Nor’easter Day 5 – Finally Gone!
Awake, eyes closed, I sense something strange. Different. My eyes lids flutter open, shaking off last night’s restless sleep. Probably too many Cranberry Margaritas and too much food at the pig roast yesterday. And we’re going to eat again in a little over four hours.
Studying the ceiling, then looking out the window, light dawns. Literally. Not the bright light of streetlights out my window and a night light leading the way in the adjacent room, but—sunlight! It’s been forever since I’ve felt its warmth. The Nor’easter is FINALLY gone!
I make my way down the steep stairs to Michael, coffee, and the rest of the day.
Memories
We are in the car before nine o’clock, heading west, toward roads once taken a half century ago, driving down MA 44 toward the town of Taunton — a place we once called home. Noticing a traffic circle on Google Maps in the middle of town, my memories take flight, recalling my hatred for that circle. Traffic circles were foreign to me and I always feared a collision. Maybe my fear kept me safe. Something did.
We drive down a side road in Rehoboth to see the US Army Nike Site where he worked back then. The low-slung cinder-block buildings are still here, and are painted a different color then they were back then. They now belong to the Massachusetts National Guard. Michael shows me the building where his office was housed, and the mess hall, and the barracks where single enlisted men called home.
Brunch at the Cedar Street Grill
When finally, almost two hours later, we arrive in Sturbridge, we drive to the restaurant where we have reservations for brunch. It is located in an old house with a warm and charming interior, and if wishing could make it so, the fireplace adjacent to the table where we sit, would be lit.
Michael orders Lobster Benedict, and when it is placed before him, rather than a few pieces of lobster scattered on the plate, his eggs are covered with claw meat and drenched in hollandaise. My grilled salmon tastes of summer fire. The last drop of prosecco sipped, gathering my things, we make our way to Old Sturbridge Village for a real dose of old-fashioned country life.
Old Sturbridge Village
When I was a child bride and Michael was stationed in Rehoboth, we developed a friendship with a couple who were from Massachusetts, and were also snared into service of the Army due to the Viet Nam war. They introduced us to many things during our seven-month stay in Massachusetts, the one they most wanted us to see was this village.
The living history museum, covering two hundred acres, was so perfect so many years ago, I can’t imagine it getting any better. Michael hears me sigh as we enter a parking lot full of cars. Looking at me he says, “What did you expect?”
Well, in all honesty, this is what I expected. The fall colors are at their peak, it is Sunday, and the weather is glorious. Grudgingly admitting to myself, that I should be willing to share this day, we walk toward the entrance.
Getting Reacquainted
Our first stop is the introductory film. It is short and sweet. I discover that the individuals portraying characters from this time period, from 1790s to 1830s, are educators; and that one man’s love of history, and a collection of things old that outgrew his surroundings, prompted the birth of this village.
The buildings are all authentic, not only to their time, they are totally authentic in that they have been carefully moved here from other places in Massachusetts. The land we see is being farmed, producing real crops that are harvested and eaten. Sheep that are really shorn, wood that is really milled, blacksmiths making tools that are really used. This is a history about a way of life. Ordinary people. Not one historical figure in the lot.
The Path Less Taken
I love things old. Farms. The country. Winding roads. This should be a good day. Stepping out of the visitor center, we head in the direction less taken. The first thing greeting us as we walk is a split rail fence guarding a newly tilled field. It smells of earth and autumn. I feel at home. This is where I want to be.
There are rock walls and winding roads so tightly packed with dirt they could be mistaken for asphalt, but they aren’t. This is infinitely better. We pass by an apple orchard and a collection of apples waiting to be made into cider or pies or apple butter. There are so many choices.
There is a farm with cows and a fine old two-story house worth exploring. The walls are decorated with the original murals still in place, albeit worn with age.
The village green, is busy but not totally so. With 200 acres and 40,000 artifacts to explore, I guess it is possible for a large amount of people to just disappear.
A Walk in the Country
We leave the center of the village and make our way to a more pastoral setting. There is a lake, perhaps a river off to our right. It is idyllic. I marvel at the fact we are walking down this country lane by ourselves, not another leaf peeper or tourist in sight. We find them clustered around a young farmer educating everyone about the marvels of apples and apple trees. We stop and listen and then wander on.
A sheep is running loose at the Freeman Farm, and this is my happy place. The hay. The old buildings. The familiar smells of child hood visits to my grandmother’s farm.
Surrounding the farm is a cooperage, several mills, and just beyond, an old covered bridge.
Back on the Village Green
Making our way across the river via the covered bridge, we wind up back at the village green. Exploring numerous shops, and a stereotypical New England church, we almost pass up the town meetinghouse. I follow Michael as he steps inside.
This is something not to be missed! There is a harvest celebration taking place and one-third of the meeting hall is filled with produce and other products from the surrounding farms. Giant jugs of butter, wheels of cheese and the most amazing collection of HUGE heritage vegetables I have ever seen. There are beets as big as softballs! I didn’t even know these heritage vegetables existed. I’m familiar with heritage tomatoes, and I’ve hear of heritage potatoes and heritage pork, but all of this?!
The woman on duty dressed in a period costume, along with her apron and bonnet, looks like she just stepped out of the garden patch by her house. We talk forever it seems, and she fills me in on the different types of vegetables and what New Englander’s did back then with a pile of fiery red chili peppers; they look very out of place this far north. “It gives our pickles some tasty oomph,” she informs me. They can also be dried, finely ground and your shoes dusted with the hot powder to aid in circulation, and to keep them warm.
The Road Home
Taking my place in the car, and not ready to face a six lane highway, Google Maps is programmed to take us home on back roads only. Taking an hour longer than the highway, it will be worth the time, and Michael is willing.
We stop on the way, making a small detour, and buy some perfect produce at a farm stand, sampling free apple cider while we are there.
Fried Clams
Driving into Plymouth Michael tells me he is hungry. He wants clams. His treat. Let’s try Wood’s.
Luck is with us, and one of three parking spaces is available right in front of this humble harbor restaurant.
Finally, I follow Michael’s lead and order what he orders. My fried clams are delicious. After shunning them for more years than I care to admit, I am now a fan. Michael’s whole clams, and my clam strips are both great. His are better, I didn’t totally follow his lead. 🙂
This day just might be one of the best yet. There are so many of them though, perhaps things are getting a bit too crowded at the top.
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