Gaylordsville United Methodist Church

I don't consider myself a religious person by any measure. A 'cafeteria Catholic' (one who picks and chooses) is probably the most apt description of my beliefs. That said, I have a long-standing fascination with--and passion for--church and cathedral architecture. On these very pages I've written of my love affair with Henry Adams' Mont Saint Michel and Chartres. I've journeyed on my very own mini-tour of the architecturally stunning edifices at Chartres, Coutances, Amien, Rouen, and beyond. The parish church of my youth, St. Francis of Assisi, is itself a beautiful structure with a soaring, beamed ceiling and numerous stained glass windows.

In the Northeast, though, we have special churches and cathedrals of our own, beyond Fenway Park, of course. These white-steepled beauties--whose stately spires dot our rolling hillsides--are at the very heart of New England architecture.

Classic New England facade, ca 1854

Yesterday, while on a photographic quest for my weekly Flickr challenge, I was driving Route 7 here in Connecticut. It's a drive rich with picture taking opportunities, but nothing was really catching my eye. Crossing the Housatonic, I drove into the hamlet of Gaylordsville to get turned around so I could head back south. As I crossed the river again, though, I saw the sharp steeple of a church sticking out above the trees and decided to have a closer look.

The Gaylordsville United Methodist Church is perched on slight incline right on busy Route 7, but it doesn't feel in any way hurried. The simplicity, symmetry, and pedimented façade caught my eye immediately. As I left my car, I noticed a woman working outside--the lawn had been freshly mowed and trimmed--and I greeted her saying that I just wanted to take a few pictures. We exchanged pleasantries about how lovely the weather was and I made my way around the exterior, noting the deep green shutters, the decorative mouldings. Looking through a partially open window I could see the green and amber hued stained glass shedding warm afternoon light out across the pews.

Reflected clouds, green shutters

I'd taken quite a few different pictures of the church from the outside and was about to walk back to my car. As I rounded the corner, the woman whom I'd spoken to earlier asked if I'd like to go in. Really? I'm accustomed to churches generally being closed so I usually content myself with the exteriors. She said to me that something (someone?) just told her to invite me to go inside. I cheerfully accepted the offer.

As we walked through the door I was enveloped by 'old building' smell. It's right up there with 'old library' smell for me and when you add in beadboard wainscoting and push button lighting you have (in my estimation) the hallmarks of a great old building. My new friend--whose name I was too lunkheaded to ask!--told me about how special this place was for her. How it just kind of drew people in, brought people together. Clearly this church was and is an integral part of this small community.

I have what I consider to be an overdeveloped sense of place. By that I mean that I know almost immediately if a place is 'for me' or not. It's a visceral, gut reaction and some places--be they entire cities or single structures--just don't resonate at my particular (peculiar) wavelength. This place, though, this small church, exuded a stoic grace that I've come to identify with these old New England houses of worship. I liked it here.

Symmetry

I walked down the aisle, spent time gazing at the amber glow that shone through the stained glass window, and lingered at a quilt on the wall. I browsed the hymnals, admired the cushioned pews (none of those in most of the Catholic churches of my life) and sat calmly in the quiet amidst the serene blue walls.

Stained glass though the screen

Walking to my car, I stopped to thank the kind soul who had shared her church with me for part of the afternoon. Her love of the place was evident and I appreciated the gesture. Not only did I have more than enough pictures for my photo project (which can be viewed on Flickr here), but I also passed an unexpectedly enjoyable Saturday in late summer when my august August ennui is as its peak. My sincere thanks to my unnamed friend and the community that takes such loving care of this beautiful old church.

Very literal interpretation of the open door
welcome I received

Looking toward the altar

The amber light shining through the stained glass
window casts a warm hue on some of the pews

Detail of the memorial stained glass window

Reporting from Rrrrochester...

Even though I'm not anywhere near old enough to actually remember anything other than you-tube clips of The Jack Benny Show, Benny's drawling call out to Eddie "Rochester" Anderson has somehow crept into my subconscious along with too many Monty Python routines and most of the dialogue from Gone With the Wind, The Sound of Music (I blame my Mother for this one), Casablanca, a few of the Thin Man films, and St. Elmo's Fire.

Right, now where was I going with this? Yes. Now I remember. Seeing as I'm heading back to Connecticut on Tuesday (and hope we'll all be lit up by then, FINGERS CROSSED!!) I took a few minutes today to stop back down to the Plummer Building and take some more photographs. No crowds, no one hurrying past you and clear shot at any details you wish to capture.

One of the first things I noticed when approaching the doors that I was planning on photographing was the wonderful warmth of old building smell. I'd smelled it last weekend as well, but there's a kind of comforting clean scent that is a mix of old books, old leather, and some kind of polish. This will sound ridiculous to those who don't skulk about old structures, but for those of us who do, I bet you know the aroma I'm talking about.

Last weekend I'd heard the strains of a lovely piano concerto coming from downstairs in the Siebens building next door...this week I met another "fan" for lack of a better term. We exchanged Dr. Henry Plummer stories (his combination of single-minded focus and absent-mindedness for daily life are legendary around Rochester) and he and his small daughter were on their way. I'm always a little surprised when I'm approached because (a) we all know I' have sunnies on roughly 85% of the time and (b) I try terribly hard not to look approachable. But yet, it happens. All the time. In every country I've visited, from France to Hungary and even, yes, Canada, I'm the one who gets stopped and queried for directions. Now yes, often I can be of help and I don't mind doing so, but I wonder if there's a special sign that's flashing from my scarf or my boots that says..."Please Ask Me!"It's a mystery.

And as I was leaving, of course, there was a horse...the lovely (and somewhat angry in this representation) winged horse, Pegasus, occupies a prominent place above the main glass doors. I'm always on the look for signs, I'm funny that way and as I took one last look at the large bronze doors, polished to a deep, warm glow, I caught sight of this...an oak leaf and acorn, the symbols of Connecticut and The Charter Oak. I've decided to consider this a wee sign that my trip back to Connecticut will go well. As the nutmeg state motto goes, "Qui Transtulit Sustinet"(He who is transplanted still sustains).

Hydro therapy

Kent Falls State Park

I'm a water girl. When I need to clear my head or think something through, there's no place so soothing for me as a lake, stream, ocean, brook, pond, river, or creek. And I'm awfully lucky that I can drive a very few miles south and be quickly on the beach near Long Island Sound or I can drive a few more miles to the north and be in the beautiful hills of Kent, Connecticut. The rhythmic sound of waves rolling onto the beach or the powerful buzz of rushing rapids are among my favorites. So I headed north on Route 7, unsure of my destination, and as I approached Kent I decided to visit a favorite spot of mine where I knew the water would be rushing madly...Kent Falls State Park. 

The first day of spring meant a good crowd--from motorcyclists to families using the grills and bbq-ing--would be out enjoying the glorious sunshine. The picnic tables were crowded with couples and groups basking in the mid-March warmth. Back in 1938, the Connecticut Guide (one of the WPA Federal Writer's Project books) had this to say about the area, "At 53.1 m. is the entrance to Kent Falls State Park (R), containing one of the most spectacular of Connecticut's waterfalls, where the brook, arched by hemlocks, rushes over a precipice in two cascades, down a 200-foot drop within a quarter of a mile. The lower falls have cut their way over white marble steps and have scooped out many potholes in the ledges. The best view is obtained by following the brook a short distance on foot. Fireplaces and tables offer picnic facilities." These old guides are wonderful and on the occasions where you stumble upon a place that is largely unchanged--and completely recognizable--from the 1938 description it's hard not to experience a little frisson of timelessness.

I couldn't help but notice the van Gogh-esque swirls and curves as I sat next to the brook. If I was an artist I'd be obsessed with capturing the play of light on water as it washes over stones and moss. You can almost hear the rush of the water and feel the cool refreshment as the breeze rises and falls.

A lonely picnic table (one of the few not in use) sits on a hillside where the snow stubbornly clings to the grass and refuses to yield to the sun's warmth.

I waited patiently (well, almost patiently) to get a shot without the usual assortment of other photographers in it.

And if you love the sounds of water as I do, a little video--apologies, it's not terribly well done--but you'll get a taste of spring as the water rushes over the falls here.

Hold on a minute...

Still autumn here in southern New England, let's enjoy it while we can!

I got into my car yesterday to run a few errands and switched on the radio. It was still tuned to one of my favorite XM presets, 40s on 4, from the weekend. Instead of hearing a swingy melody from Benny Goodman or a forgotten treasure from Bing Crosby, I heard Dean Martin singing Silver Bells. Huh? Wah? All due respect to Dino, whom I truly do love, but WHAT THE HELL?? It was the only 15th of November, still 10 days out from Thanksgiving (!), and my radio was already pushing Christmas at me. 

Well I'm stopping the presses and slamming on the brakes this year. Autumn transitioning into to winter is my favorite time of year. From the hazy, warm, Indian summer days that are sprinkled throughout October to the first snow flakes, I relish every bit of it and I enjoy taking it in. 

And yet, even as I mulishly dig my heels in to slow the progression of the coming weeks, I know that outside forces will be conspiring against me. Okay, that sounded a wee bit paranoid, but you know what I mean. The always lovely Christmas windows at Lord & Taylor in NYC were unveiled last night--complete with an appearance by Santa. Target barely got the Halloween candy into clearance aisles before restocking the shelves with Christmas candy. And let's not allow the television adverts off the hook, they've jumped the gun entirely by bombarding us with Christmas products. I mean really, don't we deserve a little breather between the bellicose and cringe-worthy political campaign advertisements and the silly, over-the-top commercialism of the holiday season? 

I always assume that Americans are worse about this than other cultures because of our general state of rushing about and hurrying in, but in truth, I suppose all of Western culture is guilty of this non-stop quest for what is next or new. In the process, though, we rarely seem to stop and enjoy the present, the now. And I'm as guilty of this as anyone, always longing for, say, the start of the summer season in Saratoga or looking forward with great anticipation to the first snowfall each year. It's great to have things to look forward to, but I know that I sometimes I do so to the detriment of the present. This year, though, even the moody fall days that blow in on a chilly breeze will get their due. It is, after all, autumn in New England. So enough of the pre-Thanksgiving Christmas rush, there'll be plenty of time for Christmas after Thanksgiving, I promise. So save your Christmas tunes and colorful lights, your holiday cards and candy canes, please, until November 26th, at which point I will joyfully and happily share in the countdown to Christmas. 

In the meantime, how about a little lost Bing Crosby-Judy Garland treasure that celebrates my beloved nutmeg state, hmm? 

The Oft-Mentioned "Bump In the Road" and a Little Scherenschnitte

There are a few old chestnuts out there regarding the aforementioned bump in the road. Whether it is "If you want to hear God laugh, announce your plans..." or "The best laid plans..." we have all likely been derailed at an inopportune moment. I know, like there's an opportune moment to have life and its intricacies and little practical jokes intrude on our well-managed schedule. There isn't, but as usual, it is how we respond to these little hiccups that determines the real lasting outcome, right? Right.

So the next installment on The White Turkey Inn in Danbury, CT will be a little delayed by one of those life-pitched curve balls.  (Those who know me "in real life" know that I am basically identified by the following things/traits: RayBan Wayfarer sunnies--even when it isn't; my ubiquitous BlackBerry; a scarf of some sort; nail lacquer that functions as an accessory, and my beloved PowerBook G4 laptop.) It is the laptop that was, to continue my silly baseball analogy, hbp--that is, hit by pitch. It is for all intents and purposes no longer with us--it is, an ex-laptop. It isn't resting or pining for the fjords, it is dead. There was hope for at least a small recovery mission which looked good, but in the end, the gods decreed otherwise and I have to accept that.

I'm fortunate that I have most of my files from before November of 2009 on a passport device, which means all is not lost. However, the things I've researched and written over the past couple of months are pretty much gone. So while I still have all the sundry papers for many things, I no longer have them properly written up to share with you (both of you) nice folks. Hope springs eternal, though, and once I'm all sorted out again there will be more on the White Turkey Inn, and even some other local spots that are intriguing to me. I hope you'll bear with me while I reconnoiter, regroup, and rewrite.

The bigger lesson in all this, of course, is to be more diligent with backing up my work, even the little research projects I do on the side. While I'm sure that some of the writing and outlining I'd done for a book project is possible to recreate, I'm not sure I will. I think some of my material had been revised and reworked too many times and maybe this is a chance to look at all I've read and all the information I've processed via a fresh take. Granted, I don't have much of  choice, but this approach seems to make the most sense to me. I had my meltdown over all I'd lost, but holding on to that feeling is totally counterproductive so it's onward and upward and more time spent plugging away on my reliable (and fully backed up, I'll have you know) slow old iMac.

So while I shop around for a new MacBook, and wait to see whether the good people of Apple are going to be releasing a new model, I'm restricted to pretty basic web stuff on this machine. I've been enjoying looking through the marvelous old books at www.archive.org which has some really fun distractions. They also have a nice selection of early 20th century equestrian books on foxhunting, hacking about, and riding techniques. While dated, the writing style and prose is wonderful to read and enjoyable for those of us who enjoy an afternoon spent on horseback. I'm looking forward to doing my exploring there, you just never know what you might stumble upon.

And speaking of being stumbled upon, the image at the top of the page is from a bookplate of a gentleman named John A. Seaverns. It was in the front of a cheeky volume (aptly titled) The Haughtyshire Hunt. I think bookplates are rather interesting and some of the old ones are actual works of art...as this one is. It's an ink representation of scherenschnitte, German folk-art papercutting. In the center is an octet of little foxes who appear to be sticking out their tongues at their pursuers, while in the next circle are hounds at full cry. The mounted (and top-hatted) hunter on the outermost circle is taking the fences with pretty fine form.

I'm going to leave you with the horses and hounds for a bit while I attend to my real work.

The White Turkey Inn, Danbury, CT part 1

I'm the first to admit that I develop little obsessions. I think, as a person who really enjoys creating--whether it's putting together an ensemble, preparing a complicated meal, making a "love" collage or researching a project--it's easy to allow ourselves to develop more than a passing interest in small and seemingly obsessive details. When I worked in a small history museum, I'd spend entire days thumbing through the old local newspapers or boxes of family history papers to help flesh out a provenance, anecdote, or story.

I'll also admit that I've been a New Yorker reader/fanatic for most of my life. There's still a pile or two of them in my old bedroom in Minnesota and I can't resist looking through any old copies that I find in an old bookstore or antiques shop. I've spent hours reading over old The Race Track columns written by Audax Minor (the pen name of George F. Ryall, a Canadian writer) wherein he not only discussed the horses, but he'd describe with delicious detail both the high society and nearly ubiquitous Runyonesque racing aficionados. I know I have only scratched the surface of all the columns, but delving into these vignettes of the horse world--from the 1930s and 40s especially--is not only educational and entertaining, it's downright interesting.

On one such (likely rainy) afternoon, I'd been reading through the New Yorker digital archive and happened upon this advertisement near one of the columns on polo or horse racing.

Hmmm, I thought. How intriguing. Like something out of Holiday Inn or Christmas in Connecticut, no doubt. A classic New England inn, close enough to NY City for day trips, but far enough out to realize you are not in NYC, either. Living in the area and being a complete fanatic of that sort of idealized old New England, I began to conjure up all kinds of images in my mind. I wasn't sure I'd be able to find out much more about the establishment, let alone find images of what it might have looked like, so I just started to dig a little deeper in the New Yorker Archive.

Throughout the 30s and 40s and even into the 50s, the New Yorker would do small articles on dining out at inns or supper clubs that were within an hour or so of the city. At certain times of the year (noticeably summer and autumn) they would include trips that were farther afield and had broader dining suggestions.

Showing up in many of these round-ups or at times in the Supper Clubs section of the Goings On About Town pages, was The White Turkey Inn. 

In this mention from the August 20th issue of 1938, the inn is mentioned both in the front Goings On area (under the title "Pleasant places here and there along the road for dinner--without dancing--while motoring) and later on in a piece about restaurants.  (click on either clip to enlarge and read)

     

I do love when one of my little obsessions is validated...clearly The White Turkey Inn in Danbury--and it's sister restaurants in the W Village and Midtown--were both popular and important once upon a time. 

More on my findings and the fun I've had along the way in the coming days. Especially with little footnote stories like this, the journey is all the fun and there is real joy in discovery. Hope you'll want to join me for the rest of my little sojourn into the history of The White Turkey Inn. 

Poring over the coast for the best bugs in butter...

Poring over the coast for the best bugs in butter - The Boston Globe

Shout out to the CT lobster roll in all its glory!!