This morning we awoke from one of the best night’s sleep that we’ve had on this trip. It was so quiet all night, that we didn’t hear a thing but the occasional goose honking in some far off piece of sky. The camp might have been a little neglected, but the location was just the very best. Our nearest neighbor even offered to score some cinnamon rolls for us when they made a morning dash into the village.
On the other hand, we are now ensconced in an overcrowded, lakeside camp in western Vermont that you might describe as any RVers worst nightmare. It’s literally packed from wall to wall with hordes of weekenders who are intent on celebrating Memorial Day to the fullest, regardless of the commotion they make.
There are ATVs zipping around like bothersome horseflies, there are miniature dogs barking at everyone else’s miniature dogs, and there are enough wood fires burning in the middle of this 91 degree heat to gladden the heart of your average blacksmith.
Those, of course, are the bad things. The good things are we succeeded in finding a camp that would take us on short notice. I only called them at noon today. The first camp I called, a KOA in Glen Falls, Vermont, didn’t have even one space left. The state park we called in that same area didn’t even bother to return our call.
So when the camp host here at Lake Bomoseen, Vermont, said they’d take us, we were pretty elated. That makes three out of the four Memorial holiday nights we got lucky, even though we fully expected that we’d be living in a Walmart Parking lot for the whole long weekend. Of course we still have Monday night to deal with, but we remain hopeful that with the Memorial Day weekend tapering off, maybe we'll get lucky again.
Before leaving Cooperstown this morning, we wanted to visit a number of things. There was an exhibit of Ansel Adams original prints at the local art gallery. In addition, the gallery was also hosting some absolutely fabulous sketches and color posters by the famous artist, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
Right across the street from the art gallery was a fabulous pioneer farm and village that looked inviting. Like Colonial Williamsburg, the village promised craftsmen and women demonstrating their handiwork, which is an activity that we just love and almost always learn from.
Then, for the sports-minded, there was the baseball hall of fame. We knew if we wanted to keep a couple of our readers happy, we probably should make time to learn about baseball. Personally, the last time I enjoyed baseball I was playing sandlot ball in my old neighborhood when I was a pre-teen. I also collected baseball cards. But since those heady days of the 1950s I haven't given baseball much thought. I suspect that Concetta felt the same.
Lastly, the town of Coorperstown itself was just ultra cute, festooned from border to border with gorgeous Victorian houses that were just begging to be photographed. Unlike many, many tired and sad neighborhoods we've driven past in the last two months, the residents of Cooperstown really take pride in their vintage and historic homes.
What to do? Fortunately we had at our disposal a wonderful way to make the decision. Cooperstown provides a trolley that scoots from one end of town to the other and back again every twenty minutes. The trolley is just as cute as the town, looking much like a rubber-tired version of a San Francisco cable car. We already knew where to find the parking lot for the trolley, so that was our first stop after leaving camp.
Fortunately, the parking lot was only about half full when we arrived and it was an easy matter to go clear to the back and park the rig in the shade of some giant trees. Twenty minutes later, we had paid our two bucks apiece and were off on a very pleasant ride through town, fully narrated by our driver.
Having ridden clear to the southern trolley terminus and back to the middle of town, Concetta and I disembarked and started walking. The town was in a very festive mood as some sort of long-distance race was in progress. Every few minutes a numbered man or woman or child would dash by and disappear down the street. taking place concurrently was some sort of law enforcement celebration, as one entire parking lot was cordoned off for all the police vehicles.
But the runners and the cops weren't the most noticeable visitors on the main street of town. No, it was the baseball fans. They came in all shapes, sizes, sexes, age groups, and degrees of celebratory inclination. Many, many of the baseball fanatics were dressed in baseball jerseys, hats, and, in some cases, entire uniforms. The only thing we didn't see was fans carrying balls, bats, and gloves -- well, maybe one or two!
So it was that after walking Cooperstown's main street in two directions, on both sides of the street, we landed in the courtyard of the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum. We looked at each other and sighed. It appeared that come what may in the way of baseball fan abuse, we were not going to be able to convince ourselves to pony up the fifteen bucks a head to visit that most sacred place to baseball fans. We hope at least our sons will forgive us.
After that decision, it was much easier to decide on our next steps. Right on cue the trolley stopped opposite the Hall of Fame, we got on, and within minutes we were deposited upon the front steps of the art museum. In the interim -- since Concetta and I were the only passengers for that leg -- we got quite a dissertation from the driver on what it was like to live in Cooperstown, and how nice it was that every resident seemed to get into the spirit of maintaining the town's image. That is to say, the residents maintain their property in an exemplary fashion, which serves to make the town look more prosperous and inviting. When the town looks more inviting, tourists visit. And when tourists visit, the townsfolk make more money. It's such a simple idea that you wonder why more towns and villages don't seem to get it.
Anyway, though we could only devote an hour to our art museum visit, we thoroughly enjoyed fantastic exhibits on Ansel Adams earliest works, as well as some wonderful works, both early and later, by Toulouse-Lautrec . There was lots more to see at the museum, and we did partake of the American Indian permanent displays, but we still had to visit across the street to the Pioneer Village before lunchtime.
All it took was a brief walk across the street, and the Pioneer Village was at our fingertips. The Village, actually called the "Farmer's Museum," was done in such an astoundingly professional manner that you just couldn't help but be awed by the effort it must have taken. The entrance point is in the west end of a HUGE barn that has been completely refurbished into a museum.
The museum's lower floor is made up of individual booths wherein various farm crafts are displayed and explained. I liked the one on cider making, for instance. Concetta spent much time on that floor and learned about everything from Hops and Beer-making, to chicken ranching and dairy farming.
While Concetta was absorbed in the home crafts displays, I dashed upstairs to the hayloft where the more manly-man stuff was displayed and explained. I ventured up there because the sign on the lower floor promised that an extensive tool collection was to be seen up there. Goodness, was the sign ever right! They had every sort of tool you could imagine, all grouped into job types.
They had plumber's tools, and blacksmith's tools, and barrel-maker's tools, and carpenter's tools, and a dozen other job types. Each tool collection was so extensive that I just had to photograph each booth so I would have a record for future reference when I ran across a weird and wonderful tool that I could not identify.
Once we were out of the barn, we joined forces and walked over to the small village. There we found blacksmiths plying their craft, a printer, a dry-goods store owner, a man making barrels, and a half dozen other buildings that we never got to see. We spent the most time at the barrel maker, as he turned out to be so very informative and clear about the craft. For the first time I think we actually came away with a thorough understanding of the process.
Of course I just had to visit the print shop. I just can't stay away. Here the printer demonstrated using a press from the year 1820, which rested beside an 1840 model that was down for parts. They also had a early "clam-shell" press just like one we had at Sierra Nevada Printing back in the 1970s when I worked there. The model was slightly smaller, but essentially the same design.
We also had a very nice visit with the head blacksmith as he worked on fixing an antique flintlock pistol. Though I had not given it any thought, apparently blacksmiths could be called upon to fix mechanisms much smaller and more delicate than your average wagon part or plow. This particular blacksmith, though retired now from active blacksmithing, told me that he now spends most of his time fixing antique guns for folks.
At that point in time it was 12:00 noon and we had to retreat to the nearby parking lot where we had left the rig, have our lunch, and get on the road if we wanted to make any miles today. While we were having lunch we called several numbers to try and find a place to camp for the evening. When we finally found the one at Bomoseen Lake, Vermont, it became mandatory that we saddle up and get out of town. I have to tell you, however, if you ever get to Cooperstown, New York, try and spend a couple of days at least. You won't be sorry.
There was only one additional thing we had to do before leaving New York: we had to visit my long-time buddy, Jan Benson, who moved from Carson City to upstate New York probably twenty years ago. He owns a Victorian house in the tiny town of Worcester, New York, and is, as Concetta puts it, one of my more "eccentric" friends. He's an avid historian and train collector and all-around quirky guy of whom I've always been quite fond.
Once upon a time, when I had first landed in Carson City, Jan took me under his wing and introduced me to his buddies who were fanatical about anything and everything related to railroads. Actually, what he did was entice me down to the rail fan club house one night, and before I left I had been elected secretary, a job which I held for several years. Later, I would put out the club newsletter, serve as their program chairman, and spend (according to Concetta) way too much of my life thinking (and writing) about trains.
So, once we had finished lunch we dashed down Route 28 from Cooperstown, jumped on Interstate 88 north, and within a very short time we were pulling up in front of his house. More accurately, we pulled up in front of his next door neighbor's house and parked our behemoth of a vehicle on her parking strip. I got out, waved to the two ladies sitting on the nearby porch, asked if they minded me parking there, and when they didn't, I set off to find Jan's front door. When that didn't turn out to be possible, I went back to talk to the ladies on the porch.
"Do either of you know where to find the front door next door?" I asked.
The ladies looked at each other and chuckled. Then the lady in purple said, "He's not home anyway you know. He's at work. He drives a bus from here to Cooperstown."
"Ah," I said, or something equally intelligent, thinking we had probably passed him on the road at some point.
"He won't be home until late," the purple lady continued.
Now that the ice had been broken, I and the two ladies had a brisk conversation that ran from what life was like in Nevada, to how many times Jan had been married (I think the purple lady was sort of sweet on Jan if I had to guess). We talked about the weather. We talked about what a nice rig we had in front of her house. We talked about how I was going to get the nice rig off her parking strip and back on main street when we left. At the end of that conversation I knew just about as much as I knew when I arrived, but I did grow to like the purple lady and her friend. They were feisty as heck.
So, what might have been an hour-long visit with Jan, turned into a ten-minute visit with the neighbor, then we were off on the road again. We finished the run up Interstate 88 until we hit Schenectady, then we switched over to Interstate 87. After that of myriad of roads that shunted us by Saratoga Springs, past Glens Falls, and into Vermont, was followed by our ultimate arrival at party city here in Lake Bomoseen, Vermont. By the way, I had no trouble navigating the neighbor's tiny neighborhood streets and back onto Main Street out of Worcester. Piece of cake.
All day we kept an eagle eye out for a grocery store. We were running dangerously low on a bunch of different supplies, but to our disappointment we saw no stores. We did occasionally pass a mini-mart in combination with a gas station, but we wanted a store of substance. For some reason we have not seen a single Walmart in the last several days. We're not sure if they've been banned in the northeast, or whether we've just taken the road less traveled by the Walmart folks. But by the end of the day today, we were pretty much resigned to eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner and God knows what for breakfast, as we haven't passed anything that looked remotely like a grocery store.
But just a few miles before we arrived at Lake Bomoseen, we came upon a roadside stand, much as you might see in California, where one could obtain plants and flowers, but where one could also obtain groceries. Well, the small, amply-supplied shop carried everything from a wonderful array of vegetables and fruit and pastries of all sorts, to homemade jams and jellies, locally-grown honey, and that magical elixir known as maple syrup. We picked up berries, oranges and apples, lettuce, potatoes, bananas (probably not locally-grown), and a few other goodies. We still need to find a real grocery store soon, as we're almost out of a number of other things. Still, we probably won't starve anytime soon.
And that's just about it for now. Next door there's an irritating chap who thinks he can play the bongo drums, and a woman who insists on singing "Blowing in the Wind" over and over again in some sort of key not normally used for that song. Still, I'm hoping that eventually they will fall asleep next to their bonfire and quiet down a bit. All things considered, if I'm not forced to get a brick and kill the bongo player, I think we'll have a reasonably peaceful night. At least I haven't seen the ATV rider with the mounted red and yellow lights in the last twenty minutes. I DO wish he'd quit blowing that fog horn.
Anyway, until we meet again, we wish you Happy Travels.
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