Pictures from the Road

Ride Home

We began our return to the States this morning with a quick-stop at the bakery and cafe that our sweet Toronto Sister Dotcalm manages, arriving just in time to find her whizzing in on her silver motorbike! Now, she's spoken with pleasure many times about her jazzy-looking "ride," and it's with much delight that we captured a picture of her in her chic helmet!

We tasted some of the bakery items offered in Dot's shop: exquisite scones, muffins, and coffee, and then she introduced us to the dedicated kitchen staff whom she cajoles with sweet teases and charms - as only Dottie can - into preparing delicious yummies. Lucky us, to be sent on our way with one of these, and oh, one of those, in our bulging sacks, as with a final flourishing (HUG), we said our goodbyes.

We re-entered the States via a more eastern border, just west of the Adirondack mountains, and were soon traveling through beautiful farm country.  

By evening, we found ourselves in my (Jacquie's) maternal grandfather's birthplace, Tupper Lake, NY. For years, the family history has recounted how "Pepere" and his gazillion brothers and sisters came from this area, though no one can say what his father did for work here.  "Something to do with hammers and nails," my mother says.  Why were they here, and why when Pepere was a boy, did they take the long trek to resettle in Maine?

We pulled into town and entered a shop where I hoped to find a souvenir to bring back to my mom. I breezily mentioned to the shopkeeper that my grandfather was born here.  Within 3 minutes, she handed me a phone so that I could speak with her elderly aunt, who requested the spelling of my grandfather's last name, and went on quizzing me with a series of questions for which I had no answers. 

Obviously it was a source of great consternation to the elderly aunt, to the shopkeeper, the shopkeeper's husband, and later to the woman at the desk at the place where we sought lodging, that there were no answers for us, and they recommended that we see the owner of the antiques store on the small Main Street, the "town historian, even though he's not from here."  They also recommended books and authors, and otherwise furled their brows and thought very hard indeed on our behalf.

It appears to be that kind of town...  where strangers appear, mention some ancient connecting thread, and are immediately and warmly indulged.  One isn't used to this kind of treatment - it's a bit disconcerting.  We learned some of the town's history - that many French people had come here from Canada to work as lumberjacks at the turn of the 20th century, when rail-lines were being cut into the mountains and houses were being built (the town was established in 1902), and also that there was an active sawmill here that had hundreds of immigrant workers - all of these occupations relative to "something to do with hammers and nails."

We had planned to visit the town, find some dinner, and then breeze through, but were so charmed by the people, the prettiness of the lake, the hilly landscape, and our very hungry bellies, that we chose to stay put.  Our first stay in an Adirondack cabin!  Just the kind one sees in old travel folios from the 1950's and 60's, sparsely furnished and with a simple charm.

This weary traveler, the great-granddaughter of a man and woman she never met, whose first names she doesn't even know - lays her head down among the Adirondack hills, yearning for dreams fueled by the resonating spirits of these early ancestors.  I'm here for the night, and if they wish to speak, I'm listening.

3 Sisters, 2 Brothers, A Beautiful City

On this warm day in Toronto, our friends Arla and her hubby drove in to meet us, and together we all awaited the arrival of another Power-Surge friend, the inimitable whirlwind, Dotcalm!  

And whirl in she did, scooping us along and taking us on a tour of this varied and gorgeous city.  We ate wonderful food, walked in the cool Kensington Market area, and chatted, chatted, chatted.  

The husbands had a trek to the heights of the CN Tower (which I dared not attempt given that it makes the Bennington Monument look like a playground toy!).

All in all, a great fun day, fully of Dottie's joy and energy.  We managed to keep up with her for the most part!

Leaving you with photos of our day, as we prepare, this Tuesday morning, to head out the door for the beginning of our trek home.

Surge

Note: Click on any of the pictures in this blog to display the image at full size. 

Today we crossed the border into Canada to see the other side of the glorious Falls, admittedly the better view, as everyone will tell you... 

Words cannot do justice to the experience of being in the presence of such massive power and beauty and surge, and so we leave you with our pixelated visuals, which come just the eensiest bit closer.

And well, the other Surge...  The one that when far away from these gorgeous Falls, when sitting at home in my pj's with a heart that's happy or sad or panicked or frantic about something or other.  This source of beauty and comfort was designed by Alice Stamm, a wizard of computer technology even when it was in its infancy.  Alice began the site that has been a lifeline to women around the world - a place of beauty and sustenance that has seen women arrive like weary soldiers returning from battle.  Shell-shocked, frightened, lonely, and very far from home...

You think I'm exaggerating?  I am NOT.  Although in modern media for women it remains a Big Hush-Hush, as though we must still be living in Victorian times, the truth is that for thousands of women, menopause is profoundly unsettling.  My own was hell.  HELL.  And so one day five years ago, I weepily typed a list of frightening symptoms into google, and well, it brought me home.

Home is Power-surge.com.  Begun by Alice in the 1990's, it's gone through (and continues to go through) numerous configurations determined by current computer technology, but the heart of this home does not change.  It is a place of welcome, and one is met at the door by Alice's big wide-open arms, and yes, we fall into them.   Alice's site represents hours of research she gathered and organized into categories user-friendly to women who aren't particularly computer-savvy.  One can look up "internal shaking," or "numbness," for example, and I'm betting you had no idea these are not uncommon symptoms of menopause...

For years Alice conducted Guest Chats with some of the most prominent doctors, researchers, nutritionists, etc., in the field of women's health.  These are still archived, and although Alice for personal reasons has not been able to offer the chats for awhile, their information remains current and relevant.

And then, there are the Message Boards.  And here, I wish typepad offered smiley-face icons, or hearts, or some other way I could convey the smile that is present on my face.  I have met amazing women on these boards, women from cities and hamlets and European countries and Australia, for heavens sake.  I have laughed and cried and wept and raged with them, and far from inhabiting a virtual world, they are Friends.  We share news of grandchildren, our cats, the breakdown of our cars, or of our hearts.  

One of the joys of traveling (and yes, this is a travel blog!) is meeting some of these Sisters, the "Sisters of Da Surge," as one of the girls puts it, in person.  Our trek to Texas last year brought me to a dinner table with Boyzmom; I've met Chriscarol in Connecticut, and Joline and 1Shopper, right in Maine.

Last night I met Arla, up here in Niagara-on-the-Lake.  Arla and I have been exchanging news and support in a particular Power-Surge thread (along with lots of other threads, and amidst lots of other beautiful Sisters) for a few years now, and it was a THRILL to meet her!  We had a beautiful dinner, and barely stopped talking long enough to actually get the food into our mouths.  In fact, it was easy to ignore my dessert (white chocolate and lemon cake even!) while looking at the pics of her adorable little grandbabies.  We had a beautiful midnight walk in this lovely village, and I savored every moment of it.

Our husbands, who've now been given the moniker of "Surge Brothers," also had lots to chat about, leaving Arla and me to share so many of our feelings about Power-Surge, the ultimate one being that it has brought us hope at the lowest point of our lives.

Tomorrow, David and I drive to Toronto, where we will meet yet another Power-surge Sister, Dotcalm, and I'm beside myself, truly.  Arla and her husband will join us, and it will be a Surge Session to beat all!  

And I end with a dedication to Alice Stamm, a most extraordinary woman.  Alice, I don't think you truly know what you have done.  Women come to your site and express that you've saved their lives.  You saved mine.  I thank you, Dearest, with all of my heart.  The voyage that brought me Home to Power-surge was the most important one I've ever taken. 

Thank you.

Thar She Flows!

After a day of driving with a couple of fun side-treks I'll mention in a moment, we reached our ultimate goal early in the evening, making our acquaintance at last with the Mighty Waters.   They are beautiful, and sooooo powerful!  Back at home, looking at pictures of the gorgeous Niagara Falls, it doesn't dawn on a person that (duh) this much water would create a WALL of noise, or that the river leading to the falls might be impressive in itself, thrashing and barreling along the banks and over rocks and giant wedged logs.  Everything about the Falls is massive!  And misty.  And breathtaking.

After an initial walk to take in as much of the beauty of the place as possible, we were fortunate to be seated at a restaurant's outdoor patio with a great view of the upcoming Fourth-of-July fireworks - a very nice way to watch fireworks, indeed, with a comfy seat and sips of wine between the ooooohs and ahhhhs!  When the display (and dinner) ended, we walked to the viewing tower to see the Falls washed in colored lights beamed from the Canadian shore - gorgeous. 

The area was packed with people who'd come to see the fireworks,  and the "press of humanity," as they say, was daunting, given the propensity to yell to make oneself  heard over the crashing of the Falls.  The water sounds were natural and fine; not so the shouts and exclamations of hundreds of people.  So, with a final walk up along the river rapids, we left the cacophony behind and made our way back to the hotel. 

I have to say something about the day's drive from Cazedonia to Buffalo.  We'd never realized that there is such beautiful farm country in New York. A truly quilted landscape of hills dotted with crops and outbuildings, those old silos we so love to see.  It's heartening to witnessworking farms so well-tended, reminiscent of an earlier Maine we once knew, even in the southern parts of the state, where we live. So many gone now!

Our first stop of the day was in  Seneca Falls, site of the original "Sisters-of-Da-Surge!" (A private joke for the beloved P-S friends.)   TheWomens Rights National Historic Park should be a required field trip for all young girls, and boys, for that matter.  I've read so often about this 19th century group of women, who faced ridicule and even violence in the early days of seeking rights for women.

Their first Women's Conference took place here at the Wesleyan Chapel, in July, 1848.  A small group of women including the infamous Lucy Mott and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, had drafted a Declaration of Sentiments based on the U.S. Declaration of Independence, in which they stated that all men and women are created equal.

Women of the day could not vote, work outside their homes, own property - even speak in public, and in the event their husbands chose to divorce them, they generally had to leave their houses, and lost custody of their children.  Every woman was one man away from destitution.  Three hundred people attended the conference, but fewer than 70 women were willing to sign the Declaration, a sign of how controversial these "new notions" of equality were perceived to be.

And because they persisted, and other Sisters took up the cause despite struggles and persecution, we've found ourselves 160 years later with a woman candidate for President of the United States. Bless  those early social pioneers!

Our next trek was a shot up to Rochester, where we visited the George Eastman House and Museum of Photography, where my own "FilmGuy" was soon in his glory...  

Not only is there an extensive array of early cameras in the museum, which David chirped about with the glad enthusiasm of a kid in a toy shop, but there are original photographs from the likes of Margaret Bourke-White, Dorothea Lang, and W. Eugene Smith, along with intriguing and beautiful photos from their current themed collections.  

The Eastman House is pretty darned impressive on its own, and the gardens even more so.  He was a man who new how to transform a fortune into a beautiful lifestyle.

The irony of our visit is that if it were not for Eastman, we couldn't have MADE the visit.  David's business is in film and video, working in his early years (and to a much lesser degree now) with the celluloid film developed by Eastman. 

Film Guys then and now; Strong Sisters then and now.  Amazing the connections threaded across years and by strangers. They're everywhere.

MINI-Bug

....as opposed to the "Silver Bug," our beloved Airstream, still at the RV repair place that's had it since the first week of May, where it sits untrussed now, and as skeletal as if picked over by buzzards. We miss it so!

Since that demoralizing day in February, when a huge block of ice came crashing off the garage roof - as if this past winter in Maine hadn't already been horrid enough! - and gave our poor 'Stream a massive concussion along with serious internal injuries, we've been feeling quite sadly stuck at home... With the 4th of July holiday approaching (and the cost of gas approaching $4.50 a gallon..... okay, stop snickering, my British buds!), we've decided to take an impromptu trek in the Mini Cooper. We're headed to Toronto, Canada, by way of Niagara Falls. Quite a different ride!  But it's very nice to be on the road again.

It was a beautiful morning to start on a journey: high 70's, briskish, and dry. Perfect driving weather.  Our first stop was in Brattleboro, Vermont, where, while seeking some lunch, we blew past what looked like a charming old-fashioned country store. Screeeechhhh!  And it was just that, full of the requisite local jams, cheeses, and maply products, but with the addition of a most heartening line-up of Starbucks thermal pots and a menu featuring numerous creative deli sandwich combinations. Perfection!  We filled a basket, and went off in search of a place for picnicking.

Which we found about an hour up the road, in Bennington, home of the famous Bennington Battlefield Monument. We've been here before, years ago when our daughter was a pre-teen. It must have been around the 4th of July back then, too, as in family pictures she's waving a little American flag. What were we doing in Bennington back then? Where would we have visited, to stop with Jessie in Bennington? Think as we might, we haven't a clue.

The elevator ride to the upper parts of the monument was daunting enough (for those of us who are claustrophobic in the passenger seats of Mini-Coopers, never mind small steel elevators).  The views of the Vermont countryside were beautiful, or appeared so fleetingly when I could gather the courage to actually leave the safe grounding of the benches they've set up there for the benefit of the world's wusses, and manage a quick glance out of one of the little slitted windows. I am so, so, not brave...

The clouds were thickening, but David merrily shot pictures anyway, halfway hanging out the slits, and if he'd been able to scale the Monument's sides with nothing more than a single toehold, he'd have been even happier with the quality of the shots.

Interestingly, the battle commemorated at the Bennington  Monument didn't take place here. It is, however, the original site of a storehouse owned by the Colonial Army during the Revolutionary War, and it's because of this storehouse that a battle took place. The British Army, desperately in need of supplies, were in the area, attempting with a serious of attacks  (they'd just re-taken Fort Ticonderoga) to cut off New England from the other colonies. They expected to be able to gain access to the storehouse easily, as they believed it to be guarded by only a small regiment of soldiers. The American forces were led by General John Stark, who'd fought alongside George Washington. He'd come from the area of New Hampshire to assist those in the new "Republic of Vermont," bringing along a large number of militiamen. He led an attack on the British army about 5 miles from where the storehouse stood (now Willomsac, NY), and although it initially looked as though he'd successfully routed the British, a later rally on their part put him and his men in a weakened and precarious position. It was only the arrival of the "Green Mountain Boys." that helped the Colonial Army reclaim the victory.

One needn't be a Vermonter to lay claim to the Green Mountain Boys. Their story is inspirational to many Americans - this group of militiamen whose hearts so sought independence from the British Crown, they were willing to pay the ultimate price for such freedom. Ragtag and untrained, they could fight like hell.
Back on the road on this 4th of July weekend, it was pleasantly surprising to sense some resonance of the dedication and sacrifices of our earliest American ancestors. It's a feeling that those of us who more often think of ourselves as "citizens of the World," are often removed from. Patriotism. A word that makes us shuffle a bit, nudge our toes against the stony haughtiness it can imply.

We determined to wrap up the day by driving as directly toward Niagara Falls as possible,  stopping when the obvious signs of crankiness appeared. At suppertime, we pulled into a Scottish Inn in the quiet, mid-state New York town of Cazenovia. There, David was offered a pretty snifter of single-malt Scotch as we checked in, and we headed up to our room.

Lining the walls were illustrations representing the Scottish clans, and as fate would have it, the one right next to our door was the MacKinnon, the clan David's grandmother Fuller was descended from.

We untethered ourselves from the suitcases, and went downstairs for dinner, served on the premises. Not magnificent food, but satisfying enough. 

So with Grandmother Fuller's clan watching at the door, we end a good day on the road, served well by the Mini-Bug.

Bambi in Lilliput

Our Zepplin sits now in her plastic shroud waiting for the snow to clear. A week and a half ago Ken, an insurance appraiser, came to assess the damage. He could only tell us it was bad. "You're going to have to tow it to the dealer for them to take a look," he said. "It might be totaled, but I don't know enough about these trailers to say one way or the other." These weren't words I wanted to hear. "It'll have to go to the Airstream dealer," he repeated.

Totaled. We don't even want to think about that possibility.

It warmed up on Thursday enough for me to break up the snow pile and shovel away enough that I can get the Yukon in place to tow her out. On Saturday I freed the power cable from the ice. Today Jacquie took everything that lives in the Zepplin out. Tomorrow, if it doesn't rain, we're planning to tow her down to Lebanon to Stateline, the only Airstream dealer in Maine. It's not the trip we were hoping to make to start our camping season, but we're hoping and praying that the damage is more superficial than structural, and that a few weeks in the hands of a good Airstream mechanic will bring our Zepplin back to life.

But tonight, she sits trussed up like Gulliver in Lilliput, bruised and vulnerable.

Black Friday

This has been a long winter. Ask anyone. We're used to winter up here in Maine. We have all the right clothes and stuff. We have snow shovels and snow rakes, and we all know people with plow trucks, and we have good snow tires and 4x4s and all the other stuff we need to get around. But this year we've had about 120 inches of snow (yes, that's 10 feet), and we're all pretty sick of it.

Last year at this time we had just returned from a wonderful Airstream trip to New Mexico, but this year are having our kitchen redone by our talented cabinetmaker son-in-law so we stayed close to home. And by the first of February, there was so much snow plowed up in front of the Airstream that it would have taken a front-end-loader to get it out of its parking spot. For weeks now, Jacquie and I have been saying, "How soon do you think we can get the Zepplin out of the snow for a weekend trip somewhere - anywhere?!" and then just shaking our heads at the thought of how long it would be until enough of snow melted to let us pull the Airstream out.

It snowed again today - another 5 inches of the heavy wet variety. Not surprising, since we've had snow more than half of the days in March. While I was returning with Willie (our new dog) from his evening walk, I saw something that alarmed me: a piece of ice jutting out of the top of the Bambi about where the air conditioner sits. It seems that the weight of the new snow had pulled the remaining snow off the roof next to the Airstream's parking pad, and with all the freezing and thawing in March it wasn't really snow any more, but heavy sheets of ice.

With a sinking heart, I approached for a closer look and saw a nasty dent in the upper corner.
Moving around to the back, what I found made me even more heartsick: the ice had done extensive damage to the rear corner. There was too much of the new snow covering things for me to see what the scope of the damage to the top was, but I thought I ought to get a shovel and dig out the door so I could look inside. There, my worse fears were confirmed: the damage was severe enough that the interior roof was dented in, and the frame above the bathroom door had been broken.

Our beautiful "escape pod" is in need of some pretty serious repair work. I can't tell if the structural ribs are damaged or not, but I'm worried about that. Nothing to do but put in a call to the insurance company. It's Friday night, so I don't expect any word from them until Monday or Tuesday, but I think it's going to be a long while before we get the Zepplin back out on the open road. Meanwhile, our dreams are on hold...

Heart

Turn your backs, ye who are wont to find yourselves short of temper with the people you meet who are overly expressive - we unsophisticated, clod-happy souls who overuse words such as beautiful, gorgeous, who sprinkle italics here and there in our spoken and written sentences, and end them with a brace of exclamation points!!!

I am one of these people, always struggling to hold myself within my own skin, throwing out the arms wide and chatting people up to the point where they look as if about to stick their fingers in their ears. Sorry!

But it was one of those days. So here we go!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What better way to start a rainy, foggy Friday morning than with sweet pastries from a German bakery? YUM. The couple who run this bakery in Annapolis Royal (on the oldest town-street in Canada, BTW) do indeed speak German, being relative newcomers to the area, and all that one hears about German pastries is soooo true. We had four, yes four, of their goodies, and could easily have eaten more.

From there - and this is where the heart begins to thump and exclamation points begin to form in my head - we went to Port Royal, land of the earliest Acadians. There, we first visited the Melanson Settlement National Historic Site, commemorating where a "family village" had been established in the early 1600's. The Melanson family began with a young couple who married and came to that particular point of land, where they built a home and outbuildings, and began diking the marshland for farming. Before long, they had children who grew up and had children, and there were enough people to call the area a "village." Acadian family villages dotted the entire coastline here. On a plaque welcoming people to the site, there was a list of Acadian names, people who'd lived in the area way back then, and there were the Chiassons! So exciting!!! Also delightful was seeing the last name of my dear friend Cyndy back home - our long-ago ancestors surely knew one another!

We went on to the Port Royal National Historic Site, and this was a thrill - recently I read a translation of Champlain's own account of Port Royal (this was where he and Sieur de Monts and the original colony finally established themselves after their terrible winter at St. Croix). Seeing the site, which was initially established by Champlain's comrades as a fur-trading post, reconstructed exactly as he described it in both words and pictures, was sooooo special. This is not a new reconstruction, but was done in the 1930's, so it has the appropriate "aging" to make one feel as though those early French habitants might still be lurking around any corner. Our excellent guide gave us a lot of information about the site and history of the time - the perfect way to learn, to immerse oneself right into the landscape where the story took place! The Port Royal colony existed from 1605 until 1613, when a ship captain arrived from the colony of Jamestown, Virginia, and burned it down while the men happened to be away - already then the French and English were battling for control of the entire eastern coast. After this, some of the men who didn't return to France moved to what is now nearby Annapolis Royal (still called Port Royal then).

We then took a side-trip to Fort Anne, an early French fortification which changed hands with the British about five times! There is an amazing recently done tapestry there, which tells the full story of the area. It includes that of the Micmac (pronounced Micmaw) Indians, who were of course the original people on this land. They welcomed and traded with the French, taught them many new skills necessary for living in this climate and landscape, and generally remained in good stead with them. Their story is very sad, with no historians of the day to record it. Still, we know the outcome, and it's a shameful thing how the native people have been treated.

Our last stop of the day, and the most compelling, was Grand Pre National Historic Site - this is one of the "deportation" sites where the British dispersed 10,000 Acadians to points all over North America, England, and France. In 1755, after over a hundred years of French and British wrangling for control of what's now Eastern Canada, with the Acadians trying desperately to remain neutral, the British determined to settle the matter by getting them off of the land. They brought in ships and surrounded the people of Grand Pre with armed soldiers, and then told all men, along with boys over the age of 10, to come to the church on Sunday, where they would hear an edict from the King of England. The men, with no idea what would be announced, went to the church and were immediately locked in. They were told that all of their homes, animals, and land were now in the possession of the British, and that they and their families would be deported to other areas in the weeks ahead.

The men were held for five days, while their wives and children waited desperately for news, all the while hearing their men shouting in the church, and eventually beginning to realize what was going to happen. When finally the men were released and the round-ups began, people hurriedly had to leave with only what they could carry, while the British torched their homes as they departed. The saddest part of this is that in some cases, families were separated, so that one might be put on a ship bound for Georgia, while one's grown children and grandchildren were sent to England, or France, or New York, or one's elderly parents might go to Connecticut, or any other area in the New England colonies.

These people would arrive in areas where they were generally unwanted, unable to speak the English language, with virtually no possessions, and finding their way to family and friends far away - not even knowing where they might be - was impossible. This is what Longfellow's poem Evangeline is based on, the search for a loved one, with no idea where to even begin looking. One ship carrying 400 Acadians capsized near the coast of England, and all were drowned. Only one ship, bound I believe for North Carolina, was overtaken by the French people, and they turned it around and headed up the St. John River - I believe that the Acadians in the St. John Valley in northern Maine hail from this group.

In years ahead, many of the displaced French eventually heard of, and headed to, Louisiana, where there was already a large group of French Hugenots from France, and I believe the area was still in the hands of the French back then (forgetting when the Louisiana Purchase took place). The term "Cajun" comes, of course, from the word Acadian. Some of the people returned to their homeland when years later (after the Seven Years' War, I believe), they were allowed back by the British. Of course, all of their old farmlands were now owned by English men and women who'd either migrated up from the New England colonies, or settled here from England. So they wandered and established new communities throughout what is now Nova Scotia, and when we saw the name Chiasson on so many of the business signs up near Cape Breton, it's likely that these were families who had returned after the dispersion, and settled there.

All of this, to me, is fascinating and heart-provoking history, and has stirred deep emotions. What adds to this is the gracious assistance of one of the guides at Grand Pre, who proffered a book holding the names of the very first Chiassons in North America! I learned that some Chiassons went by the surname of LaVallee, as it was perhaps easier to refer to them as the family "from the (Annapolis) valley." And surprise! Pierre did not come to the New World! He remained in La Rochelle, France, and it was one of his sons, Guyon, who made the trek, first to Port Royal, where he worked in the fur trade, and THEN to the area (not the port) of Halifax, which then was called Chebouctou (a Micmac word!); here, he worked in farming, perhaps more around Le Have (where we took the cable-ferry), as I saw reference to some of the Acadians living there. I am the descendent of one of two of his sons, who moved to areas that are in today's Quebec Province. I know the towns they settled in, and suppose that one day, we'll be pointing the Zeppelin in that direction.

So yes, what a day it has been! Full of feelings and wonder and exclamation points!!!! My ancestors walked these beautiful meadows and marshlands; they sat beside these rivers; their children ran over these fields.

Today, I am with them.

Sandpaper

The beautiful man you see here is a special friend I'd not seen in over 30 years, until tonight... We used to play in a band together in the mid-1970's - the band's name was Sandpaper and Silk, and with his lovely deep voice, he was the Sandpaper part of the act, altho' his real name is Jerry Thurber.

When Dave and I determined some months ago to take a trek to Nova Scotia, there was no question that we'd have to look Jerry up, as back in Maine, when we performed as a duo, he spoke often of his hometown of Digby, and especially of the Digby Tavern, a place where he'd heart great music, and enjoyed eating Digby scallops (Digby is the scallops capital of the world!). I had no idea if he'd still be living around here, as we lost touch after our band broke up (alas, it is very hard to be a mama to a little one and be performing until 1:00 in the morning!).

This isn't my first pilgrimage to Digby. I was here in the mid-70's, but without Jerry - he'd offered the address of his mom and sister, and said to be absolutely sure to get some fried scallops at the Tavern. I did; they were delicious, and I've never forgotten them. Back then, his mom was so kind and graciously welcoming, and gave me a pretty scallop shell she'd painted with flowers, which I've kept all these years. And his sister had played on her guitar and sung a beautiful version of Dolly Parton's song Jolene, that I'll never forget, either.

When we arrived in Digby tonight (Thursday), we began to ask around for where the Tavern might be, as I'd long forgotten - it's not called that actually, and it sounds like it maybe never has been?, but is the Sunset Pub. Yet everybody we stopped to ask on the streets pointed in the direction of the "Digby Tavern" without correcting us! We walked in, ordered a drink, and I mentioned the name of my old band buddy to the waiter, whose eyes immediately lit up. "I golf with him," he said, and within minutes, he was on the phone with Jerry, telling him that a woman named "Silk" was asking about him.

Jerry was working the night shift (piloting a ferry between the islands here), but came down for an hour or so, and it was heaven to see him! We shared many wonderful memories (one I didn't remember - he said that my daughter Jessica, as a little girl, would supposedly look for "crows" in the beard he had back then). So delightful! I remember so much about Jerry, and it meant a lot that he seemed to remember the events, music, and people, with as much fondness as I feel about that time.

While we chatted non-stop, David contentedly amused himself with two - yes, two plates of Digby scallops. They are that good.

Just a very, very special night, with a lifelong friend who will always have a special place in my heart!

Coming to Home

Thursday morning we left for an early visit to a historically reconstructed Acadian village in the small, sweet town of West Pubnico. This offers a glimpse of the way the village looked in the early 1900's, and it was a delight to see!
The guides are friendly, and very warm and engaging, and there's a special thrill, when one passes from one building to another, to hear them talking together in quick Acadian French.

The village of Pubnico was established in 1653 by a man of the name of d'Entremont, and the place is still full of d'Entremonts, including a couple of our guides. Their English is of course good, but the French accent is noticeably there, and as I'm of Acadian descent, this is "my" French, very familiar, and oddly comforting.

What we most noticed, aside from the obvious charm, is that the village is full of smells - wood smoke and baking apples, salt cod drying, the sea air, slop in the pig sty, lumber. Back in the Visitor's Center, rappie pie and beef and barley soup were being cooked, and the aroma was enough to make one's heart thump. Odd how we've worked so hard to remove the odors in our contemporary lives, only to replace them with unnatural Glade-type-thingies. Whyever is this so?

It was recommended there that we stop at nearby Dennis Harbor, said to be the most active fishing port in eastern Canada right now, and the huge fleet of boats there right now is impressive, not to mention gorgeous to look at.

For lunch, we drove to Dayton, to a restaurant that was said to have great rappie pie - this is called "Rapure" in French, a dish traditional to this area, made from chicken, along with potatoes that have been dried and reconstituted using chicken broth - the result is a deep-dish "pancakey" affair, that has the consistency of a thick gravy. Very delicious! Apparently, this is offered at all important family and holiday events, where they serve it with... molasses! I can't imagine that the flavors of chicken and molasses would mingle well, but having no molasses with which to try, well... just had to enjoy it with gobs of butter.

Stuffed to the gills with rappie pie (me) and a smothered-lobster sandwich (Dave), we drove up the road, but had to stop when we saw the church at Pointe d'Eglise (Church Point). It's huge, and made completely of wood - architecturally gorgeous, and built in the shape of a cross. An engaging guide, who grew up in that area, gave us an informative and very funny tour (someone on the "inside," who understands the delight of hearing the oddities of some historical places!). We really enjoyed this.

Finally, we headed for the town of Digby while the fog rolled in, masking our vistas, so I read aloud the old Longfellow poem Evangeline, the fictional account of a young woman separated from her recently betrothed during the horrid deportations of the Acadian communities by the English in 1755. Very sad, and Longfellow, in his old pompously prolific Victorian way, is getting on our nerves - we'll much prefer hearing the real story tomorrow, when we visit the community of Port Royale.

But first, first, a stop at the Digby Tavern.