked the cop. "Nope," I replied, holding up the camera. "Just taking a picture of the sign." "Ah," he said. "Lake Chargoggagoggmumblemumblemumble! Do you know what the name means?" I deferred to Cynthia. "You fish on your side, I fish on my side, nobody fishes in the middle," she said. The cop chuckled. "That's what everybody thinks it means, but we had some Nipmuck Indians come through a couple of years ago and they told us it means something else. The fishing thing is just a legend." "Oh," I said. "So what does it mean?" The cop shrugged. "You know, I can't remember, but it wasn't that 'you fish on your side' stuff." The lights on the cop car were still flashing, and traffic had to take turns passing him because he'd taken up a whole lane in order to stop and chat with us. "Hey, wait," I said. "Did you just pronounce the whole name a minute ago?" "No." He laughed again. "Just the first part. I don't know too many people who can pronounce the whole thing. You know, if you're taking pictures, there's a better sign on the other side of town. This one's rusting and falling apart." "Thanks. I figured we'd go over to Memorial Beach Drive and there might be a sign down there." "Yup, the name is actually painted across the overpass that goes over Memorial Beach Drive, right over by the police station." He gave us directions. We thanked him. He drove away. Traffic resumed its normal flow. We found the overpass. We took a picture. We found the lake. We looked at it. We went away. World's Longest Lake Name On the way back to Milford we passed an ice cream place with a singular sign out front. I had to go back and get a picture of it. The large fiberglass icre cream cone, very obviously female, projected an unsettling sexuality with her spreadlegged stance. This induces people to buy ice cream? Perhaps. After all, isn't the very act of licking an ice cream cone somewhat suggestive in and of itself? We wrapped up the day with dinner at the Cactus Grille in Milford. The only reason I mention it is because there's a Cactus Grille in Providence. I had always thought it was a unique restaurant -- I remember when it was just a little hole in the wall on South Main Street. But the Providence and Milford locations are evidently linked in some way because their menus are identical, which means they're a sort of a chain, which breaks one of my vacation rules. The food was great, though, and I was no longer on vacation, so what does it really matter? revised 20010805 |