Palmyra, the Taghkanic Mountains, and the Berkshires

 Earlier this week Jim and I met Xiomara and their kids in Albany, New York (about 2 ½ hours away), and drove in one car another three hours to the Eire Canal village of Palmyra. In late June we had taken a bus trip with our Cambridge Stake youth group and wanted to share the experience.

The Airbnb was a homey, two-story house with three bedrooms circa 1920. We visited all the Church history sites. Everyone’s favorite was the Grandin Building, where the first 5,000 copies of the Book of Mormon were published. The informative tour described Joseph Smith’s experience and explained the nineteenth-century printing process. We each got a sheet with the first 32 pages which we folded into a quire.

I had lugged two bases and a frisbee to the ward campout two weeks earlier and never used them. In Palmyra I got my chance. In the late afternoon we found a grassy area near the canal and played running bases, taking turns being basemen and throwing the frisbee. It only landed in the bushes a few times.

Monday we had ice cream outside the Chill and Grill and the next evening I enjoyed Maine blueberry ice cream at a Byrne Dairy convenience store. There was plenty of butterfat and the rich taste of Maine.

Our family book club selection this month is the Netflix’ series, Wednesday. I cancelled my Netflix account in protest many years ago, when the company suddenly split their DVD and streaming services, doubling the charge for subscribing to both. That controversial business decision was made in 2011, but I’ve never forgiven them.

However, my Oma heart can’t resist Victoria; Wednesday is her selection. So I subscribed for a month and Jim and I watched the first four episodes at home. I found the character disturbingly dark, but she lightened up a bit as the series progressed. I could pass on the gore and physical suspense, but at least the scary music warned me to get ready to close my eyes. In Palmyra we watched the final four episodes together. Andrew and Victoria had already seen the whole thing and Andrew had a hard time not delivering spoilers to me. I warned him quite sternly but lightheartedly.

After we left the Bronx crowd on Wednesday, I drove Interstate 90 from Albany to our home. The late-afternoon sunlight suffused the Taconic Mountains and the Berkshires with a golden-green glow. The forests are dark green, soon to enter their autumnal phase. I even saw one tree with a tinge of fall color. I composed this post as the Mass Pike wended its way through the wooded rolling hills of western and central Massachusetts.

To quote my favorite Massachusetts troubadour, I drove "the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston."

Talking to a Stranger

It’s 9:35 p.m. and I am determined to fulfill my pledge and post today. I’m also determined to go to bed before 11:00 p.m. So, this is not going to be deathless prose.

The last time I was in a store was March 11th.

For the past 41 days, I’ve been experimenting with eating from the food storage we’ve maintained for the last 40 years. When the lockdown began, I resolved to delay a grocery trip. Jim decided that seven weeks would be a sufficient test and a few weeks ago he made a date with me to shop on April 21. I persuaded him to get up before 6 a.m. for “Senior Hour” at Market Basket. For the first time, I saw upended grocery carriages festooned with yellow hazard tape to mark the waiting line outside the store. For about 20 minutes, we waited six feet behind a man with a scarf around his face. Jim and I sported the hand-made facemasks our friend Ellen sewed.

125 people were allowed in the store at once. My carefully-crafted grocery list was in store-aisle order. About two aisles into our trip, we noticed that all the aisles had ‘one-way’ signs. Oops! Later I gently told an errant shopper or two, “You didn’t notice, but the aisles are all one-way.” I loved being in the know.

In the checkout line, it was my turn to make a mistake. I obediently stood behind the broad blue-tape line on the floor, six feet away from the conveyor belt. But when the previous order was rung up and the belt empty, I started to place my order, keeping more than six feet away from the other customer. The cashier quickly told me to take my items off the belt: I had to wait until the previous order was completely packed up and the customer moving away before starting to load the belt.

Slightly embarrassed, I explained to the customer, “This is the first time I’ve shopped for over a month; I didn’t know the procedure.”

He smiled and remarked that I must have a lot of food at home.

“Yes, we store food, like rice and beans.”

“That’s a lot of rice and beans.”

We laughed together.

As my order was being bagged, the man behind me started filling the conveyor belt. Again, the cashier warned. I smiled, “Oh, I’m so glad I’m not the only one who doesn’t know.”

When we got home, Jim loaded the kitchen porch with the paper grocery bags (reusable shopping bags are prohibited in Massachusetts) while I stored the snow shovels and sand buckets in the garage to make room. We stood on the porch, searching the web for safe practices in unpacking groceries. Then we went in, washed our hands, and I wiped down packages and rearranged the fridge. We left the non-perishables on the porch to age overnight.

Such a simple pleasure, to go to a grocery store and talk to a stranger.

Sixteen-mile March Before Patriots' Day

Early this morning, in a light but steady snowfall, I turned out of my driveway and headed for the Minuteman Bike Path. The lawns were covered with two inches of clean white snow. In the forest (as my Viennese friend calls it) the the brilliant white snow clung to the maple and oak branches spreading out in all directions. The long-needled pines drooped: a gingerbread village scene.

For the first three miles, I passed three people. I nodded and smiled at the first man I met, and said, it’s magical. He smiled warmly and agreed. Blessed solitude. I eschewed my ubiquitous audio-books and walked in silent contentment.

The bike path ends at the old Bedford Depot. A large weatherproof map shows the two trailheads nearby. I thought I knew where the trail to Concord began and walked about a tenth of a mile in the wrong direction. I returned to study the map again and found Railroad Avenue. At Elm Brook Park there was no indication of the identity of the trail. As I struggled to see my GPS, my glasses fogged. I could hardly read the tiny map.

A mile along, I called out to an approaching bicyclist. Is this the Reformatory Branch Trail? I was mortified when he skidded to a stop just past me. What did you say? Aghast, I ask again. He cheerfully affirmed and added helpfully that it goes into Concord Center. I was grateful but embarrassed.

Three tricorn hats and two American flags jogged down the path. Happy Patriots' Day, the father called. It is a strange April. All Patriots Day activities have been cancelled. No breakfast for 200. No muskets firing on the Green. No young man in Bedford scaling a twenty-foot liberty pole to place his red cap on top. No Marathon.

Once in Concord, I glanced to my right and saw the forest give way to a huge expanse of golden grasses, with a large pond in the distance: The Great Meadow National Wildlife Refuge.  Wonder filled me.

At Concord Center I turned towards Lincoln and later onto the Battle Road. Perched on a granite boulder, a perky snow bunny stared at me. My Runkeeper read 13.15 miles: a half marathon.

The going got rougher as my feet developed blisters and my hips stiffened. My first mile was a 16:38 minute-mile. By my last (mile 16) I was barely clocking a 25-minute mile.

Gingerly climbing the exterior stairs to Jim’s coachhouse office, I joined the video-conference call with R’el and Matt. This was our virtual finish line after completing the Conquer covid-19 virtual race. Jim and I tapped the laptop screen with cold diet sodas and we all toasted each other. Then I slowly moved back down the stairs, into the house, and up more stairs to take a soothing hot bath.