Greetings from the village of Jamaica Plain (Boston, that is) in the Peoples’ Republic of Massachusetts. I had planned to visit my friends Dale Mitchell and David Imming on the way back down the coast, but mixed things up a bit and zigged over to them after finding a killer cabbage in upstate New York. More on that later.

Having taken the southern route around the Great Lakes, I dipped into my home state of Pennsylvania, which natives constantly refer to as Pee-Ay. I was reminded that that’s unusual only when an acquaintance e-mailed me the PA version of “You know you’re from [state] if. . .” as I passed through. A few other Quaker State quirks: At least a couple of feet of new snow must have accumulated overnight for schools to close, but the first day of buck season and the first day of doe season are official school holidays; a traffic jam consists of 10 cars waiting to pass either a tractor on the highway or an old nun driving 25 MPH; and driving is easier in winter because the potholes are filled with snow. It’s crazy, but I love PA.

 :: Rednecks Rule ::

One of the reasons I love it is because you can never be quite sure what to expect from it. The state looks tame but isn’t, and it’s rarely predictable. You may be driving along admiring a well-kept farm and fields, then top a hill and find yourself in deep woods. Or you may spot, as I did, a sign covered with neon graffiti proclaiming that “rednecks rule” only a couple of hours away from Pittsburgh’s world-class museums and cultural offerings. (Point #1: In PA, distance is measured in hours. “A couple of hours” is nothing. Point #2: In the 1830s—long before the steel magnates’ money came along—one federal judge in Pittsburgh denounced the residents of my county as backwoods heathens, which only goes to show that redneck-bashing isn’t a recent development.)

Of course not all of this holds true in eastern PA, but that’s a can of worms I don’t even want to touch. In case you don’t know it, this is one state that really should be two. Any geologist or Steelers/Eagles fan could tell you that. More unpredictability.

I didn’t dare stop in at home, but I did ask my parents if they felt up to driving north to meet for a night; happily they did. We had a very nice little reunion in Warren, PA, which nowadays is mostly distinguished by its lovely old homes built by logging and oil barons. view photo

 :: New York State Of Mind ::

Then I was into New York. I was tempted to see if I could find Heat Moon’s friends, but in the end gave the Chisholms a break. (There’s something about interesting people and rock walls that I find hard to resist, but they were his friends, not mine, and they’d already done their tour of duty in print, so I let them be.) I settled for finding the vine country around Canandaigua Lake and experimenting with all things grape: pie, cookies, dessert bars, juice. I drew the line at the Wild Irish Rose produced in Naples, New York (I freely admit to being a wine snob), but tasted just about everything else and found it delicious.

I also was delighted to find a huge, flat head of cabbage at a roadside market. Most people probably can’t imagine being excited by a head of cabbage, but they’re not half-Ukrainian-American food nuts like me. In fall, this woman’s fancy turns to making—and, of course, eating—stuffed cabbage rolls; this was a primo cabbage of the sort one hardly ever finds anymore, perfect for rolling. And it was only $1.25 per head. Too perfect to pass up, it was the cabbage that hurried me on to Boston in search of Dale and David’s kitchen (Dale and David too, honest!).

Those days in Pennsylvania and New York were the best of fall: just-right temperatures, and gloriously clear, yellow sunlight. The woman from whom I bought the grape pie also offered Paulared apples and sickle pears; I could smell both without even bending near the baskets, so I took a small quantity of each of them, too. I asked her how the grape business was, and she indicated that it wasn’t any better than it had been when Heat Moon passed through. Real estate was where it was at: One local farmer had just sold his 50-plus lake-view acres for $8,000 per acre. His vines would be uprooted and replaced with pricey vacation homes, but surely he had had his reasons. I laughingly urged her not to sell out, but she gestured to the valley below and said that, seeing as how they wouldn’t get lake-view prices, it wasn’t likely. Since they had been there for 23 years, which she told me was the longest they’d ever been in one place, I doubted that they would have been tempted, anyway. But one never knows.
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 :: Something Worth Fighting For ::

Like Pennsylvania, New York is a good state to get lost in. One afternoon I lost all track of where I was, and decided, as I often do, to just enjoy it. I was glad I did, for if I hadn’t gotten lost I never would have met Bob Willson.

On the south side of West Leyden, I started seeing signs saying things like “Dump the dump.” I was mildly interested, but not enough to stop and get the scoop. That changed, however, when on 294 east I came upon a roadside veterans’ memorial with big signs saying “dump of shame” and “hallowed ground.” A man was mowing the strip around the U.S. and military flags and stone marker; he gave a friendly wave but went on about his business as I looked around. I learned that the memorial was part of a veterans’ memorial forest dedicated in 1952; I deduced that the forest was the proposed dump site. Further investigation was clearly in order.

It was 3:00 PM and I hadn’t yet eaten, so I decided to munch while the man finished mowing. We ended at about the same time and sat down on the tailgate of his truck to get acquainted. Bob Willson was a Vietnam veteran who had strong ties to the place: Here, he had picnicked with his family as a child; here, he had given his then-girlfriend an engagement ring. “This place was special to me before I was a veteran,” he said. “But after I got to be a veteran—oh, wow!—this place is really special. . . . There’s things that money cannot buy. This is it, this forest. It’s a living memorial.”

He said that for almost a decade a large waste-management company and a local solid-waste-authority executive had been trying to turn the forest into a dump; they’d poured large amounts of money into the proposition, but the people had managed to keep them at bay. They would, he said, have to kill him in order to make the dump a reality. view photo

 :: Tell It Like It Is ::

Bob had a healthy laugh, a few troubles, and a lot of very decided views. We tended to think the same, but he had some great schemes that hadn’t occurred to me. For instance, he suggested that we should teach common sense in the schools—maybe get some old farmer to tell it like it is. “If I was gonna hire somebody for a job, it would be a farm kid, somebody who grew up on a farm,” he said. “Because they do have common sense: ‘How can I do this easier, and yet get it done as fast as I can, as safe as I can?’ That’s three things you can teach somebody!”

He also wondered why we let government get away with so much. “Why do they charge tax on a car that’s used? It was already paid once. You know what I mean?! Every time you sell that car they get their money. Like I say, next thing they’re gonna tax is tea.”

And he had me in stitches on the subject of sports: “I’d play ball for nothin’! Let me play ball,” he said. “I’m not a good ballplayer, but I’ll play ball for nothin’, ‘cause I like to!” view photo

 :: We, the People ::

After Bob left I strolled down the dirt road that led into the woods. The woodland was very peaceful and I was glad to have found it and its story. I’m certain that the political situation is more complicated than the one side that I heard, and I intend to learn more. But all the same, I’m definitely inclined to favor the public land that is both restful haven and living memorial. My commitment to setting aside and conserving public lands has grown even stronger as a result of this trip; without them, the folks who can’t afford to build vacation homes on $8,000-per-acre land would be out of luck, and we as a nation would be infinitely poorer.

It was late when I reached Ticonderoga, so I spent the night in a small, old motel there. The town doesn’t seem to have changed much since Heat Moon passed through. (Before this trip, I had no idea that so much 1950s, ‘60s, and ‘70s furniture still was in use in America. Memo to motel and lodge owners: Either sell it to collectors, put it in your own home, or throw it away. The orange light is impossible to read by, and the shag rug is filthy. It’s time to move on.)

The ferry was still there, though, and it seemed to do a steady, if small, business. It ran every 20 minutes, so the man ahead of me, who leaned against his van, and I didn’t have to wait long. He noted my plates and asked where I was coming from; we briefly compared notes and shared favorites—he had been to 42 states—before the ferry came to our shore. In a light drizzle falling from a pewter sky, we crossed over to Vermont, landing not far from where Ethan Allen and Benedict Arnold launched their daring raid that “liberated” British weaponry.
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 :: Reality Bites ::

In Vermont I discovered the cozy Patricia’s Restaurant (a.k.a. Sully’s Place) and had some delicious, perfectly deep-fried cod. (The restaurant was named thusly because when Sully bought out the previous owner, he agreed to keep the man’s dead daughter’s name alive.) There were characters at the bar, and I eavesdropped on conversation that ranged from experimental-airplane repair to a Geo that had recently crossed the center line and become tractor-trailer fodder. (“That must have been a mop-and-broom job,” said one guy.) Brandon was not Woodstock, which was even more “ye olde” Woodstock than it was when Heat Moon saw it. In Brandon, it was not a foregone conclusion that old buildings would be preserved rather than torn down. (That was the downside of the “real” places that Heat Moon and I loved.) I liked Brandon a lot.

There’s lots of interesting news from Beantown, but you’ll get if after I’ve moved on. And you’ll get the next update when you get it: My time and patience are running short, and I can’t afford to let the updates slow me down these days. But you will get more, I promise! (And PLEASE, those of you who apparently are worrying about me, STOP WORRYING. I am fine. I'm just ready to stop moving for awhile, and soon will.)

Stay tuned for the next installment. . . .
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 :: Addendum ::

After leaving Boston, I headed north to Maine. But due to a sudden death in the family, I rushed back to Pennsylvania, and for all practical purposes the Odyssey ended in Maine in mid-October.

Originally, I intended to resume the last leg of my journey; then I decided that in this case, at least, art should imitate life. Like the road, life dictates a good journey’s rhythm; I realized that the book would be about life and the road as well as life on the road, so it seemed appropriate to let the journey end naturally. This account is as true as I could make it, so I make no apologies for it not being perfectly neat and tidy.

The following two sketches were done after the fact.