Yankee Magazine July/August 2016

98 /// The Hike of a Lifetime

Two intrepid photographers trek hut to hut across New Hampshire’s rugged Presidential Range—discovering both pain and wonder along the way. photographs by Jarrod McCabe and Dominic Casserly (Little Outdoor Giants)

112 /// Is Connecticut Really New England?

Our analyst puts the Nutmeg State on the couch for a little identity therapy. by Richard Conniff

116 /// Mirror Lake

When you live beside tranquil Vermont waters, each season brings its own special intimacy. by Rowan Jacobsen

120 /// The Storm That Will Never Be Forgotten

Five years after Irene’s devastation, those who lived through it in Wilmington, Vermont, remember both what they lost and what they found. by Ian Aldrich

The wildly beautiful peninsulas of Midcoast Maine invite

and stopping … and returning again and again. by Annie Graves

Jarrod McCabe photographs the sunset from the ridge above Greenleaf Hut in New Hampshire’s Presidential Range.

The Bay Lady, Boothbay Harbor

departments

THE GUIDE

home

32 /// The Not-So-Little Garden That Could

In Hancock, New Hampshire, Bill and Eileen Elliott found their way to self-sufficiency with more than a little help from their land. by Tovah Martin

38 /// Open Studio

Brattleboro, Vermont, artist Shari Zabriskie spins birch trees and sea urchins on her potter’s wheel. by Annie Graves

42 /// House for Sale

Yankee visits a historic farmhouse on Maine’s Pemaquid Peninsula. by the Yankee Moseyer

46 /// Harvest Time in Blueberry Country

In August, the barrens of Down East Maine become a center of production, community, and celebration. by Molly Shuster

54 /// Local Flavor

A little red shack in York, Maine, called Flo’s Hot Dogs serves up some of New England’s best franks. by Amy Traverso

56 /// Could You Live Here?

America’s oldest summer resort—Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, on Lake Winnipesaukee— offers ideal year-round living. by Annie Graves

64 /// Out & About

Summer music festivals, plus fairs, art shows, and other fun seasonal events. compiled by Joe Bills

74 /// The Best 5

Farm stays: Go back to the land and let the rhythms of rural life restore you. by Kim Knox Beckius

76 /// Local Treasure

Keeler Tavern Museum in Ridgefield, Connecticut, tells three centuries of stories. by Joe Bills

8

CONNECT WITH NEW ENGLAND

10

DEAR YANKEE, CONTRIBUTORS & POETRY BY D.A.W.

12

INSIDE YANKEE

14

MARY’S FARM

A Horse Named Danny by Edie Clark

16

LIFE IN THE KINGDOM

Sleepless Thoughts by Ben Hewitt

20

FIRST LIGHT

A garden first created more than 100 years ago draws today’s visitors to the peace and rare beauty of Appledore Island. by Justin Shatwell

24

KNOWLEDGE & WISDOM

Country-fair spirit, Lake Champlain wonders, and expert advice on sun safety.

28

UP CLOSE

The Old Farmer’s Almanac Turns 225 by Joe Bills

152

TIMELESS NEW ENGLAND Baldwin Coolidge

1121 Main St., P.O. Box 520, Dublin, NH 03444. 603-563-8111; editor@YankeeMagazine.com

EDITORIAL

EDITOR Mel Allen

ART DIRECTOR Lori Pedrick

MANAGING EDITOR Eileen T. Terrill

SENIOR EDITOR/FOOD Amy Traverso

SENIOR EDITOR Ian Aldrich

PHOTO EDITOR Heather Marcus

DIGITAL EDITOR Aimee Seavey

ASSOCIATE EDITOR Joe Bills

CONTRIBUTING HOME EDITOR Annie Graves

VIDEO EDITOR Theresa Shea

INTERNS Bethany Bourgault, Chris Burnett, Kelsey Liebenson-Morse

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS Kim Knox Beckius, Annie Card, Edie Clark, Ben Hewitt, Justin Shatwell, Ken Sheldon, Julia Shipley

CONTRIBUTING

PHOTOGRAPHERS Julie Bidwell, Kindra Clineff, Sara Gray, Corey Hendrickson, Matt Kalinowski, Joe Keller, Joel Laino, Jarrod McCabe, Michael Piazza, Heath Robbins, Kristin Teig, Carl Tremblay

PRODUCTION

PRODUCTION DIRECTORS David Ziarnowski, Susan Gross

SENIOR PRODUCTION ARTISTS Jennifer Freeman, Rachel Kipka

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Connections

Just after receiving my first issue of Yankee , I had to write to express my gratitude for helping me reconnect to my New England roots, and I have my cousin Sue C. to thank also. She’s a longtime and dedicated reader of your magazine, and I can see why! My family moved from New Hampshire when I was 8, but my ancestral connections are strongly tied to New England. My dad was born in Leominster, Mass.; Granddad was born in Fitchburg, Mass.; and cousin Sue in Hopkinton, Mass. Sue still lives in Massachusetts and enjoys teasing me when she’s enjoying lobster rolls and all the other wonderful New England delights. Although life has taken me all the way across the country, I still consider myself a “meat and potatoes” New England girl. Reconnecting with Sue nearly 45 years after our families lost contact with each other was a godsend, and the Yankee subscription that she gave me is surely a little slice of heaven!

Lorry Cahill Thomas Felton, California

From the editors ...

Victory for Pipeline Opponents

On April 21, residents in southern New Hampshire and western Massachusetts woke up to the surprising and welcome news that energy giant Kinder Morgan had suspended its plan to build a nearly 200-mile natural-gas pipeline across New England, from a point west of Albany, New York, to Dracut, Massachusetts. In our January/February issue we wrote about the project and the complexities surrounding it (“Power Struggles,” p. 108).

Write us! Send your comments to: editor@YankeeMagazine.com. Please include where you reside. Letters may be edited for length and clarity.

KIM KNOX BECKIUS

Yankee contributing editor Kim Knox Beckius (“The Best 5,” p. 74) is a Connecticut-based writer and photographer whose passion for New England inspires everything she does. She’s the author of six books on Northeast travel, including New England’s Historic Homes & Gardens , and has been the voice of New England travel for About.com since 1998. GoNewEngland.about.com

RICHARD CONNIFF

Award-winning journalist Richard Conniff (“Is Connecticut Really New England?” p. 112) has written about human and animal behavior for a number of national publications, including the New York Times, Smithsonian, and National Geographic. His newest book is House of Lost Worlds (Yale, 2016), on how Connecticut’s own Peabody Museum of Natural History has changed our world. strangebehaviors.wordpress.com

SARA GRAY

Based in Falmouth, Maine, photographer Sara Gray (“A World of Their Own,” p. 82) has specialized in shooting natural landscapes for more than 25 years, capturing New England’s timeless beauty for Yankee and many other regional and national publications. Sara is also an oil painter, working either from photographs or en plein air, directly from nature. saragray.com, saragrayart.com

TOVAH MARTIN

When she isn’t gallivanting around New England admiring other growers’ efforts, horticulturist and writer Tovah Martin (“The Not-So-Little Garden That Could,” p. 32) tends a large organic vegetable garden at her home in Connecticut. She posts daily on Facebook at Plantswise by Tovah Martin. Her newest book is The Indestructible Houseplant (Timber Press, 2015). tovahmartin.com, plantswise.com

KINDRA CLINEFF

Motivated by the magic of light and expression, Kindra Clineff (“The Not-So-Little Garden That Could,” p. 32, and “Harvest Time in Blueberry Country,” p. 46), based in Topsfield, Massachusetts, has been a professional photographer for more than 20 years. Her most recent book is a collaboration with writer Tovah Martin for The Indestructible Houseplant (Timber Press, 2015). kindraclineff.com

JOHN S. DYKES

Illustrations by award-winning artist John S. Dykes (“Is Connect icut Really New England?” p. 112) are in the permanent collection of the New Britain Museum of American Art, as well as in many private collections. His work has appeared in the New York Times, the Boston Globe, National Geographic, and Smithsonian. John is also a part-time instructor at the New Hampshire Institute of Art in Manchester. jsdykes.com

WE HEAR YOU …

“My grandmother and I used to go to Jordan Marsh, as a special treat when I was younger, and would always stop in for one of their muffins. I now have 16 blueberry bushes and plan on making these muffins for my family and friends. Thank you for the recipe; it brings back wonderful memories.”

yankeemagazine.com/ new-england-traditions/ jordan-marsh-blueberrymuffins-history-recipe

THINGS TO COME

Some August night, while we’re asleep, Across our beds the cold will creep, And summer’s sudden change of channel Will restore our faith in flannel.

— D.A.W.

—Denise Silva

But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest …

—Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

New Territory

he first story I published in Yankee was in 1977. I wrote it in longhand on yellow lined paper, then typed it on my gray manual Smith Corona. If I made a mistake (and I made many), I’d slip a sliver of correction tape over the mangled word and make things right. I typed thousands of words of notes, then meticulously cut them into strips of paragraphs and sentences and taped them around my office walls. Then I walked around and corralled like-minded ideas and scenes together, eventually finding a coherent way to spin a narrative. I was the last editor to close the typewriter lid. While my colleagues’ new desktop computers hummed along, I persisted in clacking out words. Eventually, when all their stories were turned in long before mine, I came onboard.

I thought you should know that I have a tendency to cling to familiar ways. Thus I’ve always loved holding printed books and magazines in my hand, seeing black words against the curtain of white. Smelling the ink, feeling the pages rustle. In time, I started to tentatively explore this new territory of digital publishing. Stories now could be told with as many words and photos as they needed, not just what could fit on eight or ten magazine pages. I saw the possibility of new connections between editors and readers, conversations that could go broader and deeper than ever before. Which brings me to a host of new ventures Yankee is offering, starting now, even as you read this. At the risk of sounding like a Ginsu-knife salesman—“Wait, there’s more!” —here’s a sampling.

This month we launch NewEngland.com. All tucked together, it’s simply a way to embrace lots of special Yankee stuff. NewEngland.com will become your online destination for all things New England: a feast of recipes, editors’ travel choices, where to find the best lobster rolls, events to get you on the road, advice from experts, and yes, a whole lot more! You’ll discover more New England in one place than anywhere in the world. Plus, YankeeMagazine.com, which includes ten years of our archives, is like having a Yankee library at your fingertips, without the clutter.

Editor’s note: One more thing. Be aware that an unauthorized agency has been sending renewal notices to Yankee subscribers (and to other magazines’ subscribers as well). If you receive Yankee notices that are not from Palm Coast, Florida, do not respond or send money. Please call our toll-free number (800-288-4284) if you have any questions about mail or phone calls you’ve received.

And since we’ve all missed Yankee coming out every month, we’re changing that. Yankee ’s all-new digital edition will appear in the months when our print edition doesn’t, brimming with New England stories and columns, along with videos, podcasts, slide shows, social networking, and enough links to other features to give you a good excuse to let the hours slip by. (You can sign up at NewEngland.com/ allaccess.) I think Huck and Mark Twain would today tuck an iPad away on the raft as they drifted together to see what lay ahead.

Mel Allen, Editor editor@YankeeMagazine.com

A Horse Named Danny

A lifetime friendship began with a question: “Have you seen my horse?”

have a friend named Jamie. We met years ago because of a horse named Danny. I was in my early twenties, and my husband and I were living in an old farmhouse on top of a hill, from which we could see New Hampshire, Vermont, and Massachusetts. No one else was living on that hill, so it was a surprise one day to hear a knock on the door. I opened it to the wintry wind; a young woman of about my age was standing on the step. She had tawny-colored hair pulled back in a braid, and she wore jeans and a denim jacket. “I wonder if you’ve seen my horse? He’s big and brown, a Percheron.” I knew a Percheron. “No,” I said, gesturing to the panoramic view past the open field. “If he were here, I would have seen him.” She went on to explain that she and her husband had just bought 112 acres in the middle of the woods. She pointed to the southeast. “We’re just moving up to build a cabin. I’ve had him only a couple of days. His name is Danny.”

It was that time in New England when young folks were “moving up” to build cabins in the woods. After they’d fattened Danny up, this couple was hoping to use him to help haul lumber and materials into the site. Jamie was somewhat breathless and pink-faced from her walk through the deep woods in search of her horse. “When they’re on the run,” she told me, “horses go to high places. That’s why I thought to come up here.” She told me how to find her and her husband if Danny showed up.

Not long after she’d walked back into the woods, I saw a brown horse in the field. He was big but very scrawny, a little swaybacked—a horse who’d seen better days. He had no halter or bridle or anything to grab onto, so I hopped into my VW Beetle and drove in the direction of the couple’s land. They were a mile into the woods, on a logging road, and, somewhat miraculously I realize now, I saw Jamie in a clearing. “I found Danny!” I called. Jamie grabbed a halter and a rope and jumped in. When we got back to the field, Danny was still there.

That was the start of it. When Jamie bought Danny, he’d been on his way to a meat auction, where old horses were sold to be made into dog food. Despite his appearance, she thought that he had what she called “spirit.” She was right. He learned to twitch logs, and, eventually, using an overturned car hood as a sled, she trained him to pull lumber, a woodstove, even groceries to the cabin. She rode him bareback, although to get up on his back she had to find a high perch, like a big rock or a porch, first—he stood 16 hands high. Whenever she was gardening or building a fence, Danny would follow her around like a dog, occasionally nudging her with his long nose. He was gentle and patient and had soulful brown eyes. We all learned to love him for the courage he showed. An old meat horse isn’t supposed to jump and prance like a show horse, but Danny did. He was Jamie’s best friend, and eventually he became her children’s best friend. After 14 years together, Danny, who by then was about 35, died one night. They had to bring in an enormous bucket loader to bury him.

Since then, Jamie and I have shared much of what life provides. Both of us have experienced losses and survived cancer. Jamie’s cancer was more serious than mine, requiring a bone-marrow transplant and years of recovery—but she did recover. Danny must have been nudging her from behind.

Edie Clark’s books, including her newest, As Simple As That: Collected Essays , are now available at edieclark.com.

Danny: The True Story of a Great Horse, written and illustrated by Jamie Young, is available at jamieyoung.net.

Sleepless Thoughts

taxes both body and mind.

lmost every morning I awaken too early, my brain overwhelmed by the minutiae of our task, a frothing sea of details: materials I need to compile, people I need to call, tools I need to fix. And on top of that, the usual tasks of the season: cows to be milked, calves and pigs to be fed, the meat birds moved to a fresh swath of pasture grass. Every morning, we check the blueberries, ripening slowly in the midsummer sun; soon we’ll pick them by the gallon. For a time, I lie still, pushing my eyes shut, hoping to trick myself back into sleep, but my body feels as restless as my mind, and I soon rise into the dark for coffee and food.

If our project feels overwhelming at times, we have no one to blame but ourselves. Early on, we decided that we wanted to do all the things that we’d hired out when we built our first place. I don’t mean totally by ourselves; it was abundantly clear from the beginning that to build a barn and a house in a single summer—while developing the associated systems, maintaining our current homestead, and putting up our usual allotment of food reserves—we’d need some help.

THE NORTHEAST KINGDOM

PHOTOGRAPHS BY PENNY HEWITT

We’re prideful—but not so prideful that we don’t recognize our obvious limits. Some of those limits are related to skill, some to equipment, and some to sheer person power. In automotiveperformance circles, there’s an old adage: There’s no replacement for displacement. That’s just a clever way of saying that ingenuity and technology can take you only so far; at some point, it all depends on the sheer size of your engine.

So yes, we have help (and amazing help, at that), but we’ve also taken it upon ourselves to orchestrate and participate in every aspect of site development and construction. Partly, that’s owing to finances—we simply don’t have the money to hire everything out in full—but it’s also owing to a base desire to understand the very minutiae that pull me out of sleep every morning in the four o’clock hour. Though we’d built our previous home (again, with help) and know all too well its myriad faults, we simply didn’t have the same familiarity with the systems that serve it. If for no other reason than that we’d know better how to fix those systems should they fail in the future, this time we’ve resolved to get our hands dirty.

The first big unknown is the septic and wastewater system. We’re fortunate that our site has perc-tested for a conventional, in-ground installation; indeed, we made our purchase-andsale agreement contingent on the perc test, since a mound system can quickly run north of $20,000. That means that the installation should be relatively straightforward and affordable, and we’re doubly blessed in that our friend Jimmy has recently purchased an excavator and is eager to put it to the test.

Naturally, we’re happy to oblige, and the machine makes short work of clearing the site, burying the tank, and laying the leach field. The septic installation goes more smoothly than I could possibly have dreamed—a day and a half at most—and, better yet, ends up costing us a full $2,000 less than I’d budgeted. Naturally, this imbues me with a vastly inflated sense

The Retirement of a Lifetime

Apartment and cottage living at Piper Shores offers residents fully updated and affordable homes, with all the benefits of Maine’s first and only nonprofit lifecare retirement community. Located along the Southern Maine coastline, our active, engaged community combines worryfree independent living with priority access to higher levels of on-site healthcare—all for a predictable monthly fee.

Maria Was Right

Maria was warm, engaging She beamed sunshine and welcome We chose several things. Then she pointed out the wave.

I said, “No ”

She said, “Let me have Adriana try it on You’ll see ”

Maria clasped the necklace for Adriana. The piece glowed. Adriana glowed. They were beautiful together The curls the swirls, the light and dark, the shadow and light played across the surface I couldn’t resist We ordered two dozen Sold them all in a few weeks We now have more

Buy the necklace It’s the prettiest of the three pieces because of the way it plays with light when you move

The promise: wear the necklace and you’ll get a dozen compliments the first evening out. The even bigger promise for all your dinner dates for years to come: 100s, then 1000s of comments, compliments and who doesn’t like a compliment

....

of my own capabilities (never mind that the savings are largely owing to Jimmy’s superb work and generous rates). So it’s with this inflated sense intact that we begin developing the spring.

Ah, the spring. When I first discovered the spring, emerging from the base of a ledge outcropping in the woods above the house site, I’d envisioned something simple and even quaint in form and function: a box of cedar boards, perhaps. Or maybe I’d fashion a box of fieldstone. I could see it in my mind’s eye: the cool water against the cool stone, gray on gray, pure as the source, developed thanks to a woodhandled shovel, the muscles in my back, and the sweat on my brow.

As with many aspects of building a home, however (and particularly those pertaining to water and waste), the State of Vermont has its own opinions about our spring, and thus we’re compelled to install something infinitely more complex and invasive. There will be no cedar boards or fieldstone, and unless I want to dig for six or seven months straight, there will be no woodhandled shovel. So I call Jimmy and we get to work.

In truth, it’s not that bad, although the day we lay 800 feet of water line between spring and house is one of those days that’s amusing only in hindsight. It’s August now but atypically cold, and raining not just cats and dogs but ferocious lions and saber-toothed wolves. The trench is nearly 5 feet deep and 18 inches wide, and although I endeavor to remain above grade, there’s no way to avoid clambering in and out of the trough, a maneuver that necessitates full-body contact with the freshly dug, waterlogged soil. I soon find myself shivering intermittently.

To his enduring credit, Jimmy jumps down from the dry, heated cab of his machine to help muscle the roll of pipe into place. By the end of the day, the water line is unfurled, and the two of us are a grim sight, frigid and shriveled and caked in muck. The only thing to do is to joke that someone some -

where is paying top dollar for an exfoliating mudbath treatment that looks and feels much the same. Heck, when you look at it that way, we’re getting a bargain.

Not long ago, I was talking to one of my magazine editors on the phone. He lives in New York City, and he expressed surprise that we were building our own place. “I didn’t think any-

one did that anymore” is what he said. I thought about it for a minute and realized that I couldn’t think of anyone we know who hasn’t built his own house, isn’t currently building his own house, or doesn’t plan to someday build his own house.

In truth, this claim is a modest exaggeration—of course we know people who haven’t built and have no plans to build their own houses—but it’s not really that far off the mark. In rural northern Vermont, building your own house—or its infinitely more fraught cousin, restoring an old farmhouse—is just what you do, at least among the sort of riffraff we hang with. Partly, it has to do with simple economics: The most expensive aspect of building is generally the labor. But I’ve come to believe that in many cases, it’s owing to an entrenched ethos of thrift and pragmatism. In other words, perhaps some of these people could afford to hire people to do it, but there’s a deep-seated force compelling them to pick up the hammer and do it themselves.

I certainly don’t think that everyone should build their own houses,

A curious—and nimble—goat investigates a load of stout logs destined for the Hewitts’ new farmstead.

In rural northern Vermont, building your own house— or its infinitely more fraught cousin, restoring an old farmhouse— is just what you do, at least among the sort of riffraff we hang with.

if only because I have a lot of friends in the building trades and I’d hate to see them out of work. But I’ve come to believe that everyone should have at least some idea of how to build a house, even if it’s only to understand the basic fundamentals of it all: how to square up a wall, frame a window opening, set a rafter, use a circular saw. Two weeks of good instruction and they’d be set.

It seems to me as though somewhere along the way we decided that our children didn’t actually need to learn the skills that are most essential to their physical well-being. The author Daniel Quinn makes the point that from even the most revered institutions of higher learning in this nation, we graduate human beings who are in a sense helpless. They can no sooner put a roof over their heads than transplant a heart; no sooner grow a carrot or slaughter a hog than fly to Mars; no sooner doctor a flesh wound or make their own medicine than dive to the bottom of the ocean. Of course, the erosion of these skills becomes self-perpetuating, as each generation husbands fewer of them than the previous one: We are less skilled than our parents, and our children will be less skilled than we are.

That’s another of the things I think about between to-do lists during the early sleepless-but-still-trying minutes of each morning in the summer of 2015. When that gets to be too heavy, I sometimes think about the old farmhouse I pass each morning on the way to our new land: a sagging porch along the front, and on it, a cushioned chair and an old chest freezer with two chainsaws atop its lid; across the road, a small herd of cows, Jerseys mostly, heads bent to the ground in search of food. I think about how on a few recent mornings, I’ve spotted a woman sitting in the cushioned chair, reading a book.

Then I think about hitting the gravel road. I’ll roll down the truck window, hear the ping of small stones against the rocker panels, breathe deeply of the midsummer air.

And then, once in a while, if I’m really lucky, I’ll drift back to sleep.

First LIGHT

The Mysterious Siren Call of Appledore Island

Celia Thaxter found peace and rare beauty on a barren island eight miles out to sea. Visitors keep arriving to see it for themselves.

BY JUSTIN SHATWELL

eople fall in love with Appledore Island without knowing why or how. It’s little more than a granite mound rising out of the ocean. There are no sandy beaches here, just seaweed-strewn boulders ringing the shoreline. In summer, the sun is merciless. In winter, icy winds rake the island continuously. It’s as though God had scraped together all the harshest elements of the New England landscape and piled them in a heap, seven or so miles off the coast of New Hampshire. Yet for almost 400 years, people have called this place home. Generations of hermits, entrepreneurs, and romantics have cast their fate upon these forbidding shores, enchanted by the island’s siren song.

Ann Beattie can hum a few bars of that tune herself. As a historian, she’s spent much of her career studying Appledore and the eight other equally bleak islands that together are called the Isles of Shoals, some of which belong to New Hampshire, and some, including Appledore, to Maine. Today she’s passing on a portion of that knowledge to a gaggle of tour-guides-in-training. Her students, mostly older residents of the coastal communities, will lead a few dozen expeditions to the island over the summer—the only chance for casual tourists to visit Appledore. As Beattie leads her charges across the island’s rocky trails, she points out all the things that aren’t there anymore: a flat spot that was once a tennis court; a flooded foundation that used

to be a carriage house. The island is littered with ruins, like mementos of old relationships.

The Isles of Shoals have proven adept at reinventing themselves over the centuries. “Whenever there’s a reason for one community to disperse … someone comes along with a new idea, a new reason for people to gather on these islands,” Beattie says. “It’s as though these islands refuse to remain uninhabited. They call to people.”

In the 17th and 18th centuries, the Shoals were home to reclusive fishermen who chased off the ministers sent by well-meaning mainlanders worried about their souls. When the fish stocks thinned, the islands diversified. In the late 19th century, Unitarian Universalists began holding retreats on Star Island (a tradition that continues today). During World War II, the Navy built a spotter tower on Appledore and turned tiny Duck Island into a bombing range. A plan to build an oil terminal on Lunging Island in 1972 fortunately amounted to nothing, given the Shoals’ prodigious history of shipwrecks.

Beattie halts the group at a grassy plain near the seashore. The other islands of the archipelago can be seen stretching to the south. A single boat bobs at anchor. Waves crash. Behind us, a few shingle-sided buildings hug the crest of Appledore’s only hill.

The island has no year-round residents, but during the summer it’s home to the Shoals Marine Laboratory, a joint venture of the University

Celia Thaxter believed there was magic in the waves. “The eternal sound of the sea on every side” could wash away all thoughts of the mainland, leaving your perception “blurred and softened like a sketch in charcoal.”

ABOVE : Celia Thaxter in her garden, August 1889. OPPOSITE : Her reconstructed garden today.

of New Hampshire and Cornell Uni versity, geared toward undergraduate education. Throughout the summer, hundreds of college students squeeze into the island dormitories for a week or two at a time to study things like field ornithology or to earn scientific-diver certification.

From here, researchers keep a keen eye on the Shoals’ rebounding wildlife populations. As humans have moved out, seals, seagulls, and endangered terns have reclaimed territory—just one more changing of the guard in a place defined by transformation.

But for all the odd hats Appledore has worn, its strangest chapter was during the late 19th century, when the island was a Gilded Age resort. In a fit of entrepreneurial madness, businessman Thomas Laighton built Appledore House here in 1848. It was one of New England’s first resort hotels—and an improbable hit. Laighton tempted visitors to the island by selling it as an exclusive destination and touting the health benefits of breathing sea air. For decades New York socialites flocked here to lounge

on the rocks and cough the coal dust from their lungs.

“The hotel had a billiards room, a music room, a bowling alley,” Beattie says as she marks off the hotel’s boundaries on the now-deserted coastline. “It was amazing.” But perhaps the biggest attraction was Laighton’s daughter, Celia Thaxter, who blossomed into one of her generation’s favorite poets.

She wrote with an aesthetic born of desolation. When she was 4 years old, her father took a job as the lighthouse keeper on White Island, a granite postage stamp at the southern tip of the Shoals. Her childhood was spent alone on a rock in the ocean, carrying a magnifying glass in her dress and pondering anything that washed ashore as though she could make her world larger by focusing on the details.

Her odd upbringing added to her mystique. For a time she was, perhaps, the most romantic woman in a romantic age—a literal Siren, luring dreamers to her island with her effusive verse. They came in droves. Artists and writers made pilgrimages to Appledore to meet her. The likes of Nathaniel Hawthorne, Childe Hassam, and Ralph

of the humble cottage she kept by the hotel. “Pretty heavy stuff for a girl who grew up on a rock,” Beattie jokes.

Today her poetry is mostly forgotten. “A little too flowery and romantic for our tastes now,” Beattie explains. But to gardeners, Thaxter is still a saint. In 1894, the year of her death, she published An Island Garden , a memoir of her tireless efforts to coax flowers into growing on Appledore. It remains a classic. Thaxter adored flowers the way only a girl raised on a barren rock could, and that passion imbues every page. “Dearly I love to sit in the sun upon the doorstep with a blossom in my hand,” she wrote, “and meditate upon its details, the lavish elaboration of its loveliness, to study every peculiar characteristic of each, and wonder and rejoice in its miraculous existence.”

We march down the shoreline to a small stone foundation, half hidden in the grass. A fire in 1914 wiped the island clean. This is all that’s left of Thaxter’s cottage. Beside it, the Shoals Marine Laboratory has reconstructed her garden. It’s shockingly small, just a

Appledore Island in its Gilded Age heyday as a popular resort.

few raised beds surrounded by a picket fence.

“A lot of people show up expecting a lavish English landscaped garden, because it’s so famous,” Beattie says. But in truth, it was just a small cutting garden—an oasis of color in the blue-andgray world Thaxter inhabited. “Mine is just a little old-fashioned garden,” she wrote, “where the flowers come together to praise the Lord and teach all who look upon them to do likewise.”

We linger for a few moments, then push on, following a narrow path through a thicket of wind-whipped sumacs and blueberry bushes. Baby seagulls, like fluffy brown bowling balls, peep in the underbrush. This is all new, Beattie explains. After the fire, seagulls claimed Appledore as a rookery. With the gulls came guano, which in turn became soil.

Later, Beattie shows me pictures of Appledore from Thaxter’s time. The island is entirely barren, without a tree or a bush in sight. The hotel and cottages cling awkwardly to the exposed

rock like sunbathing crabs. I can’t help but wonder why anyone would have wanted to come here.

This question fascinates Beattie. She jokes that tourists always ask about the same three things: “Pirates, murders, and shipwrecks!” But to her, the most fascinating story is why people came to this lonesome place and why they stayed. What is it about Appledore that hooks people’s imagination and lets it rise from the ashes time and time again?

After a short hike, we emerge into the clearing where Thaxter was laid to rest beside her parents and two brothers. The whole family shared the same struggles on these islands, but each chose to stay, spending the majority of his or her life in this tiny kingdom in the sea. Before the brush grew up, this spot offered an unbroken view of a swath of the New England coastline, from Cape Ann in Massachusetts to Cape Neddick in Maine.

Glimpsing that view gives you a fleeting sense of why someone might

fall in love with this place. The mainland is just far enough away to make you feel as though you’re someplace else— a world that’s small, but entirely your own.

“Many troubles, cares, perplexities, vexations, lurk behind that far, faint line for you,” Thaxter wrote. “Why should you be bothered any more?”

There are eight “Explore Appledore Island” walking tours scheduled for this July and August, departing from UNH Pier, Fort Point, New Castle, New Hampshire. To reserve space, go to: seagrant.unh.edu/ appledorecruise. In addition, a new exhibit, American Impressionist: Childe Hassam and the Isles of Shoals, will be on view at the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, Massachusetts, July 16 through November 6, 2016. 978-745-9500; pem.org. An accompanying suite of 12 contemporary black-andwhite photos by Alexandra de Steiguer capture scenes of Appledore today. To see a sampling of Alexandra’s work, visit: YankeeMagazine.com/Appledore

A Blue-Ribbon Day

Of all late-summer harvests, one of the most enticing

omes late summer, come the country fairs. They appear along the branches of rural roads and byways like the very harvest fruits they display. They are perhaps the oldest village shows on earth, these local contests and exhibits of what man and earth and season can produce. But with their golden age clearly in the past by the first half of the 20th century, country fairs seemed forsaken by the American love affair with the city. And yet, as the 21st century approaches, the country fair is once more alive and well and multiplying.

The New England air in season fills with a special blend of sounds—of lowing cattle and squawking Ferris wheels, of barkers’ shrill badgering, of trot and gallop and clank of chain on pickup. And, oh, the smells from all those shedcovered, improvised kitchens offering wholesome and wellbalanced country meals set before you with motherly smiles or enticing junk food served up with more worldly looks from hustlers’ eyes.

WE WERE RIGHT ALL ALONG

tiny Vermont, who happens to believe that I have a responsibility to make this world a better place.” Williams won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1997 for her efforts to destroy and ban land mines. Her memoir, My Name Is Jody Williams: A Vermont Girl’s Winding Path to the Nobel Peace Prize , was published in 2013.

—“Fair Weather,” Traveler’s Journal,

Vermont’s “Great Lake” compiled by Julia Shipley

6.8 TRILLION gallons of water: Champlain’s estimated volume

400

feet: Champlain’s maximum depth

120 & 12 miles: Champlain’s length and maximum width, more than three times the size of New England’s secondlargest lake, Moosehead in Maine

FIFTY-FOUR public beaches

1609 year French explorer Samuel de Champlain sailed into the Lake Champlain region THREE HUNDRED documented shipwrecks on the lake’s bottom

4000 canal boats plying Champlain’s waters between 1819 and 1940

450-480 MILLION years: age of Champlain’s Chazy Reef, one of the oldest in the world illustrious and oftsighted lake monster, “Champ”

27 daily round-trip summer ferry crossings between Charlotte, Vermont, and Essex, New York

SEVENTYONE islands (including one that’s an entire county) eighty-one species of fi sh in the lake

300 recorded sightings of “Champ” since 1609

Sun Smarts

Deb Girard dispenses sunscreen and facts.

BY JOE BILLS

un-warmed skin is one of life’s simple pleasures, but sun and skin don’t always get along. From sunburn to the dangers of skin cancer, sun exposure comes with real risks. Last year, the Melanoma Foundation of New England began championing sun safety by dispensing free sunscreen in public spaces around Boston; this year, the organization’s goal is to place 400 dispensers. Deb Girard, the Foundation’s executive director, offers some sun-safety advice.

Limit Your Exposure

With sun, a little goes a long way. Avoid extended exposure between 10:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m., when the sun is most intense. Remember: If your shadow is shorter than you are, the sun’s rays are at their strongest.

Dress for Success

Girard recommends wearing protective clothing, including a hat with a brim and UV-protective sunglasses. Generally, dark colors offer better protection than light colors, but even covering up doesn’t necessarily provide full protection. If you can see light through a fabric, UV rays can get through, too.

Use Sunscreen

Apply broad-spectrum sunscreen (protecting against both UVA and UVB rays) 30 minutes before going outside, and reapply every couple of hours. Even “waterproof” sunscreens can wash off when you sweat or swim and then towel off, so reapply often.

Be Generous

When putting sunscreen on, pay attention to all other exposed areas: One ounce of sunscreen (enough to fill your palm or a shot glass) is recommended to cover the arms, legs, neck, and face of the average adult. After the Foundation’s sunscreen dispensers were installed in Boston last year,

Girard and her staff observed that many parents failed to apply sunscreen to their kids’ faces and ears, or they put sunscreen on their children but not on themselves. “We realized that not everyone knows how to apply it,” Girard notes. For its public dispensers, the Foundation chose an organic sunscreen. “There are no reliable data supporting the idea that chemical sunscreens are dangerous or poisonous,” Girard says, “but a lot of people feel strongly about chemicals. By offering an organic sunscreen we could keep the focus on the importance of sun protection, without getting sidetracked into a debate on active ingredients.”

Know Your SPF

SPF (sun protection factor) is the level of protection a sunscreen provides against UVB rays, the main cause of sunburn. An SPF 30 sunscreen lowers a 30-minute sun exposure to the equivalent of one minute of unprotected exposure. The higher the number, the more the protection. SPF 50 sunscreens filter out approximately 98 percent of UVB rays. The higher you go, the smaller the difference becomes. Always use sunscreens with an SPF of 30 or higher.

Don’t Tan

Using a tanning bed for 20 minutes is equivalent to spending as much as three hours at the beach without sun protection. “Tanned skin is damaged skin,” Girard

says. “Anytime the color of your skin changes, you’ve caused a mutation. Tanning beds are even more dangerous than the sun. No one goes into a tanning bed with sunscreen on.”

Eat Your Vitamin D

Sun exposure does prompt your body to create healthy vitamin D, but Girard recommends getting most of your vitamin D from supplements or foods such as orange juice, milk, and fish. Ten minutes of unprotected sun two or three times a week is enough to help your skin make vitamin D. Getting more sun won’t increase your vitamin D level, but it will increase your risk of skin cancer.

Get Serious

More than five million skin cancers are diagnosed each year. The incidence of melanoma, the deadliest form of skin cancer, is rising faster than that of any other cancer. “It’s a serious problem, an epidemic, really,” Girard says. “We haven’t taken it seriously enough, and that has to change.” Melanoma is the second-mostcommon cancer among young men and women between the ages of 15 and 29. “Most melanomas can be treated if caught early, but there’s still no cure,” Girard cautions. “The best treatment is not to get it at all.”

Melanoma Foundation of New England, Concord, Mass.: mfne.org

district of “the city of Washington in the territory of Columbia.”

From the start, the Almanac offered wisdom, advice, and entertainment on subjects ranging from planting schedules to healthy living, from etiquette and behavior to fishing and the castration of bulls— plus plenty of romantic advice and astrology thrown in.

Thomas devised a “secret weather forecasting formula,” which to this day is kept in a black tin box in the Old Farmer’s Almanac offices here in Dublin, New Hampshire. The first-ever

weather forecast, covering January 1 to 9, 1793, was “cold and frosty … looks like snow.”

By the start of the Civil War, the Almanac was already the longestrunning American periodical.

One of the most infamous Almanac weather forecasts was allegedly printed in 1816. Thomas, it’s said, was ill, so the printer sent a messenger to collect the July weather forecast. The messenger returned, say-

ing that the printer should print whatever he wished. He did: a July 13 forecast that called for “rain, hail and snow.” Upon his recovery, a furious Thomas recalled every copy that he could and corrected the issue with a more-seasonable prediction. That July, however, rain, hail, and, yes, snow did fall, thanks in part to the 1815 eruption of Mount Tambora in Indonesia. Thus a legend was born.

The 1832 edition was the first to insert Old into the Almanac ’s title. Old was soon dropped, though, and not used again until 1848, when it became The Old Farmer’s Almanac once and for all.

The iconic hole in the upperleft corner débuted in 1851.

Three years before he became president, attorney Abraham Lincoln used the Almanac to defend William “Duff” Armstrong, accused of killing a man by hitting him with a weighted leather “slungshot.” A witness claimed to have seen the attack by the light of the moon. Referring to the Almanac entry for the day in question (August 29, 1857), Lincoln argued—successfully—that his client couldn’t have been identified, because the moon “ran low” that night and wouldn’t have cast much light.

In 1939, Robb Sagendorph, founder of Yankee Publishing and editor of Yankee, acquired the Almanac from Little, Brown & Company. As the Almanac’s 11th editor (and fourth owner), he

set about “reestablishing Robert B. Thomas in policy and fact. Beginning in 1941, his original ideas shall be our guideposts.”

In 1942, a German spy was captured on Long Island with a copy of the Almanac in his pocket. Concerned that the enemy was using the book’s moon-phases chart, the government banned weather forecasts from wartime publications. Ever resourceful, Sagendorph—who himself was working for the Office of Censorship at the time— changed the Almanac cover line from weather “forecasts” to

“indications.” Throughout the war, a letter from the Office of Censorship was included every year, absolving the Almanac of the prohibition against weather forecasts.

In 1978, Dr. Richard Head retired from his position with NASA to join the Almanac staff and continue his solar research. Dr. Head’s scientific approach to weather forecasting augmented Thomas’s formula. Meteorologist Michael Steinberg has been the Almanac weather forecaster since 1996.

Janice Stillman, the current editor, is just the 13th in the publication’s history. That’s an average tenure of more than 17 years! —Joe Bills

When the first volume of Robert B. Thomas’s Farmer’s Almanac appeared in October 1792, George Washington was just finishing his first term as president. That same month, the cornerstone of the White House was laid in the newly formed federal

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GOING WITH THE FLOW DOESN’T ALWAYS MEAN FOLLOWING THE CROWD.

The GUIDE HOME

THIS PAGE : Bill and Eileen Elliott in their garden in Hancock, New Hampshire. It began as a 20-by-20foot plot carved out of the woods; today it covers 2 acres. OPPOSITE : Colorful preserves await in the wood-paneled kitchen.

THE GARDEN THAT COULD

Photographs by Kindra Cline

NOT-SO-LITTLE

ithout precise directions, you’d never find Bill and Eileen Elliott’s house. But with some guidance, you’d find yourself standing before a rustic handhewn archway gate, and through that, a curving, colorful path lined with astilbe, geraniums, daylilies, phlox, roses, and all manner of other garden gems. If you haven’t been diverted by the herb garden or one of the other “rooms” along the route, the path eventually arrives at a raised-bed vegetable garden, where festive poppies skirt succulent tomatoes, corn, greens, squash, and all the fixings to feed a family. Duck beneath the kiwi-smothered arbors, sidestep the billowing daylilies, and sample a string bean, because the vegetable garden is the epicenter of what these self-sufficient homesteaders are all about. Yes, it supplies fuel for their survival. But why not smell the flowers along the way?

If this sounds like Eden, it is one, of sorts: a small paradise created by one couple who dreamed of self-sufficiency and longed to escape the renters’ rut. But back in the late ’70s, when our story begins, Bill was a math teacher. Eileen also had a teaching degree and was moonlighting as a librarian, but mostly was serving as mother to their two boys, so the state of their savings account was meager when they first heard of a parcel in Hancock, New Hampshire, that nobody else wanted. Actually, the lawyer who owned the land was quite

by Tovah Martin

attached to his 22-or-so acres when the Elliotts made their initial inquiry in 1978, but he acknowledged that yes, the land could be reached only by a seasonal road, sitting on a rocky ledge that defied any type of motor-vehicle access, and that perhaps he wasn’t sitting on a gold mine. The site had no power lines (in fact, the nearest line was a mile and a half away) and no house (although an 1800s foundation remained)—and to call it “densely wooded” was putting it mildly. “You couldn’t put your hands out and twirl anywhere on this land,” Eileen recalls. Nevertheless, the Elliotts figured that it was their only chance at the American Dream.

Bill and Eileen Elliott found their way to self-sufficiency with more than a little help from their land.

OPPOSITE , TOP ROW, FROM LEFT : A bounty of just-picked root vegetables, beans, greens, and more, fresh from the garden; preserves are stored in the root cellar; delicate poppies seed themselves in among the veggies.

MIDDLE ROW : Newly sprouted green beans; a hearty-looking cabbage, ready for harvest; Bill tends to the weeding.

BOTTOM ROW : The Elliotts were inspired by Scott and Helen Nearing’s experience in Maine; a burgundy ‘Blauwschokkers’ peapod; water for the garden is available from a 300-gallon storage tank.

THIS PAGE , ABOVE : The Elliotts built their post-andbeam Cape using wood harvested from their property.

THE SELF-SUFFICIENT ORGANIC GARDEN

By spring, the Elliotts are weary of eating from the root cellar, so they grow French sorrel for an early crop before other things are ready to harvest.

Following closely on the heels of sorrel, they begin harvesting parsnips, kale, and spinach, which have overwintered in cold frames from seed sown during the previous growing season.

During hot, dry weather, they water their seedlings daily. When plants are mature, they receive weekly waterings if rain hasn’t quenched their thirst.

For blight on tomatoes and eggplants, the Elliotts apply copper sulfate. Even more important, they trim affected foliage weekly. Diseased leaves never go into the compost.

They use fish emulsion and seaweed for fertilizer, applying it to seedlings during transplanting. Heavy-feeding crops such as onions and corn receive weekly doses of fertilizer, while other crops are fertilized every two weeks. But fertilizer aside, compost is key; the Elliotts make as much compost as possible.

Comfrey tea works as a potassium-rich fertilizer for fruit and flower production. In July, the Elliotts cut back the comfrey, put it in a garbage can, and fill the can with water, leaving it to ferment for a week. Then they dilute it 2:1 to water crops such as potatoes, pumpkins, and squash. To save space, pumpkins grow beneath the corn.

In August, they plant spinach, kale, mustard, and lettuce for October harvest.

Cool-season Brassicas such as broccoli and cabbage are vulnerable to club root, a common fungal disease. The Elliotts’ solution: Rotate crops religiously and apply plenty of lime to combat the problem.

Living so close to the woods, the Elliotts have had to develop novel strategies for dealing with hungry animals. Porcupines have been pestering their fruit trees; their solution is to place a stovepipe around each trunk. A 7-foot deer fence has proved to be 100% effective in keeping deer from entering the garden. —T.M.

There’s practicality here, but also poetry. Poppies are allowed to seed themselves in all over the place—just for the beauty they lend.

Although the Elliotts take plenty of time to smell the flowers along the way, their vegetable garden has to pull its own weight. Here, they share some valuable lessons, from growing season through harvest, gained from years of trial and error.

From the very beginning, the couple was happy to remain off the grid. With Scott and Helen Nearing’s book, Living the Good Life (1954), as guidance, the two pioneers built their house by hand. Using their rental home as a workshop, they cut materials with power tools there and transported them to the site. They also tackled the garden, clearing a 20-by-20-foot plot out of the woods, which was backbreaking work. “Basically, we had more rocks than soil,” Bill says. Given only the thinnest topsoil blanketing the ledge, they made compost and brought in the amendments. They learned how to grow vegetables on a plot at a community garden near their rental, visited the Nearings in Harborside, Maine (“and woke up to women doing naked handstands,” Eileen remarks wryly), and got pointers on preserving the harvest and compost production.

That was 37 years ago, and their garden has become even more focused with time. Now in their early seventies (though you’d never guess it to look at them), the Elliotts still park their car a good eighth of a mile from the house and walk in (often with a cart filled with groceries or other provisions), past a series of beautifully orchestrated plantings. They maintain all manner of ornamental gardens filled with arcane shrubs and rare peonies that kindle sensibilities beyond their tastebuds.

But no place is as hard-working as the vegetable garden, designed around a series of raised beds built to adjust for the sloping ridge and to create flat spaces to plant. Another advantage: “Raised beds hold water better than open ground,” Bill observes. (Gasfueled pumps assist with watering.) Meanwhile, large-footprint crops such as corn, peas, squash, and tomatoes are

planted directly in the ground. The garden furnishes cucumbers for pickling (57 pints during one spectacular season!), as well as cans of blueberries, gooseberries, pears, tomato sauce, chutneys, and the green and yellow beans that line the shelves of their root cellar, along with potatoes, parsnips, pumpkins, onions, garlic, cabbage, winter squash, and other essentials. “When the ground has thawed,” Eileen says, “we’re in there full-time.”

but don’t mulch the beds themselves, because the straw proves to be an open invitation to voles. “And anyway, I like to weed,” Eileen says.

OPPOSITE : A colorful summer harvest. In addition to vegetables, the Elliotts grow a wide range of fruits and berries, herbs, and ornamental flowers, trees, and shrubs. ABOVE : Bright blooms line the path to the herb garden, where a brick walkway leads to a sundial at center stage.

The garden’s first order is to provide a year’s worth of food, “but we go for tasty,” Eileen says. So the tomatoes tend to be heirlooms (their favorites: ‘Cherokee Purple’, ‘Japanese Black Trifele’, and ‘Purple Russian’), and the Elliotts don’t shy away from experimentation if it might promise a novel taste sensation. This year, edamame soybeans were on trial, but a mouse stole most of the harvest; they plan to try again. To maximize efficiency, they rotate crops, so when they’ve harvested the early peas, that slot goes to members of the cabbage family, which benefit from the nitrogen left by the peas. They lay straw mulch on the paths,

There’s practicality here, but also poetry. Poppies are allowed to seed themselves in all over the place—just for the beauty they lend. The couple’s favorite variety of soup pea is ‘Blauwschokkers’, simply because it has burgundy pods. Ditto for ‘Tiger Eye’ beans—they’re outrageously goodlooking. And long ago, Bill gave in to Eileen’s penchant for sneaking dahlias, peonies, clematis, and all sorts of other companion bloomers into the vegetable garden to feed the soul— even though flowers are plentiful elsewhere. Today, the garden has grown to two acres. “Both of us are expansive people,” Bill admits. Most of the added space is focused on ornamentals—although herbs, fruits, and berries are sprinkled around.

“From the start we figured that we’re hard-working people, and we can do this,” Eileen recalls.

“There’s no such thing as low-maintenance gardening,” Bill adds. “It’s all hard work and time-consuming. But we’re completely drawn to it.”

Yes, they have to heat the water for washing, and the laundry is done in a hand-crank machine. Absolutely, somebody needs to stay home and feed the woodstove. But with a root cellar full of pickles and all the jams and jellies anybody could ever consume—life is good. They certainly weren’t the only back-to-the-landers inspired to homestead in the 1970s, but they’re among the movement’s few survivors.

“Most people didn’t stick it out,” Bill admits. But what started as their only option is now a life they wouldn’t have any other way.

An Alchemist with Clay

Shari Zabriskie spins birch trees and sea urchins on her potter’s wheel.

BY ANNIE GRAVES

life takes shape, not so differently from a pot on a potter’s wheel. Maybe the sides rise up evenly for a while—you grow up in Stoughton, Massachusetts, spend summers on Cape Cod, go to college at Boston University—but there are subtle fluctuations, possibly happy accidents along the way, too.

“If I’m going to give proper credit to finding my way in clay, it really started with my mom,” says Shari Zabriskie, TOP RIGHT, sitting at her potter’s wheel at Brattleboro Clayworks, Vermont’s oldest clay cooperative, where her delicate woodland pottery, seemingly spun out of birch, lies interspersed with glazed sea creatures—urchins and octopuses—animating the retail-gallery shelves.

“She had a wheel in our kitchen when I was a kid,” she explains, “although I never really had any pottery experience on it. And my great-uncle, Boris Lovet–Lorski, was a famous sculptor—he bought my mother her first set of paintbrushes. So I was raised in an artistic family, where everything we did was a lesson in design, whether it was my mother painting on the back porch, or throwing pots in the kitchen, or making our Halloween costumes, or setting the table, or baking a gorgeous challah and braiding it.”

botanical illustration: “I was head over heels with learning,” she recalls. “Living in a tepee, gardening, learning my herbs. I was on track to becoming an herbalist. And clay sort of sidetracked me.”

The “sides” of Shari’s life flared out after she left B.U.: “I jumped in a VW bus and headed to New Mexico.” Her laugh is throaty. New Mexico was where she really discovered clay, digging it from the river bank, lining it up on logs to dry, and sieving it until she had a beautiful, fine powder—her first elemental connection to the medium. “But instead of re hydrating it to make

pinch pots, I ended up using it as a clay bath, letting it dry on my arms and legs and jumping into the river,” she laughs.

“And I loved it.”

There, too, in New Mexico, she discovered nature in a way she never had before, and moved back East to Vermont to study medicinal herbs at the now-defunct Northeast College of Healing Arts and Sciences. Botany, herbology,

In 1997, midway through herb classes, she spotted a sign for a pottery class at the Putney Clay School, and signed up. Shortly after, she learned of Brattleboro Clayworks, where, as she says, “I found my own voice in clay. This place is very special. It was my incubator, and I never looked back. It’s been a constant evolution, particularly with these birch pots—they’ve made it possible to live off my craft.”

The high-fire stoneware pieces— mugs that seem wrapped in birch bark, plates rimmed with it, vases like slen-

PHOTOGRAPHS BY LORI PEDRICK

‘I love what I’m doing. I sat here all morning, carving into clay mugs, and to me that’s jazz and that’s joy, and it feeds my spirit.’

Shari’s delicate birch pots appear wrapped in a layer of bark; her sea urchins sparkle with shimmery glazes.

High Tide, Low Tide

der tree trunks, pitchers and honeypots—have become wildly popular since Shari began making them five years ago. “I was playing around with the white clay, incising and carving it,” she recalls, “and I kind of stumbled on it. I think it was a direct result of being in the woods every single morning, walking with my dog.” Even so, it took another nine months of playing with different stains and pot shapes, fire after fire, tweaking the process to create the texture of bark, until birches emerged.

If the birch pots came from wandering in the woods, then the glazed sea urchins are “my soul aching for the sea. I grew up spending summers on the Cape, and I miss it—the urchins, those are for me!”

As are the 15 to 17 craft shows that Shari attends every year, all around New England. It’s her favorite way to sell pots, actively engaging with customers. The goal: for her work to speak for itself; for the pots to call out to the individual in such a way that they feel a connection to her, the maker, as well as to the woods or the sea, the places from which she draws her inspiration.

“When I meet a customer who says, ‘I set my Thanksgiving table with all your birch pots this year, and it was the most beautiful-looking Thanksgiving meal,’ then I feel like I’m doing something good,” Shari says, surrounded by her beautiful flotsam and jetsam, or as she laughingly calls her pottery, “surf and turf.”

“I get to say ‘thank you,’” she says, more seriously. “Because I love what I’m doing. I sat here all morning, carving into clay mugs, and to me that’s jazz and that’s joy, and it feeds my spirit.”

Prices range from $28 (mugs) to $350 (floor vases). Shari also teaches classes. 802-380-0916; brattleboroclayworks .com or Shari Zabriskie Pottery on Facebook; email shabbazabba@ yahoo.com.

THE UN-SNEAKER

Ah, the comfort of a sneaker and the style of …not-a-sneaker. That’s pure Hubbard. Because your feet deserve to look good and feel good.

Yankee likes to mosey around and see, out of editorial curiosity, what you can turn up when you go house hunting. We have no stake in the sale whatsoever and would decline it if offered.

Overlooking Christmas Cove

It was built some 200 years ago on an island (accessible by a bridge) in one of the oldest and most desirable summer communities on the Maine coast …

ne rather chilly spring day a couple of months ago, we decided to mosey “down east.” After a short visit to L.L. Bean in Freeport (how could anyone go through Freeport without doing that?), we proceeded east on U.S. Route 1 to Damariscotta, where we began our lovely winding drive on Route 129 down the Pemaquid Peninsula to the picturesque little fishing village of South Bristol. From there we crossed a small bridge over to Rutherford Island. Less than a mile beyond, we arrived at what we immediately recognized as the deepwater harbor known as Christmas Cove. Voilà—we were where we wanted to be. We’d been corresponding with Stephen Mohr, one of the owners (with his brother and sister) of a historic 1820 cottage overlooking Christmas Cove, and there was no mistaking it—particularly with Stephen standing on its front deck whistling and waving!

We’d arrived at what has been known in the area for more than a hundred years as “The Homestead.” Incidentally, the reason Christmas Cove is so named is that the famous seafaring explorer Captain John Smith (remember him from your highschool history?) sought shelter here one stormy Christmas Eve back in about 1614. “Christmas Cove” he proclaimed it, and the name has stuck through all the years since.

: Known for more than 100 years as “The Homestead,” this cottage off the coast of Maine’s Pemaquid Peninsula includes four bedrooms : Growing up, co-owner (with his brother and sister) Stephen Mohr and his family were an integral part of summer-colony life

A few minutes later, we were sitting with Stephen at the dining-room table near the adjacent living room,

top : The view of Christmas Cove from the front deck of “The Homestead.” The property includes access down to the water, as well as the right to cut brush. bottom : The red barn behind the house, recently built, serves as a guesthouse and storage site.

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featuring three large windows overlooking, you guessed it, Christmas Cove. What a view! There were two comfortable chairs in front of those windows. “My mother loved to sit over there every morning and just gaze out at that view,” Stephen said, going on to explain how deeply rooted in this place his family has been over multiple generations. Seems that his grandfather, Dr. Leonard Matthews, provided free medical services to area lobstermen and their families every summer and was, of course, much loved.

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“Everyone simply referred to my sister, brother, myself, and our cousins as ‘Doc Matthews’s kids,’” Stephen recalled, “and we truly led a charmed life every summer.” Even after his father passed away, Stephen’s grandmother and then his mother (now, sadly, confined to an Alzheimer’s unit in Augusta) were very much a part of the summercolony life here year after year.

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Stephen, a landscape architect by profession, is still emotionally attached to the place, but nowadays he and his wife, Tanya, live year-round on Peaks Island in Portland Harbor. (We intend to mosey out there soon and see what’s available.) His brother now lives in Montana, while his sister is in Pennsylvania. So, yes, all in all it seems time to part with their beloved

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Historic features include a period

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family gathering place. Also, the proceeds from the sale would help provide for their mother’s necessary, and expensive, care.

Now for a few specifics: The asking price is $375,000, which includes the house and 0.32-acre lot; a small but very nice barn behind the house, built recently to serve as a storage and guest facility; a propane-fueled furnace installed two years ago; a dug well and private septic system, along with a propane-powered generator; and, very importantly, part ownership of the waterfront property in front of the house, which therefore provides legal access down to the water as well as rights to install an outhaul. It also allows for the occasional cutting of the brush that sometimes creeps up in front of the view.

As for the house itself, it was expanded about a hundred years ago to now include four bedrooms (the kids love the loft bedroom), two bathrooms (one with a stacked Frigidaire washer and dryer), living room, dining area, entrance area, various closets, and so forth. Historic features include a period Rumford fireplace (with oven), exposed beams, and antique wooden floors. There’s a lovely 15-by16-foot deck out front, too. In sum, we loved the place.

Later that afternoon it was time for us to hit the road again and head home. As the Yankee Moseyer, we always seem to be on the move. But, oh, how we’d love to have settled for a while into one of those comfy chairs next to the windows overlooking Christmas Cove.

For details, contact Joseph Sortwell, LandVest, 23 Main St., Camden, ME 04843. 207-236-3543; jsortwell @landvest.com. Read classic HFS stories from our archives at: YankeeMagazine .com/house-for-sale. For more on the peninsulas of Midcoast Maine, see “A World of Their Own,” p. 82 in this issue.

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The GUIDE FOOD

Blueberry

COUNTRY

THE WILD-BLUEBERRY BARRENS OF DOWN EAST MAINE BECOME A CENTER OF PRODUCTION, COMMUNITY, AND CELEBRATION.

BY MOLLY SHUSTER

Photographs by KINDRA CLINEFF Food and Prop Styling by MOLLY SHUSTER

or a few weeks in August, the wild-blueberry season transforms the rocky land north of Bar Harbor into an all-hands-on-deck hub of frantic productivity. Beyond the coastline, past evergreen trees dotting the shore, green blueberry fields stretch into the distance. In acre after acre, pickers hunch over their rakes, sifting up berries and throwing them into big crates, while machines harvest the fruit in nearby fields. During this end-of-summer rush, the northern half of the state will produce more than 80 million pounds of wild blueberries.

Lobster may be the signature flavor of Vacationland, but here, the blueberry is king. About 45 minutes northwest of Bar Harbor, the town of Cherryfield is, ironically, the selfproclaimed “Blueberry Capital of the World.” Home to Wyman’s, the largest U.S. producer of wild blueberries, the town traces its name to the wild-cherry trees that once grew abundantly here. Today, locals have recast the moniker as a reference to the cherry-red flush of blueberry bushes in autumn. So much of the local economy depends on this crop—from the local producers of blueberry wine, to the restaurants selling blueberry pies, to the equipment suppliers and rake manufacturers—that it’s common to overhear locals inquiring after one another’s fields and harvests before asking about family.

This abundant love of wild blueberries culminates in the annual Wild Blueberry Festival in Machias, halfway between Cherryfield and the Canadian border. During the third weekend in August, the town hosts a blueberry jubilee, with pieeating contests, bake-offs, pancake breakfasts, fish-fry dinners, craft booths, and road races. The highlight is the always-soldout blueberry-themed musical production at Centre Street Congregational Church. Past performances include “The Big Blue Theory” and “In Lieu of Flowers, Send Blueberries.” Congregants of all ages make up the cast, and watching from the pews, it would appear that any resident who’s not actually up on stage must be in the audience cheering them on. “It’s a tradition, for sure,” says Kathy Winham, a former archaeologist, who, with her British husband, Peter, now runs The Englishman’s Bed & Breakfast in Cherryfield. “The whole festival is an institution for Machias and the entire county.”

It’s a lot of fuss over such a small berry. But wild blueberries are more than just a tasty summer fruit or a filler of pancakes and muffins. This is a mighty species, both in its importance to this community and in its ability to take root in such inhospitable terrain. One of just three native North American berries (cranberries and wild grapes also share the distinction, while other common contenders, like strawberries and raspberries, aren’t technically berries at all), it is indeed wild—unlike its morecommon counterpart, the plump and towering highbush blueberry. Wild Vaccinium angustifolium both the bush and the fruit—are about a third the size of their domesticated counterparts, and, as their name implies, they’re difficult to plant or transport, though determined gardeners with just the right blend of acidic soil and abundant sunshine may manage to grow them, if they’re lucky.

August is picking time in the barrens around Cherryfield, Maine. This harvest is destined for Wyman’s, the largest U.S. processor of wild blueberries.

In this way, notes Wyman’s CEO, Ed Flanagan, they’re more like a mineral resource than an agricultural crop; they’re either there or they’re not. All of Maine’s wild blueberries are part of an indigenous network of underground runners (or rhizomes) that grow along the rugged coastal lands of northern Maine, Atlantic Canada, and Quebec. This rocky landscape, affectionately known as “the barrens,” is the product of a glacial retreat that occurred more than 13,000 years ago, and its starkness seems to promise nothing but lichen and weeds. Yet tucked among the rocks, the low-lying bushes are bursting with tiny berries, stretching as far as the eye can see.

The barrens are vast, but nature can hardly keep pace with demand. Wild blueberries are lauded as a “superfood,” offering double the antioxidant power of highbush blueberries, with anti-inflammatory properties that hold promise for the treatment of cancer and Alzheimer’s disease. For Flanagan, feeding this supply chain is a delicate balance. The plants are biennial bearers: They produce fruit only every other year. And the company, which was founded in 1874 by Jasper Wyman, remains

Blueberry Dutch- Baby (recipe, p. 50)

Blueberry Buttermilk Tart (recipe, p. 50)

Blueberry Cobbler (recipe, p. 53)

WILL MOSES

small and family-owned, despite the ubiquity of those bright-blue Wyman’s bags in the frozen-foods aisle. So careful management is key. As Flanagan puts it, “We were doing this sustainability thing before we knew what the word meant.”

One major focus: funding research into honeybee preservation with Penn State and the University of Maine to understand the cause of colony-collapse disorder, and speaking out on the importance of pollinators to the U.S. food system. Because without pollinators, there would be no blueberries. And without blueberries, an essential culture would be lost. For farmers like Donny Jordan, it’s unthinkable. He’s retired now, after 40 years in the barrens. “But if I were 16,” he says, “I’d be right back there.”

If traveling to Maine isn’t on your itinerary, try these summer recipes, from classics like Blueberry Cobbler and Blueberry Molasses Cake to showstoppers like Blueberry Dutch-Baby, Blueberry Buttermilk Tart, and Pavlova with Blueberries & Lime Curd. Measurements are calibrated for the smaller wild blueberries, so if you’re using the larger highbush berries, simply increase the amount by about 25 percent. (For example, 1 cup wild would become 1¼ cups highbush.)

BLUEBERRY DUTCH-BABY

TOTAL TIME : 35 MINUTES ;

HANDS- ON TIME : 15 MINUTES

This oven-baked pancake has the drama of a soufflé without any of the stress. Bring it straight from the oven to the table for all to admire—it will deflate fast but remain slightly puffed and delicious.

1/2 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 cup whole milk

2 large eggs

2 tablespoons granulated sugar

1/8 teaspoon table salt

1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg

3 tablespoons unsalted butter

1/2 cup wild blueberries

(fresh or frozen)

Juice from 1/2 lemon

1 tablespoon confectioners’ sugar

Preheat your oven to 425° and set a rack to the lower position. Lightly beat the flour, milk, eggs, sugar, salt, and nutmeg. The batter will be a bit lumpy. Melt the butter in a 9-inch cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. Pour the batter into the heated skillet and sprinkle with blueberries. Place in the oven and bake until golden and puffed, about 20 minutes. Sprinkle with lemon juice and confectioners’ sugar. Serve immediately with maple syrup, if desired. Yield: 2 to 4 servings

BLUEBERRY BUTTERMILK TART

TOTAL TIME : 3 HOURS ;

HANDS- ON TIME : 45 MINUTES

The everyday elements of this tart are all elevated when married in this beautiful summer dessert. The filling must be chilled ahead of time, so this tart is perfect for making the morning before a dinner party; simply top with fresh blueberries when you’re ready to serve it.

FOR THE CRUST:

2 cups pecan halves

3/4 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 cup firmly packed light-brown sugar

1/4 teaspoon table salt

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, plus more for the pan

FOR THE FILLING:

1 1/2 teaspoons (1 package) gelatin

1 1/2 tablespoons cold water

1 cup heavy cream

1/4 cup granulated sugar

1 1/2 cups low-fat buttermilk

2 1/2 cups fresh blueberries (wild and highbush both work well here)

Preheat your oven to 350° and set a rack to the lower position. Butter a 10- to 11-inch tart pan with removable bottom and place on a rimmed baking sheet. Set aside.

Make the crust: Pulse the pecans in a food processor until finely ground. Add the flour, brown sugar, and salt, and pulse to combine. Transfer to a

Maine’s Wild Blueberry Festivals

The state’s blueberry festivals are great places to stock up on fresh fruit. The berries freeze beautifully: Simply arrange them in a single layer on baking sheets to freeze; then store in zip-top bags.

Wilton Blueberry Festival

AUGUST 5–6

Main St., Wilton 207-778-4726; wiltonbbf.com

Attractions include complimentary horse-drawn carriage rides, road races, boat tours, and a pancake breakfast.

Machias

Wild Blueberry Festival

AUGUST 16–21

Centre St., Machias 207-255-6665; machiasblueberry.com

Taking over downtown Machias, and centered at the Centre Street Congregational Church, this is the granddaddy of all blueberry fests, offering an annual blueberry-themed play, road races, cooking contests, and craft booths.

Rangeley Lake Blueberry Festival

AUGUST 18

Park Road, Rangeley 207-864-5571; rangeleymaine.com

Held in downtown Rangeley, this festival hosts some 60 vendors, including food, craft, and jewelry booths. Don’t miss the frog-jumping contest.

Union Fair

Maine Wild Blueberry Festival

AUGUST 20–27

Fairgrounds Lane, Union 207-785-3281; unionfair.org

Launched in 1959, today the Maine Wild Blueberry festival offers live music, entertainment, and an annual “Blueb erry Queen” contest. Pie-baking competitions, eating contests, and fireworks round out the offerings.

(recipe, p. 52)

Pavlova with Blueberries & Lime Curd

mixing bowl and stir in the melted butter until the mixture holds together. Press evenly into the bottom and sides of the tart pan. Bake until goldenbrown and fragrant, about 20 minutes. Cool completely.

Meanwhile, make the filling. Sprinkle the gelatin over the water to bloom. Place the cream and sugar in a small saucepan over medium heat. Heat, stirring occasionally, until the cream is warm and the sugar has dissolved. Remove from the heat and whisk the gelatin (which will be fairly solid) into the cream mixture until it has completely dissolved. Cool slightly; then stir into the buttermilk.

Pour the buttermilk mixture into the crust and refrigerate until chilled and set, at least 2 hours and up to 8 hours. When you’re ready to serve it (best the day you make it), top with blueberries.

Yield: 8 to 10 servings

PAVLOVA WITH BLUEBERRIES & LIME CURD

TOTAL TIME : 6 HOURS 15 MINUTES ;

ON TIME : 1 HOUR 10 MINUTES

It takes some time and planning, but each step is simple, and your efforts will be rewarded with a showstopping dessert. Meringue and lime curd can be made a day ahead of time.

FOR THE MERINGUE:

3 large egg whites (save yolks for lime curd)

3/4 cup granulated sugar

FOR THE LIME CURD:

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup fresh lime juice (from 4 to 6 limes)

Zest of 2 limes

3 large egg yolks

1 large egg

6 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter, cut into pieces

FOR THE STEWED BLUEBERRIES:

2 cups wild blueberries (fresh or frozen)

Juice from 1/2 lemon

2 tablespoons granulated sugar

TO ASSEMBLE:

1 1/4 cups heavy cream

Preheat your oven to 200° and set a rack to the middle position. Use a pencil to draw a 9-inch circle on a piece of parchment paper (a cake pan is a handy guide). Flip the parchment over, pencil side down, and place on a rimless baking sheet.

Whip the egg whites at medium speed until foamy. Add the sugar very slowly in a light, steady stream. Increase the speed and beat until you have stiff, glossy peaks. Using an offset spatula, spread the meringue onto the parchment so that you have a 9-inch round with a slight dip in the center. Bake 2 hours; then, without opening the oven door, turn off the heat and let the meringue cool at least 4 hours and up to overnight.

To make the curd, you’ll use a double boiler or a metal bowl that will sit securely in the top of a saucepan. Add a few inches of water, but check that the water won’t touch the bottom of the bowl. Bring the water to a simmer.

Whisk the sugar, lime juice, zest, egg yolks, and egg in the top of the double boiler off the heat. Place over the simmering water and stir continuously until the curd has thickened, about 10 minutes. Turn off the heat, but keep the bowl over the hot water. Add the butter, one piece at a time, allowing each piece to melt before adding the next.

Press the mixture through a finemesh sieve. Leave at room temperature, stirring occasionally, until cool. Place a piece of plastic wrap directly onto the curd and chill until ready to use.

Meanwhile, make the stewed blueberries. In a 2- to 3-quart saucepan, stir together the berries, lemon juice, and sugar. Set over medium heat and cook, stirring, until the mixture is bubbling

food | THE GUIDE

gently. Remove from the heat and set aside to cool to room temperature. (You can complete this step up to a day ahead; refrigerate in a bowl with a piece of plastic wrap pressed against the surface to prevent a skin forming.)

To assemble, beat the cream until you have soft peaks. Decoratively mound the whipped cream on the center of the meringue. Top with the lime curd and stewed blueberries. Serve immediately (best the day you make it). Yield: 6 to 8 servings

BLUEBERRY COBBLER

TOTAL TIME : 1 HOUR 10 MINUTES ;

HANDS- ON TIME : 25 MINUTES

For the traditionalist, this no-muss-nofuss cobbler is the ultimate cozy summer dessert. To truly indulge, top with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream.

2 cups plus 2 1/2 tablespoons all-purpose flour, divided

1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon table salt

6 cups wild blueberries (fresh or frozen)

1/2 cup granulated sugar

Zest and juice from 1/2 lemon

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 stick unsalted butter, chilled and cut into small pieces

1 1/3 cups buttermilk, plus more for brushing

Vanilla ice cream, for serving

Preheat your oven to 375°. Put 2 cups of the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl; whisk to combine. Toss the blueberries, sugar, lemon juice, zest, cinnamon, and remaining 2½ tablespoons of flour in an 8x8-inch (or 6-cup) baking dish.

Work the butter into the flour mixture until the mixture resembles coarse sand. Add the buttermilk and stir, just to combine. Spoon the dough onto the blueberry mixture so that the dough is evenly dispersed, but pockets

of blueberries peek out from below. Brush all over with buttermilk.

Bake until the biscuit topping is golden-brown and the blueberries are juicy and bubbling, about 45 minutes. Let cool slightly before serving. Best served warm with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream. Yield: 6 servings

BLUEBERRY MOLASSES CAKE

TOTAL TIME : 1 HOUR 20 MINUTES ; HANDS- ON TIME : 20 MINUTES

This classic Maine cake, rich with the flavor of two traditional ingredients, has a lovely vintage feel and plenty of zing. Perfect for breakfast or with an afternoon cup of tea.

2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for baking dish

1 teaspoon baking powder

2/3 cup molasses

2/3 cup boiling water

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/4 teaspoon table salt

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened, plus more for baking dish

1/2 cup light-brown sugar

2 eggs, at room temperature

2 cups wild blueberries (fresh or thawed frozen berries)

Preheat your oven to 350°. Butter and flour an 8x8-inch baking dish.

Whisk together the flour and baking powder. In a separate bowl, mix the molasses, water, baking soda, and salt.

Beat the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each. Stir in the molasses mixture. Add the flour mixture and stir just until incorporated. Add the blueberries and mix briefly to combine.

Bake until the cake is firm in the center when tapped with a finger, 50 minutes to 1 hour. Serve warm or at room temperature. Yield: 8 to 10 servings

ELECTRIC GRILLS

Flo’s Hot Dogs

A little red shack by the side of the road in York, Maine, serves some of New England’s most worth-the-wait franks.

NEDDICK

here’s a certain class of restaurant —not exclusive to New England, but right at home here—that’s known, even beloved, for its surly service. You go for a hot meal with a side of attitude—a server who suffers no fools, a little sass with your sauce. Think Durgin–Park or Dick’s Last Resort (a national chain), both located near the Boston tourist mecca of Quincy Market. In these places, you can be a glutton for food and punishment, and a few well-timed comebacks will earn your stripes with the front of the house.

Flo’s Hot Dogs, located in a little red shack on U.S. Route 1 in southern Maine—a building so diminutive that customers over 6 feet tall have to duck so they don’t graze the ceiling— was one such spot. Florence Stacy was famously quick to put an ill-mannered customer in his place (and they were mostly men in those days). But few dared talk back, because the hot dogs were just so good. To be barred from Flo’s was a grave banishment.

The mood’s been a little lighter since Flo passed away in 2000 at the age of 92. As she aged, her son, John, and daughter-in-law, Gail, took over, running the place for decades. Now Gail splits the shifts with her daughter, Kim, who is as sunny and calm a personality as ever served hundreds of hot dogs in an 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. shift. “My mom is a little more like Nana,” Kim says, as she lines up four hot dogs. “When I work with her, I sometimes have to say, ‘Mom, you can’t say that to people!’” But Kim says most of Flo’s grumpiness was a big act. “She was probably one of the most generous people you’d ever meet,” she says. And when Gail had

CAPE

to take an extended leave for ankle surgery earlier this year, her loyal fans and friends routinely stopped by to check on her progress.

Part of Flo’s lure was and continues to be the house relish, whose recipe came with the business that she, a widow with four children, bought in 1959. It was devised by the restaurant’s original owner, Robert Johnson, but has been modified over the years so that it now contains a multitude of ingredients. Sold by the jar for $7.95 online or at the shop, it includes onions, shallots, molasses, relish, vinegar, onion powder, “worcester sauce,” ketchup, and spices. The recipe is such a secret that Kim doesn’t even know it. “My dad put half of it in a safe-deposit box with instructions on where to find the other half,” she says.

Production is done at Pemberton’s Foods, a small gourmet sauce and copacking outfit up in Gray, Maine, and the result is mahogany brown, richly oniony, with just the right blend of tang and sweetness. Paired with the salty all-beef dog (from Old Neighborhood in Lynn, Massachusetts), a lashing of mayonnaise, and a dash of celery salt, it achieves a perfect harmony of flavor and texture, a combo called the “House Special.” You can also order your dog “Fully Loaded,” with a tangy pileup of mustard, green relish, Flo’s relish, onions, and celery salt.

Really, any custom combination is possible, though a sign at the counter reads, “Ketchup (for [children] under 15).” Order two House Special dogs and a chocolate milk or a Moxie and you have the ultimate Flo’s meal. As one customer says on his way out the door, “Who’d think chocolate milk and Moxie would be your best-sellers unless you’re from Maine?”

Lunch is still served from a tiny prep kitchen behind a narrow counter. The hot dogs are boiled in a kettle, and buns are steamed to cloud-like fluffiness in a custom metal box that’s been running for 16 years and is perpetually

on its last legs. Facing the counter, six octagonal wooden stools stand bolted to the floor. But there’s no room to sit and eat in the summer; the line snakes from the order window around the tiny room and well out the door. (Customers eat in their cars or retreat to picnic tables in the ample shade of a maple tree.) By the time most people reach the front, they’re hungry enough to down two or three dogs. Kim says the all-time record is 20. But the most memorable large order came from one

longtime customer a few years back: Against policy, Gail let him pre-order 120 hot dogs because the next day was his father’s funeral. His dad had made just a few requests for his memorial, and one of them was Flo’s hot dogs for all the guests. Really, he wanted them for the grandkids; he used to take them there when they were little. He thought it would help them say goodbye.

FLO’S HOT DOGS

1359 U.S. Route 1, Cape Neddick, ME. 800-255-8401; floshotdogs.com.

Hot dogs: $2.75. Soda: $1.25. Milk: $1.

BONUS!

See our picks for “Top 12 Hot Dogs in New England” at: YankeeMagazine.com/ Hot-Dogs

OPPOSITE : Flo’s “House Special” dog, topped by the family’s rich secret-recipe relish. THIS PAGE , FROM TOP : Gail Stacy, Flo’s daughterin-law, behind the counter; Florence Stacy served up dogs with a side of sass.

The GUIDE TRAVEL

WOLFEBORO

Wolfeboro Bay, just a block from Main Street, stretches out into Lake Winnipesaukee, edged by pleasure boats, comfortable homes, and a handy gas station for boaters on the fly.

Wolfeboro, New Hampshire

Is life a vacation if you live in America’s oldest summer resort?

BY ANNIE GRAVES

t may be the most magical name for a lake—and the bane of spelling bees—but if you’re lucky enough to live near Lake Winnipesaukee, then you’re lucky enough. This “beautiful water in a high place” is instantly recognizable on a New Hampshire map: the largest lake in the state and the third largest in New England. That’s 71 square miles of vacation fun (more than twice the land area of Manhattan), dotted with 260 islands. The circumference is scalloped with villages, cottages, and some very fancy retreats, and the water itself is crisscrossed by every flotation device, from paddleboards to the venerable M/S Mount Washington, a majestic 230-foot-long excursion ship. To call it a “popular” summer resort destination is a droll understatement.

Zoom in closer, though, and you’ll find the place where it all started: Wolfeboro (population 6,269). The nostalgia-tinged sign that greets you on the outskirts of this pretty town welcomes you to “The Oldest Summer Resort in America.” Incorporated in 1770, it stakes its claim based on an early mansion built by Governor John Wentworth on what eventually became Lake Wentworth, just east of Winnipesaukee.

Immediately we conjure images of relaxation infused by water and light; beamy porches and sailboats threading waves; bright cocktails by the harbor. A block from the lake, Main Street does an identity tango between beach town and arts colony, with enough ice cream outlets to boggle a toddler and a fine scattering of boutiques and art galleries. Plenty of beauty and charm to enchant celebrity tourists Drew Barrymore and Jimmy Fallon, and even, once upon a time, Prince Rainier and Princess Grace. Not to mention summer resident Mitt Romney. So what’s it really like to live in America’s oldest summer resort?

The Setting

“We’re like vacationers in our own town,” says Janet Kenty, sitting with her husband, Jay, at the Downtown Grille Café, overlooking Wolfeboro Bay. Retired newcomers who moved here two years ago, they’re admiring the shimmering waterfront that runs parallel to Main Street, with pleasure boats tethered to the docks, and the mailboat, the Sophie C., tied up in proximity to ducks, kayaks, Jet Skis, and a floating gas station. In the

DOUGLAS MERRIAM

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT : The Wright Museum’s arresting façade hints at an interior steeped in World War II; Captain Jim Morash pilots the 230-foot M/S Mount Washington cruise ship, stopping in Wolfeboro; a private dock at the Wolfeboro Inn overlooks the lake; relaxing comes easy on The Upper Deck at Jo Greens Garden Café.

distance, the pale-blue Belknap Mountains hover like a mirage. An adjacent gazebo hosts free summer concerts, and the benches in Cate Park insist that you linger. “There are no stop signs, just one blinking light somewhere, but I don’t know where,” Jay nods.

On the other side of Main Street, the bucolic 11-mile Cotton Valley Rail Trail disappears behind the Wolfeboro train station (today’s Chamber of Commerce), hugging Back Bay and funneling dogs, cyclists, runners, and baby carriages. For a quick dip, there’s Brewster Beach, just past Brewster Academy’s lovely in-town campus; this prep school has been a fixture since 1820.

What about those summer crowds?

“We go from a population of 6,000 to 30,000 during the months of July and August,” shrugs Steve Flagg, whose family has owned the Nordic Skier Sports shop since 1972, dispensing skis, rental bikes, and trail wisdom. That’s bound to cause congestion. “We find shortcuts, and parking is at a premium,” Janet Kenty agrees. “But we like driving through town for the same reason tourists do. People are happy, and not in a hurry.”

Social Scene

At the Lakes Region Newcomers Club, Janet notes, you don’t have to be a newbie to enjoy kayaking, knitting, skiing, or photography groups—or to join the club’s First Friday Breakfasts at the Wolfeboro Inn. Culture buffs have options that include volunteering at the Wright Museum—a moving tribute to World War II veterans—or pitching in at the New Hampshire Boat Museum’s vintage-vessel regatta. “There’s a strong sense of community,” Steve Flagg says. “People donate time and money, and even raised $300,000 to enhance the cross-country trails here. All of the trail clearing was done by volunteers.” Consequently, the countryside is crisscrossed with stateof-the-art ski trails that double as bike

All Massachusetts children 17 and younger are admitted for FREE! KINDRA CLINEFF

paths (and Steve’s got the maps to lead you there).

Eating Out

Before you pick a menu, order a sweeping view from one of the bustling cafés and restaurants on the waterfront. Delicate fish tacos at Garwoods might have jumped from lake to plate—the deck is a mere foot above water. And service at the uber-casual Dockside Grille couldn’t be friendlier or more deliciously fried. Inland, it’s a cinch to find gourmet coffee (Seven Suns), ice cream (Bailey’s Bubble, for starters), or freshly baked tarts cozying up to beachy gifts (Gatherings by Stella loona). Side streets offer goodies like Mise en Place, with Frenchinfused American fare that tempted former French president Nicolas Sarkozy, or Full Belli Deli, with super-big subs that filled up Jimmy Fallon.

Shopping

“I couldn’t do this if it weren’t for the summer crowds,” says Wolfeboro

native Jennifer Kalled, gesturing around her elegant Kalled Gallery. Walls glow with incandescent paintings, and blown-glass vases rise up from pedestals like flames. Roughly 200 artisans are represented, including Jennifer herself, whose bold jewelry— such as lace-agate earrings—snatches shards of color from otherworldly stones. Down the street, independent Country Bookseller invites a browse, and Black’s Paper & Gifts does its best to convey what “a store that has everything” should look like.

Real Estate

There was spirited debate at the Kalled Gallery about the state of real estate, but a quick glance at current for-sale properties revealed some intriguing possibilities: an antique Cape on 53 acres for $375,000; a two-bedroom waterfront home on Lake Wentworth for $449,900; a vintage villager with perennial gardens for $239,000; and a furnished cottage on Cow Island for $239,000.

Resident Perks

If you don’t own a boat, you could pretend you have three: $150 buys an unlimited daytime season pass on the M/S Mount Washington, the M/V Doris E., and the Sophie C. mailboat (603366-5531). In the wintertime, residents can ski for $5 a day at communityowned Abenaki Ski Area (adult season pass, $45). “We’ve got the oldest, smallest ski area in the country,” Steve Flagg says proudly, and it’s just three miles from downtown. (Gunstock Mountain Resort is only a half-hour away, too.)

Getting Your Bearings

A quick walk from town, the historic Wolfeboro Inn (1812) has its own beach and a lively bar/restaurant, Wolfe’s Tavern. From $159/night. 90 North Main St. 603-569-3016; wolfeboroinn .com

More photos at: YankeeMagazine.com/ Wolfeboro. Visit in the fall, too: Yankee Magazine.com/Lakes-Foliage-Drive

Passengers aboard the M/S Mount Washing ton enjoy some of the best lake views in town.

EDITORS’ CHOICE

BEST of NEW ENGLAND

Reconnect with past Editors’ Choice winners and learn for yourself why they received Yankee Magazine’s highest accolade.

BEST BICULTURAL INTERPRETATION PLIMOTH PLANTATION PLYMOUTH, MA

A must-see New England living-history museum which tells the story of the 17th-century English Plymouth Colony and its shared history with Native people. Exhibits include the Village, Wampanoag Homesite, Mayflower II, Plimoth Grist Mill, Craft Center and Plimoth Bread Co.

508-746-1622 plimoth.org

BEST FARM STAY LIBERTY HILL FARM INN ROCHESTER, VT

Welcoming guests from around the world since 1984. People are drawn to Liberty Hill Farm by Beth’s farmfresh meals, the allure of the peace and quiet of the heart of Vermont, and the opportunity to engage in farm chores and milk a cow!

802-767-3926 libertyhillfarm.com

BEST FAIRYTALE LUNCH PICKITY PLACE MASON, NH

Experience the enchanting cottage that inspired Elizabeth Orton Jones’s Little Golden Books version of Little Red Riding Hood. Untouched by time, this is a mecca for gardeners, epicureans and anyone looking for inspiration and relaxation. Have a Pickity Day!

603-878-1151

pickityplace.com

BEST PET-FRIENDLY OVERNIGHT CHURCH LANDING MILL FALLS AT THE LAKE MEREDITH, NH

Nestled on the shore of Lake Winnipesaukee are four charming inns linked together by a waterfront boardwalk. Walk to our 5 restaurants, the Cascade Spa and 11 shops that are adjacent to a vibrant Main Street community. Life is Better at the Lake!

603-279-7006 millfalls.com

BEST BEACH TOWN

HAMPTON BEACH VILLAGE DISTRICT

HAMPTON, NH

Rediscover Hampton Beach, rated #1 in the United States for water quality. Free activities include fireworks, world class sand sculpting, talent and volleyball competitions, and Children’s Week.

603-926-8717

hamptonbeach.org

BEST DESIGNER ROOM THE HARRASEEKET INN FREEPORT, ME

A family-owned, AAA Four Diamond hotel featuring two restaurants, fireplaces, indoor pool, select pet-friendly rooms. Book direct and get free breakfast and tea. Complimentary transportation from Amtrak Downeaster station. Two blocks to L.L.Bean. Best shopping in NE.

800-342-6423

harraseeketinn.com

BEST COMMUNITY THEATER BRADLEY PLAYHOUSE PUTNAM, CT

The Bradley Playhouse is a 114 year-old vaudeville theater in the heart of the Putnam antiques and restaurant district in the “Quiet Corner” of Northeastern Connecticut. The next show in the season is Mary Poppins, opening August 5th.

860-928-7887

thebradleyplayhouse.org

BEST COLLEGE-TOWN LODGING THE BRUNSWICK INN BRUNSWICK, ME

Authentic charm and elegance in the heart of Brunswick. Sixteen beautiful guest rooms offer modern amenities with the personal service only a small inn can provide.

Complimentary fresh breakfast made with local ingredients served by a roaring fire. Full bar.

800-299-4914

brunswickbnb.com

BEST of NEW ENGLAND

BOOTHBAY RAILWAY BOOTHBAY, ME

Where history moves you! Vintage train and Model T rides, artisan demonstrations, more than 60 antique automobiles and trucks plus a new exhibit with 200+ early outboard engines. All aboard for special events, classes and workshops throughout the season!

207-633-4727 railwayvillage.org

BEST CANDLE COMPANY EXPERIENCE KRINGLE CANDLE CO. BERNARDSTON, MA

This premiere shopping destination offers Kringle’s handcrafted candles and more. At its store and Country Barn, find home décor, specialty foods, chocolates, gifts, toys, women’s boutique and holiday treasures. Enjoy exquisite indoor or outdoor dining at The Farm Table. Open daily 10 a.m.- 6 p.m.

413-648-3077

kringlecandle.com

BEST CRUISE CROSS SOUND FERRY SERVICES NEW LONDON, CT

Want a brilliant way to spend a couple of hours? Cross Sound Ferry’s lighthouse cruises from New London aboard the highspeed SEA JET bring you up close to lighthouses, historic forts and ritzy mansions! The 2016 season runs through November.

860-444-4620

lighthouse.cruises

Each year, the editors of Yankee Magazine scour the six-state region to nd the best attractions, dining, lodging, and shopping for inclusion in our “Best of New England” awards. Enjoy this collection of current and past winners.

To search the complete list of winners while you are on the go, download our free “Best of New England” app in iTunes: apple.co/1zVCfci or Google Play.

BEST GALLERY HARVEST GOLD GALLERY CENTER LOVELL, ME

Owners of award-winning Harvest Gold Jewelry exhibit their gold and tourmaline fine jewelry and curate a collection of American fine art and crafts at one of the most beautiful locations in western Maine.

207-925-6502

harvestgoldgallery.com

BEST INSIDER TOUR MAINE MARITIME MUSEUM BATH, ME

Home to the only surviving shipyard where wooden sailing ships were built, the Boatshop keeps traditional boatbuilding alive. Explore our 20-acre waterfront campus, and view some of Maine’s most charming lighthouses from the water on one of the daily cruises.

207-443-1316

mainemaritimemuseum.com

BEST COLONIAL DINING SALEM CROSS INN WEST BROOKFIELD, MA

Experience food cooked as it should be . . . enjoy creatively prepared, fresh from the garden, seasonal fare while relaxing in our restored 1705 farmhouse on 600 acres of tranquil New England countryside. Fireplace cooking featured November thru April. 260 West Main Street.

508-867-2345

salemcrossinn.com

Reconnect with past Editors’ Choice winners and learn for yourself

BEST CAR & MOTORCYCLE COLLECTION SPRINGFIELD MUSEUMS SPRINGFIELD, MA

Four nationally-recognized museums, one location, one admission! See Indian Motorcycles, samurai armor, dinosaur fossils, paintings by Monet and Homer, and the Seymour Planetarium, plus the Dr. Seuss National Memorial Sculpture Garden honoring Springfield’s own Theodor Seuss Geisel. Easy access from I-90/I-91. 413-263-6800

springfieldmuseums.org

BEST VINTAGE DECOR

WHITE HOME COLLECTIONS

WILTON, NH

Come explore this quaint 1860’s farmhouse nestled in beautiful Wilton, NH. There are three floors, multiple barn stalls and a potting shed all bursting at the seams with a unique and wonderful blend of new, antiques and vintage finds.

603-654-7363

whitehomecollections.com

BEST FARM-TO-TABLE DINING WOODS HILL TABLE CONCORD, MA

The guiding principle of this restaurant is to support small farms that practice earth-friendly farming and pasturing practices. By sourcing and celebrating the benefits of fresh local food, our chef creates delicious, flavorful, nutrient-dense dishes.

978-369-6300

woodshilltable.com

BEST FAMILY INN THE NONANTUM RESORT KENNEBUNKPORT, ME

Traditions begin here. Enjoy the seasonal family activities program, kayak & bike rentals, outdoor heated pool, magical fairy garden, scenic lobster boat cruises, and trolley tours! Close to the beaches and Dock Square shops. TripAdvisor Certificate of Excellence winner. 888-205-1555

nonantumresort.com

BEST FAMILY-STYLE CHICKEN WRIGHT'S FARM RESTAURANT HARRISVILLE, RI

Wright’s Farm Restaurant serves family-style chicken dinners. Spend quality time with the ones you love, dining, shopping, walking the grounds or relaxing in the lounge. There’s something for everyone in the family to enjoy.

401-769-2856

wrightsfarm.com

BEST OUTER-CAPE OASIS SAGE INN & LOUNGE PROVINCETOWN, MA

Tranquility in the heart of Provincetown, Sage Inn & Lounge blends history with contemporary sensibilities and zen-like touches. Recharge in a renovated room or the intimate Lounge, serving an eclectic menu of Cape Cod’s best cocktails and global cuisine featuring local ingredients.

508-487-6424

sageinnptown.com

BEST TASTE OF THE ALPS HAFLINGER HAUS RESTAURANT AND INN ADAMS, MA

Voted Best of the Berkshires for three years running. Familyowned and operated bringing the best of Austrian and American cuisines. Enjoy your meal in the fireplaced dining room, the casual tavern, or the outdoor Biergarten.

413-743-2221

haflingerhaus.com

BEST ICE CREAM FLAVORS GRASS ROOTS ICE CREAM GRANBY, CT

Grass Roots Ice Cream features impeccably fresh, and wickedly creative ice cream flavors. Owned by a family of artists flavoring their handmade local cream with natural extracts, and natural colors. Lusciously irresistible and located in Granby’s adorable old general store on the town green.

860-653-6303

facebook.com/

GrassRootsCreamery

why they received Yankee Magazine’s highest accolade.

PHOTO: BOB DENNIS

Out About

THE SOUNDS OF SUMMER 2016

RHODE ISLAND

NEWPORT FOLK FESTIVAL

JULY 22–24

Since 1959, the Newport Folk Festival has held a unique place in America’s musical and cultural history, including as a hub for the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s and as the site of Bob Dylan’s famous switch to electric guitar in 1965. Iconic performers like Joan Baez, James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, and Arlo Guthrie got their first major exposure on the Newport stage. Shows sell out well in advance, so plan ahead for next year. Newport. 800-745-3000; newportfolk.org

Yankee ’s guide to top events this season …

CONNECTICUT

25TH GREATER HARTFORD FESTIVAL OF JAZZ

JULY 15–17

In 1992, after 25 years of running the popular Monday Night Jazz series at Bushnell Park, bassist Paul Brown gathered some talented friends together and launched the Greater Hartford Festival of Jazz, which this year celebrates its own 25th anniversary. Over the past quarter-century, the festival has grown into the largest free jazz event in New England, playing host to many of the biggest names in the genre, along with up-andcomers from the New England scene. Hartford. hartfordjazz.com

MAINE

50TH BAR HARBOR MUSIC FESTIVAL

JULY 3–31

You’re certain to hear something new at the Bar Harbor Music Festival, nationally recognized for its mission of providing essential performance opportunities for outstanding upand-coming talent. The outdoor concert at Acadia National Park on July 27 and the Festival Gala on July 31 are always special highlights. Bar Harbor. 207-288-5744; barharbormusicfestival.org

MASSACHUSETTS LOWELL FOLK FESTIVAL

JULY 29–31

For three years in the late 1980s, Lowell played host to the National Folk Festival. The success of those events inspired the 1990 creation of the Lowell Folk Festival, which has

been bringing topnotch artists and performers to Dutton Street Dance Pavilion and Boarding House Park ever since. Lowell. 978-275-1764; lowellfolkfestival.org

NEW HAMPSHIRE NEW HAMPSHIRE MUSIC FESTIVAL

JULY 5–AUGUST 4

This four-week summer music festival, now in its 64th year, honors the tradition of symphonic, choral, and chamber music while exploring new artistic paths. Founded in 1952 on Melody Island in Lake Winnipesaukee, the event has made its home at Plymouth State University for most of the past two decades. See the website for this year’s lineup. Plymouth/ Gilford. 603-238-9007; nhmf.org

VERMONT SUMMER FESTIVALON-THE-GREEN

JULY 10–16

Bring a blanket and claim some space on the grass for Vermont’s popular, free, family music event. More than 500 musicians, ranging from the very local to the internationally acclaimed, have taken the stage in the bucolic town center over the past 38 years. Saturday’s street-dance finale is a don’t-miss event. Middlebury. festivalonthegreen.org

To see more of our favorite fairs, festivals, shows, and other happenings around New England this season, visit: YankeeMagazine.com/Summer-Events

For more of the events you love around New England, see pp. 66–72.

Folk-music fans gather in Newport’s Fort Adams State Park on the shore of Newport Harbor.

CONNECTICUT

THROUGH SEPT. 11: FALLS VILLAGE, Music Mountain 2016. The 87th installment of this festival features a season-long run of Saturday jazz and Sunday classical concerts, culminating with an “In Memoriam” performance by the Amernet String Quartet on the anniversary of the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks. 860-8247126; musicmountain.org

JULY 4: MYSTIC, Independence Day Celebration. An exciting day kicks off with morning boat races on the Mystic River and military exercises with the state’s Volunteer Infantry on the village green. The midday parade is followed by an elegant concert featuring the Mystic Silver Cornet Band. Enjoy an old-fashioned spelling bee for kids, lawn games, picnic, theatrical performances, games with costumed reenactors, and more. 860-572-0711; mysticseaport.org

JULY 7–9: UNIONVILLE, 122nd Tunxis Hose Carnival & Fireman’s Parade. A local tradition at Union School, and the volunteer firefighters’ biggest fundraiser. Ride the rides till you’re dizzy; indulge in fried dough and burgers; and take a chance on a raffle. Don’t miss the evening fireworks on Friday. tunxishose.com

JULY 7–10: NORTH STONINGTON, North Stonington Agricultural Fair. Providing familyoriented entertainment, good food, and fun at the fairgrounds on Wyassup Road. See tractor and oxen pulls; view beautiful arts and crafts; learn about farm life; and enjoy the midway rides. 860-535-3956; northstoningtonfair.org

JULY 15–17: GUILFORD, 59th Annual Craft Expo. A premier exhibition of handmade contemporary American crafts featuring decorative,

functional, and traditional items of exquisite quality, all displayed amid the beauty of the scenic and historic town green. 203-4535947; guilfordartcenter.org/expo

JULY 16: EAST LYME, Celebrate East Lyme Street Festival. A mile of Niantic’s Main Street is closed to cars to make way for this celebration by the sea, featuring food, fun, vendors, live music, and a spectacular fireworks show by the bay. 860-536-4941; celebrateeastlyme.com

JULY 29–30: NEW MILFORD, 49th New Milford Village Fair Days. Free fun awaits on the spectacular village green. Enjoy nearly 200 vendor and community booths offering crafts, antiques, a variety of food items, live entertainment, bingo, kids’ activities, and more. 860-354-6080; newmilford-chamber.com

JULY 30–31: OLD SAYBROOK, Annual Arts & Crafts Festival. For more than half a century, this spe-

cial event has been a summer mainstay, with more than 145 artists and crafters putting their wares on display. oldsaybrookchamber.com

AUG. 12–14: LEBANON, Lebanon Country Fair. Now in its 57th year, this true community event returns to the fairgrounds. Don’t miss the music, the competitions, and the kids’ events, plus fine food offerings, all sponsored by the local Lions Club. 860-6426012; lebanoncountryfair.org

AUG. 13–14: MYSTIC, Outdoor Art Festival. The largest show of its kind in New England, this event features 250 fine artists exhibiting oils, watercolors, photography, pastels, sculptures, and acrylics, plus another 60 or so crafters offering creative works for sale. With good food, kids’ activities, and more. 860-572-9578; mysticchamber.org

PHOTO: LES GARDNER, QUABOAG POND, BROOKFIELD

MASSACHUSETTS

AUG. 20: MILFORD, Milford Oyster Festival. Celebrate the town’s legacy with a wide variety of oysters to sample, plus a shucking contest, while bands take the stage at Fowler Park. This year’s headliner is Blue Oyster Cult. Artisans, kids’ rides and games, food, and much more round out the family fun. 203878-5363; milfordoysterfestival.com

AUG. 25–28: BROOKLYN, Brooklyn Fair. The food, the animals, the midway, the entertainment, the arts and crafts, the contests (including a skillet toss!)—it’s all here at the area’s oldest agricultural festival. 860-7790012; brooklynfair.org

MAINE

JULY 3: BLUE HILL, 26th Annual Blue Hill Pops Concert. Sponsored by the Bagaduce Lending Library and held at George Stevens Academy gym, this year’s show is headlined by fiddler Andy Stein, who has portrayed the “Powdermilk Biscuit” fiddler on A Prairie Home Companion for more than 20 years. 207-374-5454; bagaducemusic.org

JULY 8–10: LISBON, Moxie Festival. Join in for three days of “wicked cool” Moxie fun, as this most unusual soft drink is celebrated in its home state. Plenty to drink, of course, along with a concert in the park, a car show, a recipe contest, a parade, a 5K race, an ATV charity ride, and more. 207-353-3000 x122; moxiefestival.com

JULY 8–17: WATERVILLE, 19th Maine International Film Festival. Representing the best of both American independent and world cinema, this 10-day festival showcases nearly 100 films, spotlighting some of New England’s most exciting and innovative moviemakers, many of whom will be on hand. 207-861-8138; miff.org

JULY 15–17: BELFAST, 10th Maine Celtic Celebration. Scottish bagpipes, Highland games, a Celtic-breeds dog show, road race, the wacky “Cheese Rolling Championship” competition, and more await at these familyoriented festivities on the waterfront. 207338-2692; mainecelticcelebration.com

JULY 16–SEPT. 5: PORT CLYDE, Barbara Ernst Prey: In Search of America. Prey’s paintings are featured in collections around the world, including those of the Smithsonian American Art Museum and the White House. This exhibition at Barbara Prey Projects explores memory, art history, and the influence of Color Field painters on her work. 207-372-8087; barbarapreyprojects.com

JULY 29–30: RANGELEY, Logging Festival & Parade. Enjoy an authentic Maine bean-hole dinner, music, logging exhibits and logging horse demonstration, equipment displays, woodsmen competitions, crafts, chainsawcarving demos, and more at the Maine Forestry Museum Fairgrounds, plus a parade on Main Street. 207-864-3939; rlrlm.org

JULY 29–AUG. 7: BANGOR, Bangor State Fair. The fairgrounds play host to one of the state’s oldest and largest events, featuring 4-H competitions (including a dog show, a sheep show, and horse judging), a midway, crafts, commercial exhibits, a flower show, and more. bangorstatefair.com

JULY 30: SKOWHEGAN, Artisan Bread Fair. Visit the Skowhegan State Fairgrounds and sample delicious breads, pastries, and Maine-made foods, including pizza from

Pure Maine Family

Rockwell and Realism in an Abstract World

a wood-fired oven. Find baking books, antique kitchen tools, and lovely linens, plus enjoy live music and chatting with the baking experts from King Arthur Flour. kneading conference.com

AUG. 6–7: OWLS HEAD, Wings & Wheels Spectacular. Classic cars, steam engines, and assorted aerobatic aircraft performances highlight the Owls Head Transportation Museum’s most impressive summer show. 207-594-4418; owlshead.org

AUG. 11–20: PORTLAND, Portland Chamber Music Festival. Enjoy the intimate setting of the Abromson Center at the University of Southern Maine as nationally acclaimed performers present a wide range of repertoires, including the music of modern-day composers. 800-838-3006; pcmf.org

AUG. 12–14, SEPT. 9–11: BAR HARBOR, Bar Harbor Fine Arts Festival. The grounds of the lovely Bar Harbor Hotel offer a wonderful seaside setting for the exhibit booths of the more than 50 juried artists displaying their fine works. marcfink.com/shows

MASSACHUSETTS

THROUGH AUG. 28: BOSTON, From the Sea to the Mountains: The Trustees’ 125th Anniversary. The Leventhal Map Center at Boston Public Library hosts an exhibit of rare maps, photos, and historic items honoring The Trustees’ history of stewardship, conservation, and preservation of more than 100 cultural and natural properties across the Bay State. 978921-1944; thetrustees.org

JULY 1–3: GREAT BARRINGTON, 15th Berkshires Arts Festival. Premier artisans from across the country display their works at Ski Butternut, while offering workshops, demos, music, kids’ activities, and more. 845-355-2400; berkshiresartsfestival.com

JULY 2–4: STURBRIDGE, Independence Day Celebration. Don’t miss the spectacular fireworks display over Old Sturbridge Village. Visitors can sign a giant Declaration of Independence and play 1830s-style “base ball”; come evening, enjoy music, magic, family games, and more. 508-347-0323; osv.org

JULY 2–29: NEWBURYPORT, Coastal Haven Designer House Show. Formerly known as the Old Walsh Farm, Coastal Haven is a classic Colonial-style home built in the early 1800s. Once slated for demolition, this waterfront estate has instead been given a complete room-by-room makeover by multiple designers. Tour proceeds benefit the Museum of Old Newbury. 978-462-2681; newburyhistory.org

JULY 8–10: GREENFIELD, 30th Green River Festival. Come for the music—on multiple stages—and the dancing, but don’t miss the delicious local food offerings, craft show, hot-air balloon launches, and more, on the grounds of Greenfield Community College. 413-341-3317; greenriverfestival.com

JULY 14–17: AMHERST, Yidstock: The Festival of New Yiddish Music. Bringing together the top names in klezmer and Yiddish music, from legendary performers to new artists who are taking the music in genre-crossing directions. Plus talks on topics ranging from Yiddish music in the Soviet Union to the history of the knish, as well as music and dance workshops. 413-256-4900; yiddish bookcenter.org

JULY 16: FLORENCE, Glasgow Lands Scottish Festival. Now in its 23rd year of presenting family entertainment in the form of Celtic rock and pipe-band music, athletic and dance competitions, children’s games, animals, a clan village, harpers, spinners, weavers, and Scottish foods and products to Look Park. 413-862-8095; glasgowlands.org

JULY 18–24: BARNSTABLE, Barnstable County Fair. A Cape Cod tradition since 1844, this classic New England fair offers animal shows, a petting zoo, 4-H demonstrations, horticulture displays, live music, arts and crafts, a whirlwind of fun foods, and the thrill of Midway amusement rides. barnstable countyfair.org

JULY 30–AUG. 6: WOODS HOLE, 25th Woods Hole Film Festival. An eight-day showcase of independent film featuring daily screenings, workshops, panel discussions, readings, parties, awards, and more. 508-495-3456; woodsholefilmfestival.org

AUG. 4–7: NEW BEDFORD, 102nd Feast of the Blessed Sacrament. New England’s largest ethnic feast is held at Madeira Field and offers plenty of delicious Portuguese and American fare, live music and entertainment, carnival rides and the largest parade in New Bedford. portuguesefeast.com

AUG. 6–7: STURBRIDGE, Redcoats & Rebels. Old Sturbridge Village presents the region’s largest military reenactment, with nearly 1,000 soldiers portraying British, Irish, Spanish, Scottish, French, and Colonial troops. See the Village transformed into a military camp from the time of the War for Independence, and learn what it was really like for those who fought to win America’s freedoms. 508-347-3362; osv.org

AUG. 19–28: MARSHFIELD, 149th Marshfield Fair. The Marshfield Fairgrounds serves up a classic agricultural and horticultural event with demonstrations, seminars, crafts, a midway, livestock, contests, and more. 781834-6629; marshfieldfair.org

AUG. 20–21: SALEM, 34th Antique & Classic Boat Festival. View vintage motor yachts and sailboats at Brewer Hawthorne Cove Marina. Tour the vessels, meet the crews, browse the crafts, and enjoy the live music. Don’t miss the Blessing of the Fleet and the boat parade on Sunday. 617-666-8530; boatfestival.org

NEW HAMPSHIRE

JULY 2–3: GILFORD, 4th of July Weekend Craft Fair at Gunstock. Gunstock Mountain Resort hosts more than 100 exhibitors of fine jewelry, wearable art, wooden crafts, quilts, gourmet foods, glass art, floral arrangements, and more. Plus live music and indoor/outdoor family activities. 603-5284014; joycescraftshows.com

JULY 4: LITTLETON, Bishop’s 40th Birthday. Founded in 1976 during our national bicentennial, Bishop’s Homemade Ice Cream is a beloved Granite State tradition. Stop by and say hello and enjoy a scoop or two of this small-batch, premium product—or a frappe, sundae, frozen yogurt, or sorbet—all made fresh daily on site. 603-444-6039; bishops homemadeicecream.com

JULY 15–16: BRADFORD, Lettvin Chamber Music Series. A tradition since the 1990s, when Ted Lettvin performed a benefit to advance the restoration of the Center Meet-

Open Daily 10 am – 5 pm

Mount Sunapee Resort

Newbury, NH

Over 200 Craftsmen

Activities for Kids

Exhibitions

Demonstrations

Hands-on Workshops

NEW Tasting Tent Free Parking

NecklacebyKathleen Dustin

For details and tickets: nhcrafts.org

GOODSPEED MUSICALS

inghouse. This year’s series serves up two nights of performances by Ronald Lantz (violin), Laura Kargul (piano), and the Goldenberg Duo (piano and violin). lettvinchamber musicseries.org

JULY 16–17: NEWBURY, Artists Weekend at The Fells. A gathering of prominent New England artists will be on site to capture the inspirational beauty of The Fells Historic Estate & Gardens over a weekend offering music, demos, a children’s art table, refreshments, and a “wet paint” sale. 603-763-4789; thefells.org

JULY 21–24: STRATHAM, 49th Stratham Fair. Stratham Hill Park provides the setting for this long-running, traditional county fair. Enjoy live entertainment, 4-H exhibits and activities, midway rides, arts and crafts, and the crowning of Miss Stratham Fair. 603772-4977; strathamfair.com

JULY 23: NEW LONDON, 50th Garden Club Antique Show & Sale. Bring an item for appraisal, or shop the 60 or so dealers offering a mix of treasures, from collectibles to fine furnishings, on the town green. Homemade lunch and snacks are available, plus perennial plants and flower arrangements, too. 603526-8994; newlondongardenclub.org

JULY 30: CANTERBURY, 58th Canterbury Fair. Old-fashioned family fun featuring games on the green, farm animals, an antiques mart, juried crafters, demonstrations, a dunking booth, road races, and more, all in the town center. canterburyfair.com

AUG. 4–7: THORNTON, Pemi Valley Bluegrass Festival. Enjoy music in the mountains at the Sugar Shack Campground with a bevy of performers, including the award-winning Gibson Brothers, plus workshops for kids and adults, food concessions, and more. 603-7266005; pemivalleybluegrass.com

AUG. 11–13: MANCHESTER, 59th Annual New Hampshire Antiques Show. Explore the finds of more than 60 dealers, all arranged in room settings at the Radisson Hotel. Among the offerings: country and formal furniture, clocks, folk art, paintings and prints, textiles, woodenware, glassware, pottery and ceramics, early lighting, and more. 603-876-4080; nhada.org

AUG. 14: PETERBOROUGH, MacDowell Colony Medal Day. The nation’s oldest and largest artists’ colony opens its grounds to the public for just one day each year. Tour studios and meet the artists in residence, picnic on the grounds, and celebrate the contributions of Pulitzer Prize–winning novelist Toni Morrison, this year’s recipient of the Edward MacDowell Medal for achievement in the arts. 603-924-3886; macdowellcolony.org

AUG. 19–21: CORNISH, Cornish Fair. A familyoriented agricultural fair held on Town House Road. Local 4-Hers compete with sheep, ponies, llamas, rabbits, cattle, and more, plus you’ll find flea and farmers’ markets, an art show, helicopter rides, a midway, music, and the largest dairy show in New Hampshire. 603-675-5714; cornishnhfair.com

AUG. 20–21: JACKSON, White Mountain Art & Artisan Festival. Jackson Village Park hosts some 40 juried artisans showcasing their works. Peruse the items for sale while enjoying fine food offerings, live music, and kids’ craft activities too. 603-383-9356; jacksonnh.com

AUG. 21: HENNIKER, Fire on the Mountain Chili Fest. Area restaurants and amateur chili makers compete for top prizes at this Rotary fund-

raiser at Pats Peak Ski Area. Sample their wares while enjoying a classic car show, live entertainment, kids’ activities, locally made products, beer, a burgers-and-hot-dogs barbecue, and more. chilinewhampshire.org

AUG. 26–28: COLEBROOK, 25th North Country Moose Festival. The area pays homage to one of the giants of the forest. A classic car show, moose-calling contests, and tasty moose burgers are sure to be found—plus so much more. 603-237-8939; northcountrychamber.org

AUG. 27–28: MEREDITH, Lakes Region Fine Arts & Crafts Festival. This outdoor juried festival is now in its 37th year. Featuring high-quality works of more than 80 artists and crafters, the event is held at the Meredith Village Shops and Mill Falls Marketplace, with Main Street closed to vehicle traffic. 603-279-6121; meredithareachamber.com/artfest.php

RHODE ISLAND

JULY 1, 8, 15, 22, 29; AUG. 5, 12, 19, 26: CHARLESTOWN, Star Gazing Night at Frosty Drew Observatory. Each Friday (weather permitting), the center’s observatory and telescopes are open for free stargazing and astronomy. Starting at dusk (or 6:00 p.m., whichever is later), this event often runs late, sometimes till dawn! 401-364-9508; frostydrew.org

JULY 4: TIVERTON, 4th of July Antiques Show. Some 40 dealers gather to showcase an interesting variety of vintage and antique items on the inviting grounds of the Meeting House at Tiverton Four Corners. ferguson-darruda.com

JULY 9–10: WICKFORD, 54th Wickford Art Festival. The tree-lined streets of the downtown are filled with 200 fine artisans exhibiting their work. Shop for one-of-a-kind items, and take a chance on a raffle. 401-294-6840; wickfordart.org

JULY 10–19: NEWPORT, Campbell’s Hall of Fame Tennis Championships. Take in a game at the only pro event in North America played on grass courts. On Saturday, the Hall of Fame will induct its 2016 class. 401-849-6053; tennisfame.com

JULY 20–AUG. 7: WESTERLY, Shakespeare in the Park. The Bard’s epic tragedy Hamlet is among literature’s best-known works. Bring a blanket and settle in under the stars for this free summertime exclusive at Wilcox Park. 401-596-7909; thecolonialtheater.org

JULY 20–AUG. 13: WAKEFIELD, “The Wizard of Oz.” One of the greatest family musicals of all time comes to the Theatre by the Sea stage. This celebration of the iconic 1939 MGM film brings the story to life, as Dorothy, Toto, the Cowardly Lion, the Tin Man, and the Scarecrow follow the yellow brick road, accompanied by magical special effects, dazzling choreography, and all the classic songs. 401-782-8587; theatrebythesea.com

JULY 22–24: MIDDLETOWN, Newport Antiques Show. St. George’s School hosts a premier gathering of more than 40 of the country’s top dealers. Attend an expert-led lecture, and search for treasures among the offerings: paintings, furniture, folk art, jewelry, and much more. 401-846-2669; newportantique show.com

JULY 27, AUG. 31: NEWPORT, Windmill Wednesday. Have you always wanted to see the inside of the 1812 Prescott Farm windmill? During this open house, you’ll explore the machine’s inner workings and learn about the importance

Enjoy nationally acclaimed musicals in the scenic Connecticut River Valley

Ludlow’s Okemo Mountain Resort rises above the town and offers a variety year-round activities. Its Adventure Zone makes it a family-friendly destination for a long weekend or a whole week. Of particular interest is the Timber Ripper Mountain Coaster, where drivers control the speed of sled-like cars as they whizz down 3,100 feet of track on a scenic trip through alpine forests, bringing them up close to Okemo’s Jackson Gore. 802-228-1600 • Okemo.com

Scenic Route 100 Byway runs through parts of the Okemo Valley, along the east edge of the Green Mountains. This 138-mile byway has a wide range of historic, cultural, scenic, and recreational resources. It connects some of the region’s best golf courses, and offers extraordinary lakes for fishing, boating and swimming. Scenic Route 100 is also full of rich history and is home to dozens of cultural landmarks that make it a truly unique journey. Scenic100byway.com

Known for providing “The Most Romantic Experience” in South Central Vermont, Inn

Victoria is a luxuriously appointed Victorian B&B, circa 1850.

Overnight guests can make reservations for their popular High Tea on the weekends, at no extra cost. Owners & purveyors, Penny & Dan Cote, encourage all their guests to enjoy the local “village life.” Tour Chester, the prettiest painted village in the Northeast. Walk nearby villages for their country stores, cheese trails, antique trails, picturesque covered bridges. 802-875-4288 • InnVictoria.com

Looking for a flannel nightie, a manual typewriter, and old time candies … all in one store? That barely begins to describe the diversity of goods found at The Vermont Country Store, a 70-year old Weston, Vermont institution. Owned by Lyman Orton and sons Cabot, Gardner, and Eliot—7th & 8th generation Vermonters, and 4th & 5th generation storekeepers—it certainly lives up to its tagline, The Purveyors of the Practical and Hard-to-Find. Go explore yourself to see what kinds of treasures you can find.

800-547-7849 • VermontCountryStore.com

Grafton, Vermont is one of New England’s most picturesque villages. Many of its beautiful and historic buildings have been restored by its residents and the Windham Foundation, so today’s town looks much as it did in the mid-1800s. The entire village is on the National Register of Historic places and many of its homes and buildings are individually registered. From the village center lit by street lamps reminiscent of gas lights to the two churches and the Grafton Inn, Grafton is a storybook setting for quintessential Vermont dreams.

Don’tMiss: Cars and motorcycles from the 1910s to the 1980s will be represented and judged at the Okemo Valley Antique & Classic Car/Motorcycle Show. Car enthusiasts and casual fans have the opportunity to view the antique cars, motorcycles & classic cars and vote for their favorite in the “People’s Choice” competition. Located on the beautiful grounds of Fletcher Farm School for the Arts and Crafts in Ludlow. Saturday, August 27 and Sunday, August 28th. YourPlaceinVermont.com

PACK YOUR BAGS • OKEMO

Actually Fly a bird!

of grist milling on Aquidneck Island. Plus johnnycake tasting, hands-on activities for kids, and live music; picnic tables are provided, so bring your dinner and enjoy a meal with a view. 401-846-4152; newportrestoration.org

JULY 30–31: TIVERTON, Cultural Survival Summer Bazaar. Peruse the unique artwork and crafts of participating indigenous artists and cooperatives, while enjoying live music, performances, and presentations at Tiverton Four Corners Art Center. bazaar.culturalsurvival.org

Call Nancy Cowan 603-464-6213

Email: falconers@comcast.net

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AUG. 5–7: CUMBERLAND, Cumberland Fest. Live music, amusement rides, fireworks, fair food, craft vendors, a car show, and more at Diamond Hill State Park, with proceeds benefiting area youth sports. cumberlandfest.org

AUG. 6: WESTERLY/PAWCATUCK, River Glow. Enjoy the sight of 37 floating bonfires illuminating the Pawcatuck River. Take part in hayrides through downtown and enjoy live music in three locations, plus children’s activities, shopping specials, and much more. 401-5967761; oceanchamber.org

AUG. 9–14: PROVIDENCE/NEWPORT, Rhode Island International Film Festival. At several venues, this event offers gala celebrations, premiere screenings, VIP guests, industry seminars, educational programs, and award ceremonies. 401-861-4445; rifilmfest.org

AUG. 17–21: RICHMOND, Washington County Fair. The state’s largest agricultural event, with concerts, a giant midway, horse and tractor pulls, arts and crafts, a farm museum, food, and more, all at the county fairgrounds. 401539-7042; washingtoncountyfair-ri.com

AUG. 19–21: PAWTUCKET, 89th Grecian Festival. The best of Greece is right here at Assumption of the Virgin Mary Greek Orthodox Church. Sample traditional foods and pastries, shop the indoor agora, and enjoy performances by a traditional Greek dance troupe. 401-725-3127; greekfestivalri.com

AUG. 27–28: NEWPORT, Art Festival. The second leg of this twice-a-summer event turns historic Bowen’s Wharf into an outdoor gallery of creative endeavor, a perfect spot for a day of strolling and shopping. festivalfete.com

VERMONT

THROUGH NOV. 5: BENNINGTON & SHELBURNE, Grandma Moses: American Modern. This show at both the Shelburne Museum and the Bennington Museum reexamines through a modernist lens the work of renowned folk artist Grandma Moses, who didn’t begin painting in earnest until age 78. 802-985-3346; shelburnemuseum.org

JULY 2, AUG. 20: LUDLOW, Arts & Craft Festival. Choose one of two dates to shop the quality wares of more than 90 fine artists and crafters. Held at Fletcher Farm School, you’ll find pottery, glass, oil and watercolor paintings, carvings, dried flowers, jewelry, great food, and more. 802-228-8770; fletcherfarm.org

JULY 4: WOODSTOCK, Old Vermont 4th. Celebrate Independence Day at Billings Farm & Museum. It’s patriotic family fun featuring the reading of the Declaration of Independence, historic debates, wagon rides, 1890 flag making, spelling bees, an egg toss, and more. 802-457-2355; billingsfarm.org

JULY 8–10: STOWE, Hot Air Balloon Festival. Enjoy a sunrise or sunset launch as more than 25 hot-air balloons take flight over the beautiful scenery at Stoweflake Mountain Resort.

Sign up for a balloon ride or just enjoy the sights and the other festivities, including live music, delicious food, and a beer-and-wine garden. 802-253-7355; stoweflake.com

JULY 16–AUG. 14: MARLBORO, 66th Annual Marlboro Music Concerts. Talented musicians rehearse for weeks to provide dynamic and memorable performances on Saturday evenings and Sunday afternoons, plus two Friday night dates. Reserve tickets in advance. 215569-4690; marlboromusic.org

JULY 17: SHELBURNE, Vermont Cheesemakers Festival. Celebrate the state’s famed specialties—small-batch cheeses and fresh, local foods—and meet the artisans who make them. Spend a summer day along the shores of Lake Champlain at the historic Shelburne Farms Coach Barn. 866-261-8595; vtcheesefest.com

JULY 28–31: BURLINGTON, Lake Champlain Maritime Festival. Enjoy a final salute to summer with a celebration along the waterfront, featuring live music, paddleboard rides, an antique-boat show, a 5K run/walk, crafts for sale, international foods, kids’ exhibits, and more. 802-482-3313; lcmfestival.com

JULY 29–31: WOODSTOCK, Bookstock. Meet prize-winning and emerging writers among 20-plus regional authors as they present their work and talk with audiences in intimate venues throughout the village center. Enjoy perusing items at the used-and-vintage book sale, plus kids’ activities, food, and live music on the picturesque town green. bookstockvt.org

AUG. 7: BURLINGTON, Lake Champlain Dragon Boat Festival. Waterfront Park hosts a daylong celebration of community, camara derie, and competition. Some 2,000 paddlers man the 41-foot boats for fun, fitness, and fundraising. Join a team or just watch and cheer. 802-9995478; ridethedragon.org

AUG. 12–14: STOWE, 59th Antique & Classic Car Show. Nichols Field will be filled with more than 200 classic and antique vehicles as well as flea-market vendors—a must for car enthusiasts and auto-history buffs. vtauto.org

AUG. 14: BROWNINGTON, Old Stone House Day. At the Old Stone House Museum, cele brate Orleans County history with demonstrations of traditional skills, plus food, music, a barn dance, and museum tours. Peruse the farmers’ market and pie auction, and let the younger set enjoy the children’s activities. 802-754-2022; oldstonehousemuseum.org

AUG. 20–21: TUNBRIDGE, 42nd Annual Lippitt Country Show. At Tunbridge Fairgrounds, this family event showcases the many talents of a special breed of Morgan horse. Competitions include carriage driving, jumping, trotting races, dressage, and more. lippittclub.net

AUG. 26–SEPT. 4: ESSEX JUNCTION, Champlain Valley Fair. Celebrate agriculture at the Champlain Valley Expo fairgrounds with circus acts, shopping, gardening exhibits, great food, blueribbon competitions, horse shows, livestock, and concerts. 802-878-5545; cvexpo.org

Call ahead to confirm dates, times, and possible admission fees.

To submit an event online, go to: YankeeMagazine.com/submit-an-event

To find more events in your area, visit: YankeeMagazine.com/events-home

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Fun at the

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Cottage Place on Squam Lake

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Historic oceanfront inn with guest rooms featuring fireplaces, ocean views, decks and Jacuzzis. T here are two ocean-view restaurants. Cellar Pub offers live entertainment on weekends. Golf, tennis, fishing, outlet shopping and sandy beaches close by. Weddings and meeting facilities available. One hour from Boston.

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Ogunquit Chamber of Commerce

Ogunquit, ME

gunquit, Maine, our Beautiful Place by the Sea, is a premier destination where you can experience miles of beautiful sandy beaches, quaint seaport coves, fine dining, superior accommodations, a selection of unique shops, theaters, museums, and businesses in one convenient location.

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The Trellis House

Ogunquit, ME

An oasis of tranquility awaits you just steps from Ogunquit’s famed Marginal Way. With its sophisticated flair and magnificent water views, you will find yourself immersed in a wonderful blend of Maine charm and laid-back beach luxury.

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on a totally undeveloped mountain lake, offering boating, sailing, kayaking, canoeing, hiking, wildlife & bird watching and a full American plan. The ultimate vacation spot.

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MASSACHUSETTS

Russell Orchards Farm & Winery

Ipswich, MA

Point Sebago Resort

Sebago, ME

Point Sebago, a 775-acre outdoor family resort in Southern Maine offers a mile of sandy beach on Sebago L ake, a 5-star activities program, nightly entertainment, an 18-hole golf course, and on-site restaurants and lounges.

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Family-owned farm and unique store featuring their own produce, local goodies and ice cream. Animal barnyard, u-pick fruits in season. Specializing in awardwinning fruit wines, with wine tastings Fri-Sun. From-scratch bakery serving cider donuts and fruit pies. A beloved tradition for families and a must-see destination.

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Photo by R ay Casbourn Photography

Farm Stays

Go back to the land and let the rhythms of rural life restore you.

BY KIM KNOX BECKIUS

t takes an open mind to stay at a working farm—a willingness to embrace both the peace of your surroundings and the unpredictability of each day’s developments. What happens on a farm 365 days a year is largely unscripted and exhilaratingly real. You don’t have to get your hands dirty, but this is your chance to help sustain a way of life that is increasingly challenging. Observing the labor and the love it takes to raise plants and animals will convince you: Real superheroes wear Carhartt, not capes.

Hartman’s Herb Farm

Mint, catnip, horehound … The Central Massachusetts property that Lynn and Peter Hartman purchased in the mid-1970s had been abandoned since 1920, but heirloom herbs still thrived. So Lynn dug them up, took them to a sale on the Barre common, and … sold out. After a Christmas 1989 chimney fire destroyed their beloved house, bankers weren’t keen on financing a fledgling farm. So the Hartmans opened a five-room B&B in the midst of their now-booming herbal and floral enterprise. “I realize what a gift it is to have people stay with us and support our way of life,” says Lynn, whose expertise in historic gardening makes her a sought-after workshop instructor. Time your stay for whenever an herbal dinner, a peaceful night, and a farm-fresh breakfast are the cure-all you crave. Barre, Massachusetts. 978-355-2015; hartmansherbfarm.com

The Inn at East Hill Farm

Gripping a smartphone is impossible while you’re milking a cow, riding a horse, kneading bread, contra dancing, or fishing beneath a hen for eggs. With unplugged resort amenities such as indoor and outdoor pools, stunning views of New Hampshire’s Mount Monadnock, and hands-on experiences for all ages—plus family-style meals and freshly baked snacks included—a selfsufficient farm is a bonus. Dave and Sally Adams, who met while working here in 1962, are turning the reins over to their children. But Dave is still passionate about the animals. “We

TOP : Liberty Hill’s five-story barn (a.k.a. “Habitat for Bovinity”), dating from the 1780s.

LEFT : A delighted young visitor feeds one of the farm’s sweet Holstein calves.

might as well feed breeds that need some help,” he says, of the farm’s focus on rare heritage livestock. Troy, New Hampshire. 603-242-6495; east-hillfarm.com

Liberty Hill Farm & Inn

Sometimes even grownups need to run home to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, a love-filled farmstead where kids feed rambunctious calves and jump in the hay, bathrooms and chores are shared, and stories are swapped over bountiful, family-style meals. Beth and Bob Kennett stumbled upon this 1780s property while honeymooning in Vermont in 1975, and their prayers that it would one day be theirs were answered four years later. In 1984, they diversified by welcoming guests. When you observe their 100-cow milking operation, now part of the Cabot cooperative, you’ll feel

a new appreciation for your own life’s labors—and every block of cheese. Rochester, Vermont. 802-767-3926; liberty hillfarm.com

Royalsborough Inn at the Bagley House

DaVinci the alpaca handles PR for this country escape with seven guest rooms, most within the oldest house in Durham, Maine. He’ll smile for pictures, walk on a lead, and even lean in for a kiss—if you hold a carrot in your mouth. Alpacas weren’t in the plans in 2005 when Jim and Marianne Roberts abandoned careers in Massachusetts to try innkeeping in Maine—but today their fiber farm entices travelers to the Freeport area. Jim shows the little ones how to brush the goats and collect eggs for breakfast, while Marianne’s culinary training, massage license, and knitting knowledge nourish, soothe, and inspire

the grownups. Durham, Maine. 207353-6372; royalsboroughinn.com

Trevin Farms

Making a go of goat farming isn’t easy. But for owner and chef Troy Peabody—an urban transplant enticed by the serenity of rural Vermont—caring for three dozen Nubian goats and their annual output of kids, plus oxen, chickens, pigs, and a pair of Percherons, doesn’t seem like work at all. Welcoming guests to stay at the modern farmhouse, assist with chores, and partake of farm-fresh breakfasts helps with the economics. Book the cheesemaking package, and you’ll hand-milk Liberty, Elsa, and the rest of “the girls” (who know and respond to their names) on Friday; join Peabody in the kitchen on Saturday; and leave with a creamy chèvre on Sunday. Sudbury, Vermont. 802-623-6473; trevinfarms.com

Keeler Tavern Museum

Come for the cannonball, but stay for the stories.

BY JOE BILLS

n Ridgefield, Connecticut, three centuries of stories are told at the Keeler Tavern, but it’s the cannonball that visitors usually want to see first.

A gambrel-roofed building on Main Street, the Keeler Tavern celebrates 50 years as a livinghistory museum in 2016. “We’re known for the cannonball, but this property has amazing stories from every era of its existence—local narratives that provide a window on national events,” says Hildi Grob, Keeler’s executive director. “Our challenge is determining how best to tell them.” To tell those other stories, the museum has expanded its educational offerings, re interpreted its displays, and deployed costumed guides. But ever since a fateful day back in 1777, this has been “the Cannonball House.”

Ridgefield had been a town for just five years when Benjamin Hoyt—who as a child had survived the 1704 French and Indian raid on Deerfield, Massachusetts—built his home here in 1713. The door of Hoyt’s home, now displayed at the entrance to the taproom, was reinforced with vertical and horizontal boards, a design known as an “Indian door,” intended to withstand tomahawk attacks.

In the early 1770s, Hoyt’s grandson, Timothy Keeler, and his wife, Esther, expanded the house and opened it as T. Keeler’s Inn, creating what quickly became a true town center: an inn for travelers (Ridgefield was 14 hours by

LEFT, FROM TOP : The property dates from 1713 and became an inn in 1772; Keeler Tavern interpreters host summer programs of hands-on kids’ activities, including storytelling and a reenactment of the Battle of Ridgefield.

TOP INSET : The infamous Brit ish cannonball, in place since 1777.

MACKLIN READ/THE RIDGEFIELD PRESS (KEELER KIDS); COURTESY KEELER TAVERN MUSEUM (CANNONBALL, EXTERIOR)

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stagecoach from Manhattan), a bar for locals, and, before long, a rallying point for Revolutionary sentiment. Political loyalty in Ridgefield was divided in the 1770s, but Keeler was a staunch proponent of American independence and was rumored to be forging musket balls in his basement. Perhaps reacting to those rumors, British troops returning from a raid in Danbury fired their cannons on the inn on April 21, 1777, ripping into the building with enough velocity to move it on its foundation. One of those shots wedged itself in a corner beam, where it remains to this day, hidden beneath a removable square of siding, the defining exhibit.

This bit of history, and everything that followed, would have been lost had the Brits followed through on their plan to torch the inn. Some fast talking by Keeler’s uncle, a Tory sympathizer

who lived next door—and downwind— saved it. “Later, his uncle expected thanks,” says local historian Charlie Pankenier. “But Keeler was reportedly having none of that, replying that he’d be damned if he’d ever thank a Tory for anything. He gave thanks to God and the north wind instead.”

In 1805, Keeler became the town’s second postmaster. The tiny post office that served the town for 50 years remains intact in what is essentially a cupboard under the taproom stairs. Upstairs, trav-

elers’ bedrooms give a feel for the accommodations of the period, which included shared space on rope beds with reed-stuffed mattresses. Not all of the items in the museum are from the inn itself, but they’re typical of the furnishings it would have contained.

Passing from one generation of the family to the next, the business became W. Keeler’s Hotel, and then the Resseguie Hotel. During some restoration work, the journals of Anna Marie Resseguie, Timothy Keeler’s granddaughter, were discovered behind the kitchen’s beehive oven, a state-of-the-art innovation when it was added to “Esther’s Kitchen” in the 1790s. The Keeler Tavern Preservation Society published Resseguie’s journal in 1993. Her accounts of life during the Civil War are full of insight. “Her descriptions of battles and people are in many cases better than the newspapers’,” Pankenier says. “They’re a treasure.”

When the railroad came to Ridgefield in 1870, the town was “discovered” by wealthy New Yorkers. Among the new arrivals was architect Cass Gilbert, whose work included the U.S. Supreme Court in Washington, D.C., and the Woolworth building in New York. In 1907, Gilbert and his wife bought the old Keeler Tavern. The Gilberts were the embodiment of the Gilded Age in Ridgefield, modernizing and expanding the house and gardens to accommodate larger, and more elegant, social gatherings. The house remained in the Gilbert family until 1957 and opened as a museum 10 years later.

Come for the cannonball—but stick around for the rest of the story.

132 Main St., Ridgefield, CT. 203-438-5485; keelertavern museum.org. See our picks for the best five sites of this period in New England history: Yankee Magazine.com/Revolutionary-War

KEELER TAVERN MUSEUM

British troops fired on the inn on April 21, 1777. One of those shots wedged itself in a corner beam, where it remains.

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A WORLD of their own

THE WILDLY BEAUTIFUL PENINSULAS OF MIDCOAST MAINE INVITE AMBLING AND STOPPING … AND RETURNING AGAIN AND AGAIN.

by Annie Graves

PHOTOGRAPHS BY SARA GRAY

BY ANNIE GRAVES

idway down the western side of Harpswell Peninsula, the choppy blue water is spotted with two islands, John and Joe, named for a long-gone shipbuilder’s sons. “I’m not partial, but of all the peninsulas, this is the best,” declares Albert Allen, standing on his family-owned wharf at Lookout Point, where Allen’s Seafood sells fresh lobsters, crabs, and clams, with a side order of impossibly lovely island views, shimmering water, and a picturesque jumble of shacks, barns, bunkers, and traps.

We’re at the start of a five-peninsula-hopping expedition that begins just over a half-hour north of Portland, where a series of tentacles dangles down into Casco Bay. Harpswell, Phippsburg, Georgetown, Boothbay, Pemaquid: names that sound like fingers plucking strings, like wooden ships. We’ve left U.S. Route 1 at our backs, heading south to the fierce Atlantic on our first skinny peninsula. Maybe it’s the nature of peninsulas: Neither mainland nor island, separate yet connected, but already it feels as though we’re adrift in time.

The next days will be the perfect collusion of “ambling” crossed with the notion of “by chance.”

If it’s open and looks inviting, we’ll stop. If a road winds seaward, we’ll go down it.

To land’s end and back, over and over and over.

THIS PAGE , FROM TOP : Schooner Eastwind sails into Boothbay Harbor at dusk; the meandering Giant’s Stairs Trail on Bailey Island; Gina Longbottom, co-owner of Five Islands Lobster in Georgetown, serves up freshly steamed fare. OPPOSITE : Walking from Popham Beach to Fox Island at low tide, beachgoers are rewarded with misty views of Seguin Island.

Harpswell

PENINSULA

he Allens built this wharf in 1956, and Albert’s stepdad, Dain, 79, began lobstering here when he was 5. Sporting an Allen’s Seafood cap, he grins, “I’ve done a little bit of everything and haven’t had to work a day yet.” Most mornings he’s here by 5:00 a.m. and out on the water by 7:00, trailed by Mr. Wrinkles, his 10-year-old pug. Neither has any plans to retire.

“I’ve got a perfectly good boat,” Dain says, “and I’m putting together another one over they-ah.” And yes, he talks that way.

“The man’s never going to give up; he’s a local legend,” Albert says proudly. “His wrists have been broken so many times from working so hard, but he’s rebuilding that boat,” and he nods at the hulk resting nearby on land.

A breeze blows up the road, pushing us a short distance to The Harpswell Inn, where Dick and Anne Moseley have owned this 1761 landmark for the past 10 years. Anne grew up and has deep roots in Harpswell. “I’m never giving up my point,” she says. (Though the inn is for sale, their “other” house is just across the street.) Breakfast is 8:00 to 9:00, no fooling around, when Anne’s famous blueberry cake will appear.

Meanwhile, there’s supper to be had. Erica’s Seafood, on Basin Point, is near to closing, but the shack’s still hopping when we arrive at 7:00 p.m., blue umbrellas raised over picnic tables and a pier loaded with yellow lobster traps in reach. Rather than rush, we cross the parking lot to the Dolphin

Mr. Wrinkles accompanied Dain Allen on his daily lobster runs for Allen’s Seafood in Harpswell. (Shortly after this photo was taken, Dain passed away.) OPPOSITE : Rocking chairs on the porch of The Harpswell Inn invite contemplation of Lookout Point and Middle Bay.

‘I’VE DONE A LITTLE BIT OF EVERYTHING AND HAVEN’T HAD TO WORK A DAY YET.’

Admiral Robert E. Peary designed his summer home on Eagle Island to resemble a ship; Peary’s small wooden kitchen harks back to the early 1900s; a flotilla prepares to depart H2Outfitters on Bailey Island; the Marie L. heads to Peary’s house in Casco Bay.

Marina & Restaurant’s indoor dining room—same view, related family. “Hope you’re enjoying the sunset,” beams owner Mimi Saxton, as if she cooked it up specially. Light bathes the sailboats in deepening gold; six puffs of juicy local scallops materialize.

Next morning, we’ll return to the marina to catch the Marie L. to Eagle Island, for the short boat ride to Robert E. Peary’s summer home. Buoys flash by, tethered to invisible lobster traps below, and on the horizon the island rounds like a bowler hat. Peary built his house to look like a ship (he was a civil engineer before he became a famous Arctic explorer), and it’s decked out with the fascinating flotsam of an extraordinary life: narwhal tusks that look like unicorn horns; the megaphone that he used to yell at his dogs (in “naughty” Inuit) on nearby Upper Flag Island.

HARPSWELL: THE ISLANDS

Peninsulas are for slow driving—about 25 mph, if we’re taking the pulse—so after exploring Admiral Robert E. Peary’s Eagle Island, we trek north, in order to turn around and head south again, this time to Harpswell’s islands: Great, Orrs, and Bailey. Soon we’re at H2Outfi tters, a kayak-rental center where a few years back we paddled these waters near the Cribstone Bridge linking Orrs and Bailey, and a bald eagle flew so close we could feel its beating wings.

The bridge is lacy granite, stacked like kids’ blocks, the only one of its kind in the world. It’s also the backdrop for Morse’s Cribstone Grill, a shingled cottage draped with buoys on the Bailey Island side of the bridge. Outdoor tables line the pier, and a server is fending off a seagull. Then, “He got a crabmeat roll!” a kid sitting at the table next to us shouts.

“The crabs have been really good lately,” our server nods.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” I reply, invoking When Harry Met Sally ’s infamous line. Everyone’s eager to share peninsula favorites, and we gather recommendations. “It’s a misnomer that Mainers are taciturn,” another customer notes. “Once they start talking, they don’t stop.”

We do reach land’s end, however, at the tip of Bailey Island, where there’s a spectacular view and a handsome sailboat rounding the point. We share the beauty with a gift shop, a statue dedicated to Maine fi shermen, and a healthy bed of poison ivy, posted: “Grown in Maine, 100% Natural, Sold Here.”

PENINSULA Phippsburg

ust past Bath, Route 209 South twists by lobster shacks, aging boats in backyards, and flashes of salt marsh that expand into vast plains, greener than any field. And when the road takes a turn, there’s no major sign, more like a big roadside Post-It, announcing: Popham Beach State Park.

Certainly it’s no preparation for the Saharan plain of sand that shimmers and spreads for three fearless miles. A whistle shrieks and a lifeguard races by, frantically waving at four waders struggling to reach the temptingly nearby island, water swirling around their thighs. Fox Island Closed Due to Incoming Tides reads the sign they apparently ignored in the parking lot. Chastised, all turn back. Chunks of driftwood stumps lie strewn on the beach; the sand seems molded into tiny silent waves.

If you don’t know how to eat a lobster, Spinney’s Restaurant, three miles away in the shadow of Fort Popham, on the banks of the Kennebec River, offers an instruction chart. You can also absorb visual pointers on how to build a spectacular driftwood fence, which is all that separates us from the sand and water. Bathrooms are labeled Buoys and Gulls (“You want the mermaid, hon”); the wood interior is draped with sea paraphernalia; and the haddock chowder is addictively good. Chunks of fish, potatoes, and a reddish tang of paprika: A second cup feels inevitable.

Civil War–era Fort Popham is weird and wonderful, like the bottom half of a more modern-day Colosseum. All archways, tunnels, and half-moon curves, it’s a haunting relic that echoes with children’s shouts and offers shade to fishermen casting their lines. The view across the water to Georgetown foreshadows our next stop, which is another poetic truth of peninsulas: You’re always looking over to the next point of land.

From Fox Island, Popham Beach spreads out like a mirage.

TOP, FROM LEFT : Clinton Wallace hauls lobsters on Phippsburg’s West Point pier; visitors explore Civil War–era Fort Popham, at the mouth of the Kennebec River; the mouthwatering catch at Spinney’s, on Popham Beach.

BOTTOM RIGHT : Guests at Sebasco Estates hop aboard the Ruth, moored in the distance, to sightsee.

PENINSULA Georgetown

oveside B&B in Georgetown feels like a secret tucked down a lane, overlooking Sheepscot Bay. Gardens edge the shingled house and cottage that Tom and Carolyn Church have brought back to life; our deck overlooks a verdant lawn sloping to Gotts Cove. In the morning we linger over strawberry shortcake and a mix of scrambled eggs with goat cheese, red fingerling potatoes, bacon, arugula, and nasturtiums. “Less schmoozing, more schlepping, those are my instructions,” Tom says, before setting down the coffeepot and joining the lively talk between tables. “The thing about Maine,” he says, “you begin to let go.”

Naturally, he has a few suggestions: Five Islands Lobster Co. and Reid State Park, Maine’s first state-owned saltwater beach. “Each of the fingers [peninsulas] has its own personality,” Carolyn observes. “Topographically they may be similar, but Georgetown is the wildest. You couldn’t get here until the early days of the 20th century—it wasn’t served by the bridge.” (Nice, too, that we can see across the water to Southport Island, where Rachel Carson built her summer cottage in 1953 and found inspiration for her environmental classic Silent Spring, and where her ashes are scattered. “Here at last returned to the sea,” reads the bronze marker.)

Reid State Park is the perfect place to walk off breakfast. Distractingly beautiful, its Half Mile Beach is mounded with smooth stones, like slumbering elephants; beach roses crowd the sand; golden tidepools are edged with algae; and Mile Beach

curves like a smile. The convergence of colors—sand, sea, stone, and sky— is a palette of perfect paint chips for creating your own oceanfront room. If time seems to slow down on the pen-

insulas, you could say that it stops on the beaches.

That’s not the only thing that stops. “I can’t feel my legs!” a delighted teen, up to her waist in the sea, announces

Reid State Park’s distracting beauty encompasses Atlantic views, large dunes, and miles of sand.

to her brother. Ethan, a lifeguard who trains at Mile Beach every morning, sometimes in a wetsuit, confirms that today’s late-June water temp is a frosty 50 degrees. (Popham, he says, is warmer.) So is Mile Beach really a mile? It doesn’t look it. “Mile-ish,” he smiles, “but almost two miles with all three beaches combined.”

Post-beach, we succumb to the tiny Post Office Gallery, brimming with the work of four local artists, from wood-fired pottery to landscapes (cards, too). I’m admiring Lea Peterson’s color-splashed portrait of a lobsterman at Five Islands Lobster Co., a lively wharf/eatery where families crowd picnic tables, butter dripping from fingers and chins, celebrating the day’s catch. “He’s over there right now, working on his pots, cleaning them up,” she says of the lobsterman. Small peninsula: Paint or be painted.

Frankly, it would probably be a peninsular crime to slink past Georgetown Pottery, an institution since 1972. The porch groans with pots and bowls, and in the studio, you can

watch the artisans at work. Owner Jeff Peters doesn’t look like a ceramics mogul—he’s busy lifting a heavy tray of mugs—but this is the mother lode of pottery. Room after room displays sinks, lamps, clocks, anything that

can be rendered in clay. The patterns are pure Maine—blueberries, lighthouses, birches filled with light. It’s the best kind of success story: Guy starts off in a one-room log cabin (sound familiar?) and makes good.

ABOVE : Amy puts the finishing touches on a birch bowl at Georgetown Pottery. BELOW : A lobsterman at Five Islands lowers bait into his boat before heading out at daybreak.

‘THE THING ABOUT MAINE ... YOU BEGIN TO LET GO.’

Chairs at Coveside B&B in Georgetown overlook a misty scene, with lobster boats docked just offshore.

BOOTHBAY

HARBOR IS A CELEBRATION OF WIND, SAILS, AND WATER.

PENINSULA Boothbay

riving feels effortless with 360 degrees of classic scenery. We turn off Route 27 toward Boothbay Harbor, passing Wildcat Creek, patches of woods, and the Boothbay Playhouse, keeping an eye out for glints of water. It’s a busier stretch than anything we’ve seen so far, but a fun contrast. Our room at the Spruce Point Inn overlooks Boothbay’s bluerthan-blue harbor—and it’s Windjammer Days, a full-on celebration of wind, sails, and water, in a town that needs no excuse to celebrate any of the above.

The inn’s motorboat, helmed by Captain Richard Baines, runs guests into Boothbay Harbor from 10:00 to 6:00. As we skim the water, he points out Ram Island Light, a bald eagle on Mouse Island, and Cuckold’s Lighthouse, a B&B. Among his recommendations? Lobster Dock for lobster rolls, Down East Ice Cream Factory for the cold stuff, and Blue Moon Café for breakfast. It’s morning, so we saunter into Blue Moon. Smells like fresh blueberry muffins. “Fred just made ’em,” the woman behind the counter tells us. She points to a photo on the wall from SKI magazine that reads Fred Munro . “And now you know everything I do,” she adds.

Well, the man of mystery makes a mean breakfast. “This is the best French toast I’ve ever had in my life!” exclaims a customer, polishing off his “Texas Toast,” a delirious mash-up of pecan crisp and French toast. Peoplewatching is in a dead heat with Fred’s food: The café’s deck overlooks Pier 8, hub central for Balmy Days Cruises, Burnt Island Lighthouse Tours, whale watches, and puffin cruises.

You can cross the harbor via the longest wooden footbridge in the U.S. A charming, wood-shingled house dangles off the bridge, perched on pillars: the 1902 Bridgehouse. A sign on the door says it’s for sale. At that moment, a man sets up a precarious ladder and begins touching up the red window trim. We shout hello, and in short order we’re inside Allan Miller’s shipshape shack, admiring the gleaming wood interior and the Adirondack chairs on the back deck, facing a long view out across the boat-strewn harbor. There’s no quirkier or more inviting waterfront property.

But when we learn that Allan also owns Pepe’s Café, the “oldest eating house” in Key West, it clicks. All the best coastal vacation towns feel like a cross between Provincetown and Key West—a mix of liveliness and looks— and Boothbay Harbor fits the bill. With no shortage of cafés, restaurants, and shops, there’s also enough beauty to stop you cold.

ABOVE : Kevin Colby helms the Bay Lady, a sightseeing Friendship sloop, seen in her full glory, OPPOSITE . BELOW : Lively cafés, shops, and outdoor adventure make Boothbay Harbor the hub of the peninsula.

PENINSULA Pemaquid

epending on whom you ask, the Native American word Pemaquid means “situated far out” or “long point.” Either is perfectly suited to Rachel Carson’s peninsula, where the groundbreaking conservationist lived and studied tidepools, and where the Rachel Carson Salt Pond Preserve lives on, just north of New Harbor, on Route 32, on Muscongus Bay.

Of all the peninsulas, Pemaquid is the one that most reminds me of a sailor’s knot. Roads curl and loop around; you may think you’re headed to Pemaquid Harbor, but somehow you wind up in South Bristol. Which, by the way, is a fantastic little harbor town, buoyed by water on both sides of a bridge that’s tight with buildings clinging like barnacles, including Maggie’s Fishmarket and rustic Osier’s Wharf for lobsters, clams, and a crunchy friedhaddock sandwich (“Eat Here or Take Out”).

Turn around and try again, and this time it’s a toss-up which way to go: left to Pemaquid Beach or right to Colonial Pemaquid, with reconstructed Fort William Henry, on a site that saw its first fort built in 1677. A handsome Colonial farm from the 1700s houses the archaeology lab, and a museum displays artifacts dug from the surrounding area, dating to the early 17th century. Paddlers can launch a kayak from the public landing into the Pemaquid River; experienced kayakers can cross John’s Bay and skim past South Bristol’s rock-perched cottages or circle Witch Island, with a chance to spot osprey and seals. Or … turn back and stretch out on Bristol’s long, curving Pemaquid Beach, an expanse of white sand.

But with daylight running out, it’s a straight shot down to iconic Pemaquid Point Light. The blindingly white tower sits high on a bluff that’s 100 percent Maine—sheets of rocky coast below, 180 degrees of pure ocean drama, waves crashing and spray flying. Really, how better to end than on this scenic high note, punctuated by a lighthouse wrapped in coastal beauty? Staring out to sea, I feel something cold nudge my leg: a wet nose, belonging to a black Lab, attached to a twentysomething hiker. “It doesn’t get any better, does it?” he grins.

Peninsulas are for savoring, for driving off the map, for returning to. And for always something more to see. Albert Allen claimed his peninsula was the best, and it was … along with the next one, and the next. A collection of dangling fingers, a perfect hand, with so many moments of beauty, so much wild peace, that all definitions of “sleepy” may have to be rewritten.

More images at: YankeeMagazine.com/ME-PeninsulasPhotos. Where to go and what to do: YankeeMagazine .com/ME-Peninsulas-Activities. Check out our favorite New England lobster shacks (including Five Islands) at: YankeeMagazine.com/LobsterShacks. In the market for a place on the Pemaquid Peninsula? See this issue’s “House for Sale,” p. 42, for a peek at an island home overlooking Christmas Cove.

Dawn brushes the rocks below Pemaquid Point Light, featured on the Maine state quarter. TOP, FROM LEFT : Wildlife flock to Rachel Carson’s peninsula; a picture-perfect dock scene; fishing for supper from New Harbor’s wharf.

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The Hike Lifetime

Two intrepid photographers trek hut to hut across New Hampshire’s Presidential Range and discover hardship, pain, beauty, and wonder.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY LITTLE OUTDOOR GIANTS

(Jarrod McCabe + Dominic Casserly)

Dom on his way from Madison Spring Hut to Pinkham Notch:

“We were in the clouds as they enveloped and released us into the views of Mount Washington. We were in heaven.”

BY

Late last August, when the adventure was over— after nearly 70 miles of ascending and descending mountain peaks and trekking along boulderstrewn trails, of clambering over rocks, of feeling sweat streak down their bodies, of hearing thunder boom along exposed ridges, of shouldering backpacks that chafed and bruised, of feeling that ache in the knees that was relieved only when they sank into icy mountain pools—when all that ended after 10 days, what Jarrod and Dom knew with certainty was this: how much they would miss it all. They had come here to photograph what many call the most beautiful yet arduous stretch of the entire 2,174-mile Georgia-to-Maine Appalachian Trail: the White Mountains’ Presidential Traverse. They would cross 11 summits while sleeping at each of the eight Appalachian Mountain Club huts, the oldest mountain-hut system in the country. The huts gave them history and tradition, but also bunks and camaraderie and home-cooked meals that tasted like no other. Each day Jarrod and Dom wrote and painted in a leather-bound journal, and at the end one wrote:

“We knew it would be epic and hard and special and mysterious … The White Mountains are not the majestic, far-off, exotic mountains I always wanted them to be, but now they’re even more special to me—they’re familiar. And they’re home.” —M.A.

GREENLEAF HUT

LONESOME LAKE HUT

GALEHEAD HUT

ZEALAND FALLS HUT

MIZPAH SPRING HUT

LAKES OF THE CLOUDS HUT CARTER NOTCH HUT

JOE DODGE LODGE AT PINKHAM NOTCH

HIGHLAND LODGE AT CRAWFORD NOTCH

MADISON SPRING HUT

DAYS 2–3

this page, clockwise from top: Day 2 was “a hard day,” but after dinner Jarrod “shot the sunset from the ridge above [Greenleaf] hut.” End-to-end AT thru-hikers like Griffin Doninger, here planning his route at Greenleaf Hut, often work a few hours in exchange for a sleeping-pad spot on the floor and fresh meals. Hut-crew members (they call themselves “croo”) know that hikers crave fresh, hot meals. Jarrod and Dom dutifully recorded each delicious meal: “Steamy bowls of soup fogged up one bank of windows in the dining room, while fresh bread got slathered in butter …” opposite: Elizabeth Yon heads north along the Garfield Ridge Trail toward Galehead Hut. She wanted to accompany Jarrod and Dom, but one hard trail, which, they wrote, “tossed us around with boulders and spat us back out,” soon took its toll, and she headed down. In a few days she rejoined them.

‘I’ve hiked up here all my life. It’s all right here, the same as it ever was, the same as it will be when my children and grandchildren discover this place and have their own adventures here.’

DAY 3

An exhausted Elizabeth Yon weeps into her handkerchief as she finally comes to the end of her “brutal hike” before reaching a place to rest at Galehead Hut.

DAY 4

clockwise from top left: A hand-carved sign indicates that Zealand Falls Hut and its welcome waterfall-fed pools await. A thru-hiker with the trail name “Stretch” shows Jarrod his special salve for sore muscles and chafed skin. “Stretch” and “Pizza Man” share thru-hiker stories in the early sun at Zealand Falls Hut. Sweet relief from heat and aches: “From the hut porch you could step out onto the smooth ledge and find yourself a cool pool of mountain water to soak your legs in.”

Mount Washington’s summit rises above the clouds and Lakes of the Clouds Hut. Jarrod (pictured here) wrote: “Halfway through dinner the clouds began to part … I grabbed my camera and darted up the mountain. The view was breathtaking as the clouds shifted around and layers of clouds collided. Once dusk came on, you could see city lights on the horizon.”

‘Lakes of the Clouds is just crazy beautiful. To me a sunny day is boring ... Give me fog and rain.’

DAYS 5–6

this page, clockwise from top left: Jarrod and Dom reach Mizpah Spring Hut, the AT’s newest, after a 12-mile walk from Zealand Falls. Socked in by weather, they find restful quiet as one hiker, Cynthia Dow, paints with watercolors, while Elizabeth Yon, who had rejoined the photographers, joins Jarrod’s nightly cribbage game. After a day of gorp and peanut butter, hikers at Mizpah Spring Hut enjoy family-style dinner at 6:00 p.m.—sharp.

DAY6

Peter Nichol, a Concord, Massachusetts, science teacher, and his son Ayden arrive at Lakes of the Clouds Hut on Mount Washington, the highest hut along the entire AT, after a day hiking through rain and fog. ”No matter the weather, they were always smiling and enjoying the trek.”

‘They were such ideal examples of father and son. We called him Superdad.’

DAY 7

To be a hut “croo” member means the chance to join one of the most revered mountain traditions, requiring endurance and a love of outdoor adventure. Carrying packs weighing anywhere from 40 to 80 pounds, AMC croos supply far-flung huts. Here Lakes of the Clouds croo pack fresh food down to their hut from atop Mount Washington.

“I wish I’d done that when I was younger,” Jarrod said. “I’d encourage every college student to do that.”

DAY 8

Jarrod and Dom

relax in their bunks at Madison Spring Hut. Each day they recorded observations from their journey. After sitting with two brothers at breakfast, Jarrod wrote: “I thought about what it would be like to have a brother to hike with all the time … I guess that’s why I have a Dom.”

above: AT thru-hikers were filled with stories and became compelling portrait subjects for Jarrod and Dom’s cameras. below : Some 300 more miles lay ahead of them—days of sun and rain—before reaching the summit of Maine’s Mount Katahdin. Only then would they stop.

For more photos and a look at Jarrod and Dom’s journal, go to: YankeeMagazine.com/Huts-Hike

DAY 10

New Englanders have been whispering for decades: If many of its restaurants feature Manhattanstyle (red) chowder, if many of its residents root for the Yankees (and boo the Red Sox), if many of its towns send a third of their residents on trains to New York City each workday, is Connecticut really New England?

BY RICHARD CONNIFF ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN S. DYKES

No doubt your mind goes blank. Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine, they’re the real deal, “the heart of New England,” as they like to fashion themselves. You consider Connecticut, at best, some dim, vestigial part of the genuine New England experience. The appendix, say.

Or maybe more like the wallet, with the entire state stereotyped as not New England at all, but more like one big bedroom community for hedgefund managers from New York, with some weapons manufacturers and insurance executives tossed in for diversity. Connecticut is the state that “let’s be honest, nobody else in the region likes or respects,” Jon Stewart joked last year on The Daily Show And the humiliating thing is that he was talking about the Mid-Atlantic region.

So does Connecticut really even belong in New England?

I’ve lived here for 37 years, and probably ought to know. But with considerable doubt I set out to answer the question. This may be partly because I grew up in New Jersey, which also lives in the shadow of New York, comes in for more than its share of ridicule, and yet somehow boasts a distinct identity—and great musicians like Sinatra and Springsteen to crow about it to the world. “Is there some Connecticut equivalent I’ve been

missing?” I asked a Hartford native, and he shot back, as if in disbelief at my ignorance, “We had Gene Pitney, ‘the Rockville Rocket’!” Letting that sink in, he added, “Also The Carpenters.”

Well, you see the problem. It was compounded for me because I’ve frequently traveled for my work as a writer, and I’ve often been puzzled, after experiencing the literature of Ireland, say, or even Maine, to come home to a state whose great books all seem to be about someplace else. (Think

Mark Twain, Harriet Beecher Stowe, William Styron.) Even the director of the Connecticut Humanities Council once lamented, “Connecticut has no literature of itself.” Wallace Stevens might arguably be an exception because he sometimes wrote poems about Connecticut. But perhaps wisely, he also kept his day job. As an insurance executive.

In search of a longer view, I phoned University of Connecticut geologist Robert M. Thorson. Like me, he’s a blow-in, but he’s become an adoptive

I KNOW THIS MAY BE DIFFICULT FOR YOU, NEW ENGLAND. BUT JUST FOR A MOMENT, THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS ABOUT CONNECTICUT.

Connecticut Yankee and an expert on stone walls. (Memo to “Heart of New England,” and also Robert Frost: If you’re seeking “the epicenter of traditional New England stone walls,” Thorson’s book Exploring Stone Walls will steer you to the corner where Rhode Island and Massachusetts meet, ahem, Connecticut. Oh, and while we’re at it, your iconic New Hampshire play Our Town ?

Written by Thornton Wilder, a Connecticut resident.)

But back to Thorson. When I posed my question about Connecticut’s New England legitimacy, he replied, “Look at the landscape first, and don’t ask whether The Carpenters are the culture.” The arc of ancient mountains that runs like a spine through New England gets its start in the foothills of southwestern Connecticut, then sweeps up through the Litchfield Hills in the northwestern corner of the state, the Berkshires in Massachusetts, the Green Mountains and the White Mountains in … I forget those state names just now … rising finally to Maine’s Mount Katahdin.

“The whole damned thing is New England,” Thorson said, “and Connecticut is a very respectable part of it.” The same rolling hills, the same forests and ponds, the same rocky shores and pocket beaches, from Eastport, Maine, to, yes, Greenwich, Connecticut.

The real question, Thorson was saying, is why Long Island—basically a line of New England rubble dumped by receding glaciers—ended up being grabbed off by New York. But to myself, I was thinking, “Hmm, Long Island. The Hamptons. Billy Joel. Definitely the appendix. We can let that one go.”

Connecticut has plenty of nicknames— the “Nutmeg State,” the “Land of Steady Habits,” the “Constitution State,” the “Provision State”—and they all come from stories about our past. That “Nutmegger” thing, for instance, supposedly started with the idea that our far-ranging Yankee peddler forebears sometimes sold wooden nutmegs to suckers in other states. (Our story is that those customers were just too dumb to know that you have to shave nutmeg. They tried to crack it open like a nut instead.) We’re the “Provision State” (also the “Arsenal State”)

because we’ve ranked among the nation’s top weapons suppliers since at least 1776, when rebels tore down a statue of King George III in Manhattan and shipped it to a foundry in Litchfield, to be recycled into musket balls for our soldiers to deliver back to the British.

And yet Connecticut also suffers from the widespread notion that it has no identity, no sense of place. Maybe it’s because we have nothing to make us stand out along the lines of Boston’s “pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd” speech impediment. Nor do we say “ayuh,” or

Connecticut, a man who can dismiss Vermont as, historically speaking, “a wholly owned subsidiary of Connecticut.” Hosley has made his career as a Connecticut museum director and curator specializing in the state’s culture and history. He also runs a Facebook group with the somewhat symptomatic title “Creating a Sense of Place for Connecticut.” (A different website specializing in Connecticut museums uses the underwhelming slogan “Destroying the myth that there is nothing to do here.”) We met at a franchise coffee shop, one of the great purveyors of the “anyplace/noplace” sensation (though with a nice caffeine buzz to help customers forget).

“Connecticut has a lot of authenticity,” Hosley began. “What it doesn’t have is a lot of strong, coherent identity.” European colonization began with “little puddles of settlement,” each community living independently from the others, “and that independence survived even after they came together.” State identity matters now less than the very distinct identity of our towns, 169 of them.

call good things “wicked.” Our accent is largely Mid-Atlantic newscaster standard. In sports and culture, we feel the tug of New York a bit too much on one side of the state, and of Boston on the other. (One wit suggested that our state motto should be “We’re kinda close to the places you really want to be.”)

Even residents often mistakenly regard Connecticut as an anyplace/ noplace they happen to live right now. Half of us supposedly wish we lived someplace else, according to a 2013 poll. For outsiders, it can seem like just a place to race through en route to Maine, Cape Cod, or some other “more authentic” New England place. We are, said one friend, the “New England Flyover State.”

I turned for help to William Hosley, also a blow-in, from upstate New York by way of 1970s Vermont. At 61, he’s a boyishly ebullient devotee of all things

We tend to repeat this number ritually, but it probably underestimates our fragmentary nature, because of proud bastions of local identity within towns: Ivoryton and Centerbrook, for instance, are sections of Essex, but distinctly different from Essex proper. This intensely local character turns up in the richness of the state’s 600 or so museums and historical societies—but also in its intractable segregation by race, ethnicity, income, and social status in communities that are sometimes side by side.

“Connecticut is really a thinking man’s state,” Hosley said. “You have to be alert to nuance—what differentiates places and makes them stand out. You have to be a connoisseur of cultural differences. If you want a foreign experience, just drive 20 minutes. There’s so much diversity packed into this state.”

Taking Connecticut at an angle, from Stonington in the southeastern corner to Salisbury in the northwest, it’s a two-and-a-half hour drive, three if you dawdle. But away from the anonymous

(continued on p. 139)

Mirror Lake

by ROWAN JACOBSEN

photographs by ADRIENNE ANDERSON

When you live beside a New England lake, each season brings its own special intimacy.

An early morning in August finds the author on his dock on “Number 10 Pond,” officially known as Mirror Lake, in north-central Vermont.

hese are the mornings I’ll remember. The sky is already lit at 5:00 a.m., the lake like glass. Mist hangs in the hollows on the far shore, ghosted in the water below. No one else will be up for hours. I scooch my feet over the slippery rocks on the edge, then glide out into cool, green space, each arm stroke spraying whitewater. The mirror unzips before me, and my widening V rocks the sky. The lake bottom drops away, 40 feet, 60 feet, gone, until I’m just a tiny flier between heaven and earth. Technically, I know, even summer days end, but right now the lake is an infinity pool.

We bought the house for the lake. The house was everything I’d sworn never to take on—a 160-year-old farmhouse no longer square in any corner, with single-pane windows, a nest of snakes in the flagstone basement, and electrical wires sheathed in … could that be cloth? But it didn’t matter. It was in North Calais, on Number 10 Pond, a body of water I’d kept tucked in the back of my mind since childhood. I’d grown up two towns away, swimming happily in a typical Vermont mud puddle, but a few times we’d driven by Number 10 and I’d stared at the hills reflected in its stony depths and thought about the lives led there. Thirty years later, my wife mentioned an old Cape that was coming up for sale. No way in hell, I said. It’s on Number 10 Pond, she said. Buy it, I said.

And so we and our 4-year-old son found ourselves with a rickety white house and a downright dangerous dock pushing out into freakishly clear water. On a blistering June day, I dove in, clawed my way to shore, and pronounced it unswimmable: ice water.

That’s the nature of Number 10, which you won’t find on any map. That name, bestowed by settlers on the body of water beside the 10th of the town’s 14 one-room schoolhouses, officially ended in the 1960s, when the State of Vermont upgraded all the ponds in our area to lake status. Overnight, Dog Pond, Sabin Pond, Nelson Pond, and Number 10 Pond became Valley Lake, Woodbury Lake, Forest Lake, and Mirror Lake. You won’t catch locals using those names, but the state got one thing right: Number 10 is half a mile across and 106 feet deep. It’s no pond.

The depth makes it cold and clear. Its forested sides rise steeply. As above, so below, as the ancient mystics used to say. Boulders and bass tumbling into the abyss. It takes the sun a long, long time to heat up all that water, and that’s what fooled me. Number 10 Pond is far from unswimmable. It just takes its own sweet time getting there.

That first spring, loons nested on Number 10 for the first time in decades. We liked watching them cruise by our dock, their chick clinging to Mom’s back or scrambling behind, the symbolism too obvious to even need mentioning. Mom and Dad took turns diving

under and coming to the surface with minnows for Junior. We fed our kid Goldfish and let him paddle near the dock in arm floaties.

We’d lived in nice places before, but this was different, and the first time we listened to the loons wail like wolves through the night, we knew we were lifers. Everyone needs something in the landscape to orient by: a mountain, a garden, a lake. We took our cues from Number 10’s mood. Was it a swimming day? A sailing day? A day to simply watch the light play across the surface? We named every corner. Birch Point. Cedar Shore. Loon Lagoon. We dis-

covered the log where the turtles like to sun, and the water lilies where the catfish gang hides out. When our son and his friends got bigger, we sent them to the rope swing on their own.

But mostly we swim. We like to say that we enjoy the lake in every season—there’s the occasional miraculous Christmas ice skate—but let’s face it: November through April is an acquired taste. Mostly we leave it to the ice fishermen, unmoving black specks on a grainy white scrim. For us, rebirth comes in April, when the ice breaks up and the loons come barreling in like overenthusiastic summer people. I don’t

know how they get the word at their Atlantic winter quarters, but they arrive as soon as the first channels open. They don’t even have enough runway to take off again, though when the ice gets soft, my son and I launch our canoe and use it like an icebreaker to help them. They hang tough until late fall—the parents leaving first, the kid a few weeks later, just ahead of the ice.

Swimming starts on some unseasonably toasty May day. You know you’re pushing it, but you can’t resist. You stand on the dock, trying to absorb whatever heat you can into your pasty skin; then you overrule your self-

preservation instinct and leap. You pretty much bounce off the surface and wind up just where you started, gasping, but it’s a beginning. The next day, you jump again, paddle out 10 strokes, then beat a quick retreat to the dock, your feet aching. Then you take stock of the situation, confirm that you didn’t die, and do it all over again, maybe 12 strokes this time.

By June, weather gods willing, you can really swim. It’s still freezing by Homo sapiens standards, but one of the great lessons of New England lake swimming is that it’s all in your head. You can make the choice to turn off your freak-out software. This is me, thrashing through wicked-cold water. This is me, breath caught short. There’s nothing like plunging into a cold lake to snap you right back into your body. There’s no better cure for the wandering mind. You couldn’t be more present, your heartbeat booming the seconds underwater. It’s terrifying, but I have yet to meet the person who dives into the icy lake, climbs out, and says, “Gosh, I wish I hadn’t done that.”

Early in the season, I keep an eye out for the loon chicks, bobbing along like gray rubber duckies. That first year I got too close, and the dad shot over and howled in my face, chasing me all the way back to the dock. He was a nervous new father back then, yodeling at kayakers and the resident eagle and night shadows 24/7. The loons started with two chicks and ended the season with one. We all blamed the eagle, though it would never have held up in court. The eagle just sat in its favorite pine tree, stone-faced. Now we’ve been here 12 years, and we’re practically emptynesters ourselves. We’ve seen them fledge two chicks some years, none others. We try not to get too attached.

By July, I forgo showers, slipping sleepy-eyed into the water first thing. Armies of mist march in lines from the edges of the pond toward the middle, where they rise skyward like souls. By midmorning they burn off and the wind buffets the surface into thousands of steely grooves. Swimmers and paddleboards crisscross and bake in the sun. July is when you get strong and tan, powering across the lake two,

three times a day. I’ve swum to cocktails on the far side, like the protagonist in John Cheever’s story “The Swimmer,” then swum back in the gloaming, feeling invincible. On steamy nights we run down the dock and fling ourselves into the starry ink, a Double Dipper above and below us.

And then one day something has changed imperceptibly. It’s still summer, but that little shower that came through last night must have been cool, because the lake doesn’t feel quite as silky as yesterday, and when the sun slips behind a cloud, you shiver.

In September the lake is warmer than the air and the fog is absolute. I pad down the wet path, feet numb from the grass, and dive into an undifferentiated white ether, no shore, no sky, water striders flicking away like TIE fighters. The loons cackle out of the fog. I stroke through nothingness, and then turn and find my way back, Adirondack chairs coalescing out of the mist, and I haul myself back on the dock, towel off fast, and pull on jeans, trying to get my heat back.

And then comes a day when you can’t do it. Some dreary morning in the 40s. The shower beckons, warm and uneventful, but it also feels like the day your aging parent decides not to go for the daily walk. Just not up to it. After that, there are always the Indiansummer moments, the midday dips into shock, but you’re fighting a rearguard action. You know how it ends.

The loons pull out in November. There’s no ceremony. Mom and Dad take off, leaving Junior bobbing in confusion, never having flown in his life. By then, the water is so cold that it churns like oil. Swimming is done, but we can’t let the pond go, so in the short afternoons we canoe through fleets of crackly yellow leaves skating across the surface. The young loon blinks in the failing light, his feathers still patchy with adolescence. Fly, we urge him. Fly. But really that’s only part of us talking, the rational part that knows it’s the nature of things, that it has to happen. We try to ignore the other part, the part that can think only about how very quiet it will be around here soon, the part that has been whispering all along, Stay

Armies of mist march in lines from the edges of the pond toward the middle, where they rise skyward like souls.

Downtown Wilmington at the height of Irene’s flooding on August 28, 2011. This photograph was taken by local resident Eric Craven, who awoke that morning to find his own apartment filling with water.

“My girlfriend and I hastily evacuated and went to my parents’ house,” Craven says.

“From there we journeyed downtown, where we witnessed the town being flooded from start to finish.”

FIVE YEARS AFTER THE DEVASTATION OF TROPICAL STORM IRENE, THOSE WHO LIVED THROUGH IT IN WILMINGTON, VERMONT, REMEMBER BOTH WHAT THEY LOST AND WHAT THEY FOUND.

BY IAN ALDRICH

PORTRAITS BY JONATHAN GITELSON

THAT WILL NEVER BE

Forgotten

What had begun as a tropical wave off the west coast of Africa two weeks before now closed in on America’s Eastern Seaboard with winds reaching 85 miles per hour and torrential rains that would dump as much as 11 inches of water on parts of the Northeast. Eventually downgraded to a tropical storm, Irene was no less destructive. Racking up $15.8 billion worth of damage, Irene’s landing, just weeks shy of the 73rd anniversary of another horrific weather event, came to rival anything that the Hurricane of 1938 had wrought.

‘WE’RE GOING TO HAVE A PROBLEM’

In Vermont, Irene was especially catastrophic: six deaths, more than 500 miles of roads damaged or destroyed, many towns made inaccessible for days. Covered bridges in Bartonsville, Quechee, Taftsville, and Northfield Falls were either wiped out or battered to the point of ruin; Brandon’s House of Pizza floated into the middle of U.S. Route 7; in Jamaica four homes were swept out into what one resident described as “liquid earth.” Farther north, the Rochester cemetery was washed out, scattering bones and coffins across town. “It was a horror movie,” one Vermonter recalled. “One I hope I never live through again.”

1751

Perhaps no Vermont town felt the storm quite like Wilmington. Built on the banks of the Deerfield River, this southern Vermont community of nearly 2,000 residents was transformed into an unrecognizable scene of flooding and destruction that Sunday morning of August 28th. Main Street became a tumbling waterway of building sections, propane tanks, farm animals, and waste. When the river finally retreated, it left behind a thick glaze of mud and a downtown of overturned lives. The flood also swept away a young woman who drowned trying to escape a car that had been trapped by floodwaters on Route 100.

The cleanup and recovery from Irene took years. For some, it continues even to this day. To mark the five-year anniversary of the storm, we asked a number of Wilmington residents who lived through it to tell their stories.

Flooding wasn’t a new phenomenon for the community. A 1927 hurricane had taken out the Main Street Bridge, and the ’38 storm had nearly done the same. In 1976 Hurricane Belle poured more than three feet of water into some downtown businesses. In other years, the Deerfield had spilled into parking lots and buildings. At Dot’s Restaurant it wasn’t unusual for John and Patty Reagan to clear out their basement when a big rain came. “It’s just a part of life here,” one resident says. Still, the preparation for Irene was uneven. Some braced for calamity, others less so.

SUSAN HAUGHWOUT

Wilmington town clerk

That week I ran into a woman at one of the bars downtown having a cocktail after work, and she remarked about the birds—how they were acting unusual and she felt that something was going to happen. Well, nobody paid attention to her; people thought she was being silly. But she was right.

PATTY REAGAN

Owns Dot’s Restaurant with her husband, John Even during normal rainstorms we’d get a call from the fire department in the middle of the night to tell us that the river was going to come up. But this time they called us three days before and said, “This is going to be a good one.”

It had already been an unusually stormy season when Hurricane Irene first made American landfall in North Carolina on August 27, 2011.

DANA STONE

Former housecleaning supervisor at Mount Snow Resort

I didn’t really think it was going to flood like it did. Nobody really did. On the morning of the storm, though, the mountain told us that if we wanted to go home we were free to do so. A lot of them decided they wanted to stay there.

KEN MARCH

Wilmington fire chief

That whole I week I stayed on top of the storm, tracking it and reading as much about it as I could. What I saw was that it was looking to be very similar to what happened in 1938. I saw the highs and lows, where everything was

going, and I thought, We’re going to have a problem. We started making preparations the day before, but a lot of people thought I was just crying wolf. You know: It’s not going to hit us. I said, “No, you don’t understand, it’s going to.”

LISA SULLIVAN

Owns the downtown bookstore, Bartleby’s Books

We were visiting my family in Rhode Island. My husband, Phil, is a weather junkie and had been watching the patterns and getting concerned about how much rain we’d already had and how wet the ground was. That Saturday he said, “We have to get back. I think there’s going to be water in the store.” My father thought we were crazy: “We’re going to have a hurricane party! We’re in Rhode Island—we’re the ones who are going to get the storm!” He was annoyed that we left.

STEVE BUTLER

Owns North Star Bowling

We were told to brace for high winds,

so the day before the storm I went out and moved anything that might be blown away. I also had a large bundle of clapboards that I threw a tarp over and tied down tight with rope. There was no way they were going to blow away. Well, that pile ended up floating around in the parking lot.

FLORENCE CRAFTS

Lives two miles north of downtown; her husband and sons established a local logging business

My late husband, George, had grown up on this property and was five years old when ’38 hit. He watched his house get ruined pretty bad. I’ve lived here since ’56, and we’ve had water in the cellar before, but you could clean it up right away. When I heard the weather report for this storm, it sounded like it was just going to stay west. [The report] never said anything about its coming to Wilmington until later. But just to be safe, I moved a few things, some pictures and a few other family mementos, to the top of my refrigerator.

ABOVE : Wilmington Town Clerk Susan Haughwout, in the archive vault at the town offices. Haughwout led a small team of volunteers in the hours before the storm to move key town documents, like these landrecord volumes, out of the flood zone to an upstairs floor. OPPOSITE : Fire Chief Ken March was one of the early people to realize that Irene was going to be more than just a windstorm.

WATER JUST SUBMERGED THE BOWLING ALLEY’

Five days before Irene struck, the Weather Service issued warnings about potential flooding, and Vermont governor Peter Shumlin declared a state of emergency long before a trace of storm clouds appeared over the state. For those living outside town, it wasn’t even immediately apparent that Irene was more than just a severe rainstorm. But as the rains continued, reports about what was happening downtown began to trickle in, and Irene’s breadth came into focus.

CAMILLE SWANSON Nurse at Family Medical Center

Around 9:00 or so my husband, Doug, had tried getting into town and couldn’t. It was already flooded. He came back and said, “Come with me, because you just won’t believe what’s happening.” We went over to a place by Stowe Hill, where it was high enough so you could see the flooding. You just couldn’t believe it. We watched the water just submerge the bowling alley.

FLORENCE CRAFTS

It was a common thing that whenever we thought the river was going to get high, we’d take our cars up to the school. So that’s what we did. But then it came really fast. My son had come over, and he got the truck started. We wanted to get as much firewood as we could loaded into the truck, but we never had the chance. We had to leave.

STEVE BUTLER

I remember looking out the window and laughing because there wasn’t even a puddle in the parking lot, not even in the lower-back section that’s always the first to pool up. I thought we’d dodged a bullet. So I took a shower and then headed outside. It was around 9:45. The lot was still dry. I walked 60 feet, and in those 15 seconds the lot filled up with three inches of water. It was so fast I thought a water main had broken. I didn’t think for a second it was a flood. Twenty-five minutes later the water was more than five feet high. My partner, Bev, and I had two dogs in the trailer where we lived behind the bowling alley. I went for the dogs, and we got them loaded into my truck.

At this point there was water filling the truck. When I opened the door,

‘THE

Steve Butler, owner of North Star Bowling, estimates that he received $175,000 worth of labor and materials from residents and community groups to rebuild his business: “I feel like the luckiest person in the world.”

OPPOSITE : Patty and John Reagan, photographed here in Dot’s Restaurant’s rebuilt dining room, were initially reluctant to rebuild. Community support convinced them other wise, and they reopened for business on December 12, 2013.

it just gushed out. But I got it started and drove to a nearby spot that’s higher ground. Then we all made it back to the North Star—Bev is short and was on her tiptoes—where I had an apartment rented out on the second level. I knocked on my tenant’s door and said, “Sorry, but we’re going to have to invade your space for a little bit.” That’s where I watched the rest of the storm.

HANNAH SWANSON

Was a sophomore at Twin Valley High School in Wilmington; now a junior at Binghamton University in New York

That river is far away, but water had filled up the field and crossed Route 100. Everything was just water. You could see it rising. Watching the bowling alley and seeing the deck get submerged, all the chairs and tables just floating around, it was crazy. I kept thinking about how we used to have dinner there all the time, and then suddenly there was nothing there.

‘OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!’

For years residents had looked in awe at the high-water mark on the police station that showed where the Deerfield River had risen during the ’38 hurricane, 65 inches above the sidewalk. At the height of Irene, however, the Deerfield managed to surpass that historic mark. The storm’s onslaught had come fast. The rain had started the night before. By 6:00 a.m., when fire chief Ken March arrived at the station, it was coming down at a steady pace. Not long after, early breakfast customers filed into Dot’s at 7:00 and looked out at the rising but still contained river. Uncertainty filled the place as diners wondered what exactly Irene would bring. By 10:00 water was pouring over the railings of the Main Street Bridge, bringing with it a fast current of propane tanks, dumpsters, and appliances. “It sounded like an angry freight train,” recalls March, who had begun receiving reports about a possible drowning a few miles north. Even those who had been prepared for flooding were caught off guard by Irene’s voracity. In one dramatic event, firemen bailed out of the station windows to evacuate the building.

“We just started pulling pictures off the wall— the stuff we’d never be able to replace.“

JOE SZAREJKO

Wilmington police chief

I got to the firehouse that morning around 6:00 to watch the Weather Channel with Chief March. I checked the river height before going in; it was already rising at that point. Around 15 minutes later I went back out to check it, and the water had risen three feet in just that time. That’s when I knew we were in trouble, ’cause I’d never seen it come up that fast before.

SUSAN HAUGHWOUT

That night before the storm I couldn’t sleep. I was nervous. I tried to doze, but I had the Weather Channel on the whole time. I was pretty panicked. Finally at around 5:00 I got out of bed. I told my husband, “I have to go down to the office and start moving books

so they won’t be damaged by floodwaters.” I stopped in at the fire department. I spoke to one of the men: “Do you think I ought to prepare for something worse than the ’38 flooding?” He looked at me and said, “Yes.”

PATTY REAGAN

We opened the restaurant at around 7:00 that morning, and people started showing up. One of them was Susan Haughwout. It was raining, and we were talking about the storm, but we had no idea it was going to be what it became. But as Susan was getting ready to leave—I’ll never forget this—she turned and looked at us and said, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I was like, “What? Shut up! What do you mean ‘our loss’?”

We were still high and dry at this point. But we soon sent everybody home.

Then we just started pulling pictures off the wall—the stuff we’d never be able to replace.

MONIQUE JOHNSON

Lives just north of town; her husband, Brian, is with the fire department Brian got a call to come down to the station around 6:00. I didn’t realize how high the water was getting, because even though we live above the river, you can’t actually see it because of the trees. At around 7:00 he called me and said that the high school had been opened

“For so long we were just riding this adrenaline to get things done. But eventually that goes. I remember reaching a point that winter where I thought, ‘I can’t bear to do another thing. We’re still a total disaster.’”

Four months after a fire destroyed a second bookstore of hers in Brattleboro, Vermont, Lisa Sullivan was forced to hit the reset button on her Wilmington shop. But she was resolute about doing so. “Rebuilding was never a question for us,” she says.

up as an emergency shelter, and [asked me if I could] go down there to help out. I still didn’t get it. I said, “Sure, let me just get some things together and take a shower.” And he cut me off: “No. Nobody’s taking any showers. You need to get down there.” So I started getting things together, like snacks and dry clothes for the guys at the department. An hour went by and I still hadn’t left. My husband called again: “Where are you?” When I started explaining, he said, “I don’t need dry clothes! I just need you to get to the high school right now.”

LISA SULLIVAN

We’d gone to Dot’s to get something to eat, and my husband, Phil, saw the water starting to come over the bridge: “We’ve got to go to the store.” So for the next 45 minutes we were moving books from the bottom two feet onto tables and chairs, because we thought maybe a little water gets in here and that’s it.

But the water kept getting closer. It was rushing around the store, and Phil said, “I’m worried about the building. We need to open the doors to relieve the pressure.” As soon as we did, one of those large whiskey barrels that we’d put flowers in came rushing into the store. The water was knee-deep.

There was an intense propane smell in the air, because all these tanks were getting pulled off buildings and floating down the street. We were scared something might blow. We ran up the hill behind the store to a spot on Rayhill Road where a bunch of people, including the Reagans, had gathered to watch what was happening to the town.

MONIQUE JOHNSON

As I was backing out of my garage to go to the high school, my neighbor drove by in a pickup and asked where I was going. When I told him, he shook his head: “Not in the car you’re not.” I climbed into his truck, and he brought me to the high school. It’s only a mileand-a-half ride, but the only thing I could say as I saw that water and devastation was “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

KEN MARCH

Just before we evacuated the station, I looked out the window and saw the

roof of the baseball dugout from the high-school field float right by. It wasn’t long after that I made the call to leave our station. Incident command became my pickup truck, with two radios and a cell phone.

BERT WURZBERGER

Was weeks away from opening a downtown aquarium store; his parents, Sue and Al Wurzberger, own the nearby 1836 Country Store and Norton House Quilting I got into the shop around 7:30 that morning. The night before, I’d moved stuff to the second floor just in case. The river wasn’t that high. Within an hour it was waist-deep in the parking lot, and I was scrambling to get the last few things I could to the upstairs. Then I ran up to the Country Store to call my parents. I’ve seen a lot of floods, and I could tell this one was going to be the worst we’d ever experienced. “This is going to be bad,” I said. “Worse than ’76. What do you want me to do?” “Turn off the electricity to the buildings and leave,” they said.

SUSAN HAUGHWOUT

Based on how high the water had been in ’38 and how high our building sits, I figured I needed to move anything in our vault that was shelved below my waist. I wasn’t sure we’d be able to move everything, so I had to calculate which materials were higher priority. The big land-record volumes—they weigh probably 20 pounds apiece and there are 300 of them—contained deeds, mortgages, and liens. Those were first. Then there were documents like old town-meeting records that might be a historical loss, but they weren’t accessed often.

I had a small team of helpers: Ann Manwaring, our state rep; Pat Johnson, the assistant town clerk; and her boyfriend, Larry Nutting. We stacked the land volumes onto office chairs, then wheeled them into the elevator to take to the second floor. It was relentless. I don’t know how many chairs we rolled up and down the building. At one point we couldn’t move the filing cabinets, so Larry, who’s really strong, just started ripping the drawers right out. They were absolutely full. I still don’t know how he did it.

BERT WURZBERGER

I just started running up and down Main Street trying to warn people about what was about to happen. I felt like Paul Revere. By this point my building had already come off its foundation. There was this loud crunch, and then it just popped up like a cork. I made my way to the hotel, The Vermont House, which is where I saw Ann Coleman’s gallery building just pop up, slab and all, and float away. It all happened so slowly that I felt like I could have just grabbed it. That was my urge, to pull it back into place.

KEN MARCH

After we’d closed the bridge, one of the selectmen wanted to cross it to get back to his house. I told him I couldn’t allow him. “I’m going,” he said. “No, you’re not,” I said. “Yes, I am,” he said. Now, he’s a bodybuilder, but I had to hold my ground. He said, “What about my cats?” I looked at him and told him, “They’ll take care of themselves. They know how to do that.” He finally turned around and left. He apologized later.

MARK DENAULT

Detective sergeant with the Wilmington Police Department

Some people underestimated the gravity of the situation. People wouldn’t leave a building when you told them to; then they’d be stranded on a roof. Others drove into the town center, right into the raging water. We had to rescue one lady, whose car had stopped in the water, with a backhoe. She climbed right from her car into the bucket. Another time we had a guy kayak right down Main Street. It was a raging river at that point, but for some reason he thought it would be fun.

KEN MARCH

Emotions were high. The adrenaline had kicked in. The guy who decided to kayak had been under water and by chance had popped back up. Happenstance was the only reason he was alive, ’cause by every right he should have been down in the reservoir with the rest of the debris. The police were hollering at him, and he was flipping out, and then I finally stepped in and said,

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“Listen to this radio! You’re hearing about a young lady who’s dead and you’re doing this crap!” It finally hit him, and he just started crying.

SUSAN HAUGHWOUT

As we worked, I’d go outside to check the river. A couple of times I came back inside and told the group, “It’s getting really bad. We better go.” And they just said, “No, we’re not done yet.” At one point I went out and saw that the water had breached the bridge and all this stuff was pouring over it—dumpsters, propane tanks, logs—just flying past.

Finally at around 10:30 I saw that the water was coming up to the sidewalk and told the group that we needed to leave and get to safety. Ann had borrowed my car to get a camera so we could document things, and when we stepped back outside, she couldn’t find my keys. We took a quick look through the office, but it was hopeless. The car was parked in front of the building, right in the path of the water. Poor Ann was so upset, because we both knew it wouldn’t survive, but I didn’t care. I told her, “It’s a car, it’s not a big deal.”

BERT WURZBERGER

The water was probably five feet high on Main Street. There was this telephone pole that had started to come down, and right next to it was this giant propane tank. I saw a bunch of people standing in the water on the lawn of the Wilmington Inn. I yelled, “You need to run.” Everybody got out of there except for this 10-year-old kid who just stood there. I don’t know if he froze or what. So I grabbed him and pulled him onto the porch, and at that very second the pole crashed into the water, and there was this huge explosion. It made this incredible Bang!

PATTY REAGAN

We couldn’t see the part of the building that was the kitchen, which was cantilevered over the river. But seeing everything else happening, I figured it had been sheared off. It was old construction, and I couldn’t imagine it had survived. Later, I couldn’t believe it had hung on. The old girl was tougher than I thought.

SHE WAS GONE’

Nine miles north, at Mount Snow Resort, the rains made Ivana Taseva, a 20-yearold summer employee from Macedonia, nervous. Taseva had come to Vermont two months before with her boyfriend, Kiril Donev, to work in the housekeeping department. She was pretty, with an infectious smile, and just a week away from her 21st birthday. At around 10:00 in the morning, as Irene pounded the resort grounds, Taseva pleaded with her boss, Dana Stone, to drive her to her apartment in Wilmington. Stone tried to talk her out of it, but then reluctantly agreed.

DANA STONE

I didn’t think going into town was a good idea and told her that the mountain was offering condos for people to wait out the storm. But she insisted on going home. So I agreed to take her and her boyfriend, Kiril. I remember there was a little gully as you left the resort, and it was filled with probably a foot of water, and we blew through it. Ivana just laughed. She loved it. “Let’s do it again,” she said. So I backed up and we went through it one more time and then headed toward town.

The closer we got to downtown, the worse the conditions became. About

15 minutes into it, we knew it was serious, and I kept saying, “We should turn around,” but she just didn’t want to. Maybe she thought she’d feel safer in her own apartment. But then, maybe eight miles in, we reached a point where we couldn’t turn around. I was driving a Ford Explorer, which sits up pretty high, and at one point the water was blowing up over the front end of my car. But I knew we were close to the elementary school, which sits on a hill, so I figured if I could just get there, we’d be all set. When we first got into the deep water, my car stalled. I was able to get it going, but then it stalled again, and this

time it wouldn’t restart. The water was so deep and moving so fast that it just kind of picked us up and we floated, and eventually we ran into another vehicle near the school that was tipped on its side. That stopped us from going any farther.

We were all panicked, but Ivana, who was sitting in the back, was really

Five years later, the drowning death of Ivana Taseva, ABOVE , continues to haunt Dana Stone, BELOW. “Watching him go through it has been hard,” his wife, Debbie, says. “He’s not the same person anymore.”

scared. She kept asking, “What are we going to do?” Kiril said he would get out first. We couldn’t open the doors, so I kept the power on, and we opened the windows and crawled out that way. After Kiril got out, I climbed out the passenger side. By the time I got out, Ivana wasn’t there. I don’t know if she slipped, or panicked, but I mean in an instant she was gone.

The water was up to our knees and rushing past us so fast. We kept hollering her name, but there was no sight of her. Kiril was yelling and crying. We then headed up to the school, and it was there that Kiril told me that she didn’t know how to swim. I didn’t know. If I’d known, I’d have gotten out with him and then we both could have helped her. But I didn’t know until after.

When we got to the school, we told them what happened. They gave us some blankets to warm up, and then we went out and looked some more. But there was no way we could go out into the water again—it was moving too fast. I saw buildings floating down, propane tanks—it was like some kind of horror movie. And we couldn’t get any police or ambulance out to us. Nobody could reach us. Eventually we were taken by ambulance to the emergency shelter at the high school. It had taken a couple of hours for them to arrive. You wanted to believe that she’d made it, but all that water, the fact that she couldn’t swim, it just didn’t seem likely.

She was so young. She had her whole life ahead of her. I’d rather it had been me instead of her. I still blame myself for it, ’cause I was the one who drove them. I mean, if I’d just said, “No, we’re not going,” everything would have still been the same. She’d still be alive.

‘I CRIED LIKE HELL, ’CAUSE I’D LOST EVERYTHING THAT I’D WORKED FOR’

Nearly as quickly as the waters had submerged Wilmington, they receded. By 6:00 that night, the Deerfield was nearly back to its normal level. But in its wake it had left a downtown that was both devastated and surreal.

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Buildings had been blown open by the strong waters, a few even lifted off their foundations and taken downriver. Dot’s kitchen clung to life over the now-placid but still-brown river; trees and bushes were strewn with colorful yarns from a local shop. Logs, fuel tanks, and other debris were piled up at the bridge. Hanging over everything was the thick stench of propane fumes.

For a town still reeling from the Great Recession, Irene’s arrival just weeks from the start of the crucial foliage season was a hardship that for some business owners was too much to bear.

PATTY REAGAN

Our first look inside the restaurant was around 6:00 that night. The building was undermined all the way around, but we were able to look in through the windows. It was funny, because the tables were all still set. They’d just floated right to the front of the building. I’ll never forget that.

AL WURZBERGER

The next morning I got up early and drove downtown. I opened the door to my store, and water just poured out with all this stuff—T-shirts, sweatshirts, candy. I just stood there and cried like hell, ’cause I’d lost everything that I’d worked for. Almost 50 years. That was my barn. That’s what I’d wanted ever since I was 7 years old, and it seemed like it was gone forever.

STEVE BUTLER

Nothing was where it was supposed to be. Two of the lanes pushed up like a tepee that was probably two feet high. By the time we got to the freezers, all the food was spoiled. I ended up hauling 17 dumpsters of trash out of here. That alone cost me more than $10,000.

FLORENCE CRAFTS

After the rain, the sun came out with a rainbow, so I walked down to my house. The refrigerator had flipped over; so had the big gun cabinet, which had pictures and souvenirs. In the basement there was two feet of mud. The year before, my grandsons

had put on a new roof for me, because the old one had been leaking. I’d been worried about the water coming in from above, and instead it came in from the bottom.

AL WURZBERGER

Two days after the storm, there were already volunteers here. One fella yelled at me, “Hey you! Come on over here. There’s a crowbar—start tearing this wall off!” Okay. And then somebody else said, “Well, you own it, right?” Yeah. “Okay, we need crowbars; we need hammers.” As days passed, we needed insulation; we needed wood. And I’d go up to W&W Building Supply, and I’d throw the stuff into my truck. We broke screw guns; we had to buy new screw guns. We wore them out.

I ordered wood from a place in Greenfield, Massachusetts. At first they told me they couldn’t deliver because the roads weren’t good enough, but an hour later I got a call from the owner: “We’re in the goddamn wood business. We’ll plank the road.” That’s what they did.

STEVE BUTLER

After two and a half months, we finally got heat in the building: big propane heaters with fans to circulate the air. They were the only things inside the place; everything else had been cleared out. When we left that evening, I was smiling, and I told Bev, “We might not have hot water tomorrow, but we’ll have warm hands to work with.” That was November 15th.

The next day I came in and saw that the ceiling had started to fall down. The building had been drenched with demolding chemicals, and the moisture from the attic had been drawn down into the Sheetrock. It was the only time I was nearly brought to tears. But then I started laughing out loud. Bev looked at me and said, “What’s wrong with you?” “Look on the bright side,” I said. “Now we’re going to get a new ceiling.”

LISA SULLIVAN

For so long we were just riding this adrenaline to get things done. But

eventually that goes, and I remember just reaching a point that winter where I thought, I can’t bear to do another thing. We’re still a total disaster. I didn’t have it in me to go to another meeting about the recovery or do any more work. So I took a few months and just did some more things with my kids, who’d probably felt neglected. I mean, all through that fall we were making grilled cheese for dinner at 8 o’clock at night and then just crashing. It felt important to take a step back and just feel normal again.

‘IT WAS LIKE BEING HUGGED, WHEN YOU WALKED INTO THAT BUILDING’

Slowly, things did get better. At the center of the recovery effort was the emergency shelter that had been established at the high school. The early visitors were a group of wedding guests who’d been stranded in town and a National Guard troop that arrived via high-water vehicles. Cots were set up in the gymnasium. In the library, sophomore Hannah Swanson oversaw a free child-sitting service, and the school’s head cook, Joe Girardi, churned out food for anyone who came through the doors. The whole experience was punctuated by a community supper every night, where exhausted residents could catch their breath and take solace in the fact that they weren’t alone. “It was this incredible time of fellowship,” recalls Nicki Steel, a local photographer.

It was also from there that Steel dispersed an army of volunteers, and leaders like Monique Johnson and Camille Swanson welcomed donations. Even those who’d had little connection to the town offered something. A bakery in Bennington delivered fresh bread every day, while truckloads of clothes came from Springfield, Vermont, and Portland, Maine. Offers of help came in from people around the country.

Wilmington’s community-wide recovery effort would continue for

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months, from a benefit concert called Floodstock that raised $80,000, to a group of second-home owners who pooled together money to help local businesses rebuild. Friends of the Deerfield Valley, a nonprofit, alone raised $175,000 for Steve Butler’s North Star Bowling.

MONIQUE JOHNSON

That first night we tried making spaghetti in the home-economics room, where they had two regular-size ovens. But the school lost power, and we were running on a generator, so we couldn’t get the water to boil. A police officer rode in the bucket of a bucket loader to Shaw’s to get cold cuts and bread. For water we had only the drinking fountains, which we knew wasn’t going to be enough, so another officer took the butt of his gun and smashed open the drink machine. So that first night we were making sandwiches and stealing energy drinks out of the cafeteria.

SUSAN HAUGHWOUT

There was one young woman who was

having a panic attack—shaking, feeling faint—and she had a bad cut. I’d heard that among the wedding guests there was a doctor, so I went into the gymnasium and asked, “Is anyone here a doctor?” A young guy, probably 30, raised his hand. “Well, I’m an anesthesiologist,” he said. “Good enough,” I told him. “We have a triage issue in the cafeteria, and we need your help.” He ended up spending quite a bit of time with the woman and helping her out.

MONIQUE JOHNSON

Because it was the end of summer, people were dropping off all this extra produce from their gardens. One day we got a big box of peaches, and somebody took them home and made peach cobbler. Joe turned a bunch of donated heirloom tomatoes into this amazing salad. Any time of day there was food available—desserts, sandwiches, anything you could imagine. The building took on a life of its own.

NICKI STEEL

It became magical the way things hap-

pened when we needed them to. One day a woman who was helping out in the kitchen came back from her break in tears. On her way home she’d passed a family doing laundry in a bucket in their front yard. She ended up stopping and taking their clothes home to wash them. I was like, “Oh my God, I bet there’s a lot of people who can’t do their laundry.”

Literally as we’re discussing this, a woman from Mount Snow—I didn’t even know her—happened to overhear me and said, “I can help with that.” She took out her phone, made a call to someone, then handed the phone to me. “This is Ruby from Mount Snow housekeeping” was the voice on the other line. For the next three days they drove down, picked up bags of dirty clothes from residents, and washed them in their big industrial machines.

CAMILLE SWANSON

Everyone wanted to help. If you said you needed something once, the next thing you knew, some big truckload would come and deliver it. We needed some diapers; well, before you knew it,

4,000 diapers were being dropped off. It was like, Oh my God.

STEVE BUTLER

I’ll never forget it. They were serving gourmet food—to anyone who walked in the door. And the atmosphere—all those volunteers made you feel like the most important person in the world. It was an unbelievable feeling. It was like being hugged, when you walked into that building. It felt so good.

MONIQUE JOHNSON

One of the big network news shows came to town, and they wanted to know if there was one person they could highlight for their person of the week. I remember thinking, There’s no single person to feature; it’s everybody. Everybody came together. They put on their boots and did what needed to be done.

SUSAN HAUGHWOUT

We’d had, in the years before the flood, a couple of controversies in town that had created divisions. For some, it was quite serious. They maybe weren’t as friendly with people as they once had been. But during this time of recovery, of coming together and helping out, that all disappeared. It was like this wonderful time of renewal.

CAMILLE SWANSON

That last day there was bittersweet. I think we were all kind of sad. There had been such a purpose in our lives. We were in this bubble with total focus. It was so cool to be in a situation where nothing matters except where you are at that moment in time. When it was over, I think we all sort of wandered around aimlessly a while after.

‘I STILL HAVE NIGHTMARES’

Five years after Irene, Wilmington is thriving. Businesses like Dot’s, North Star Bowling, and Bartleby’s Books are in completely renovated homes, while new restaurants and a hotel have recently opened. But residents watch the river more closely when a big rain hits. There’s added sympathy when the

news reports about some community having suffered a weather event, and in downtown Wilmington there’s a bench that honors the life of Ivana Taseva. On the police station, above the Hurricane of ’38 mark, there’s a line that indicates the new record flood line, 71 inches. As it was for those who lived through the Hurricane of 1938, the memory of what the storm brought endures.

LISA SULLIVAN

Four months after the flood, Anna, my store manager, and I went to the American Booksellers Association conference in New Orleans. The entire time we just kept thinking, Here we are where Katrina hit, and what happened to us was just this tiny version of what they had experienced. We rented a car and drove around the Ninth Ward. Here it was, six and a half years after the hurricane, and the place was still devastated. So many of the homes were still rough, and people were walking because bus service hadn’t returned. It gave us perspective. Our houses are okay, we have cars, and people haven’t had to move hundreds of miles away in order to live.

DANA STONE

I haven’t really found any peace. I still have nightmares about the accident. Every year around when it happened, I get real shaky. My heart sometimes starts pounding.

HANNAH

SWANSON

My friends and I think of the storm as this kind of passage from childhood to adulthood. Like there was our life before the flood and there’s our life after it. During that storm, a lot of us had to take on all these new responsibilities, and I don’t think any one of us ever felt like we came back to what life was like before Irene hit us.

STEVE BUTLER

I’m the most humble, thankful, grateful person in the whole wide world. I wasn’t born or brought up here, but I got more help than anybody should rightfully expect for 10 lifetimes.

NICKI STEEL

For months after the storm I didn’t

want to take any pictures. It felt like the landscape here had been so changed. You’d be going through your life, not really thinking about the storm, then you’d drive around a corner and see something that was devastated and be reminded of it again. I’ve talked to other artists who’ve felt the same way. It wasn’t until a year after the storm, when I was up in the Northeast Kingdom, that I felt the adrenaline rush to shoot again. I ended up creating a series of images I call Hearts in Nature They’re shots of naturally occurring things that are in the shape of a heart. I didn’t set out to do it, but I guess it was part of the healing process.

SUSAN HAUGHWOUT

We created a list of the records we knew were lost, so that we could leave a record behind for future clerks, who wouldn’t have gone through the experience with us and wouldn’t know, when they went to look for something, why they couldn’t find some document. There are gaps. So when someone goes to look for, say, the Board of Civil Authority minutes from, you know, 1995 to 2011, they’ll find a little note saying, Well, it would be nice to have those, but they were lost in the flood.

FLORENCE CRAFTS

I guess some people thought that I shouldn’t have fixed my house up, that it wasn’t worth it. But it’s my home. And if it happens again, I won’t be here. And if I am, I’ll be too old then, and I’ll just pack my bag and move out. I’ll let somebody else take over.

NICKI STEEL

That first Saturday morning after the storm, I went downtown with paints and a brush to mark where the flood level had risen to. After all we’d gone through, after that whole first week, I felt like I needed to do that. For so long we’d looked at that ’38 mark and couldn’t imagine that the waters had ever gotten that high. And now we’d been through something where the water had gotten above that. I guess that by painting that new mark, I wanted to show that this had happened to us. That we had survived.

DOES CONNECTICUT BELONG IN NEW ENGLAND?

(continued from p. 115)

highways, it’s unmistakably New England: the rivers, hills, and forests; the abundance and saturated color of the towering trees; the deep, dappled shade; the stone walls enclosing fields now gone to goldenrod; the lichen-dappled old gravestones; the town greens; the Congregational churches with their whiteclapboard siding.

You can, of course, also see this New England character being eroded by 1960s ranch houses and 21st-century McMansions (a tale of too many gables), and by the Walmarts and Stop & Shops on the periphery of old downtowns. You can see New England’s lost industrial character, its waning Yankee ingenuity, in the cavernous brick factory buildings left idle, with tattered “Now Leasing” banners up top.

I stopped at Norfolk, the most altitudinous town in Connecticut, at 1,280 feet, and also “the icebox of Connecticut.” When I brought up my question about whether Connecticut belongs in New England, a local promptly replied, “It does in Norfolk.” A former farming and mill town, it’s one of the northwestern hill communities that reinvented itself, with the coming of railroads in the late 19th century, as a summer colony. Norfolk became an enclave for professors, artists, musicians, and writers. A thinking person’s town. For a time in the 1930s, the experimental-poetry journal New Directions was published from a barn there. (A local family recalls pelting Ezra Pound with grapes during a swim at Toby Pond.) Generations of visitors have also regularly assembled in Norfolk’s long, shingled, church-like music shed (hard seats, no air conditioning, great acoustics) for a celebrated summer concert series affiliated with Yale.

The thing about Connecticut is that if you pick around almost anywhere, you turn up tantalizing threads of history. Sometimes it’s in the garden, in the form of shell middens or a George III penny. Sometimes it’s in the attic, in a squirreltorn letter from an Italian countess to

her Yankee ship-captain husband. And if you follow the thread back in time, it becomes a story.

In Norfolk, historian Ann Havemeyer has done much of the thread-following, and as we sat in her office at the town library, she shared the results, starting with an early-20th-century architect named Alfredo Taylor. On the cover of her book An Architect of Place and the Village Beautiful, “Fredo,” as he was known to his friends, cuts a jaunty figure in white jodhpurs, a checked tweed jacket, and a bow tie, with unruly white hair, a full beard, and a Sherlock Holmes sort of briar pipe hanging down from his lips.

Though he practiced in New York, Taylor designed more than 30 buildings in Norfolk, and they’re eclectic: an English Tudor house for one client, a Swiss chalet for another, a Serbian summer cottage for a woman who had fallen in love with a Columbia University professor from Serbia. “What Taylor did expressed the individuality of the client, and of the architect,” Havemeyer said. It was distinctive, not like the work of architects associated with nearby towns, who simply reached into their kit bags to lay on a veneer of imaginary New England colonialism.

Robert Dance, a fellow historian in Norfolk, chipped in, more explicitly: “It wasn’t like Litchfield. Litchfield made itself a sort of fake New England town, like Williamsburg. It’s beautiful, but those avenues of white-clapboard houses? They never looked like that.” (Did I mention that rivalries with nearby towns are the essence of local identity in Connecticut?)

But Norfolk reimagined its identity, too, Havemeyer added, and that had to do not just with the coming of the railroads, but of the Irish, generally regarded as the Mexican immigrants of their day, only worse. The Irish worked at the woolen mill and worshiped at a Catholic church in Norfolk’s lower village. From the pulpit, the minister of the Congregational Church (upper village) raged in 1859 against the trend among local families of moving to larger farms out West, “leaving our homesteads to degenerate under the semibarbarous usage of foreigners.” The Irish were entirely at home taking over

the rocky, unforgiving fields they left behind, even if unwelcome.

The rivalry between old and new passed from pulpit to street, at one point taking the form of “gang warfare,” Dance said, with rioting mobs flinging stones at one another. The warfare also took place along more discreet lines, in the tidying up of the town green and the commissioning of traditional New England public buildings to give permanent form to the dominant hierarchy.

In the early 1920s, the growing Catholic population needed a bigger church, and Taylor once again provided architecture that expressed the individuality of his clients (this time at no cost). The result was an ocher-colored stucco-and-stone structure, evoking medieval Spain, or Tuscany, or ancient Ireland, depending on your point of view. Its location also made it the first thing visitors saw on arriving in Norfolk from the west, “and the local elite were mortified,” Havemeyer said. They responded by hiring a different architect to add an imposing two-story colonnaded portico to the front of the Congregational Church. Thus Norfolk rejected what Havemeyer describes in her book as Taylor’s idiosyncratic “architecture of place” and “firmly wrapped” itself “in the Colonial Revival culture of recall.” The newcomers no doubt took in the abiding lesson of life in Connecticut: We are together, but we stay separate.

There is, let’s admit it, something amiss with Connecticut, but it’s certainly not a lack of New England identity. Maybe it’s a temporary breakdown of values, from having lost the industries that once gave purpose to individual lives, communities, even entire valleys: clockmaking and brasswork on the Naugatuck River, textiles on the Thames. Danbury, Bill Hosley told me, “used to manufacture 75 percent of the world’s hats, a couple of dozen major players, all gone. Now it’s where the help lives for Greenwich.”

Maybe the sense of emptiness is a reflection of stark income inequality, or of the industries that still thrive here: arms, insurance, financial services. Connecticut, the writer and radio host Colin McEnroe joked, is “about killing people elsewhere, and preventing anything

Exotic

from happening here. It has all that joyous and life-affirming character.”

Connecticut’s problem may just be that it’s a bit too much New England: too much taciturn reserve, too powerful a tendency for people to withdraw into their private lives, too focused on work (or the search for work). Once, after a highly gregarious trip through Cajun bayou country, I came home desperately seeking some Connecticut counterpart to Louisiana’s “Laissez les bon temps roulez!” Then I realized it was right in front of me, in the dependable, but joyless, “Land of Steady Habits.”

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There is, however, one thing that draws us together, defines us, and also connects us inextricably to the rest of New England: the water. Partly I mean the coastline. Let’s call it 100 miles from Greenwich to Stonington, or 618 miles if you go by the federal system of measuring nooks and crannies, and I can tell you that the nooks and crannies definitely count: Take a boat tour among the raw granite ledges and outcrops of the Thimble Islands in Branford’s Stony Creek Harbor. Or eat a lobster roll at Abbott’s Lobster in the Rough in Noank. They’re almost— almost —the equal of Five Islands in Maine. (Our beaches are better—sand, not rock. But enjoying them, on the other hand, can be difficult. Eighty percent of the coast is privately owned.)

More than the coast, though, it’s the rivers that make us who we are: the Housatonic, the Naugatuck, the Farmington, the Quinnipiac, the Willimantic, the Quinebaug, the Thames. Together with countless tributaries, they drove the early agricultural mills, and later the first factories, obliging us to create and endlessly improve new products, in the process inventing Yankee ingenuity itself. The Connecticut River in particular gives Connecticut its name, raises it to the level of a great American place, and makes it the real heart of New England (or anyway, the aorta).

The river rises just below the Canadian border and travels through 410 miles, and four New England states, missing just Maine and Rhode Island. But it earns its name, an Eastern Algonquian word meaning “long tidal river,”

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only as it leaves Massachusetts and begins to feel the rhythms of its destination in Long Island Sound. From the Connecticut border south, the river’s footprint broadens into a 20-mile-wide rift valley, with some of the best farmland in the region (any region). Then, somewhere north of Middletown, a spirit of Yankee independence (or ancient geology) seizes hold of the river, and it abandons its own valley, veering southeast for 30 spectacularly scenic miles down to the Sound. This stretch of the river is why I live in Connecticut, and love it here. (The old valley bed, incidentally, ends up 32 miles away in New Haven, with the Quinnipiac now running there.)

One recent summer day, I was canoeing at the mouth of the Connecticut and was struck, as I’ve often been, by the way shifting sandbars have kept this estuary looking much as it did a century or two ago: unindustrialized, with the white steeple of Old Lyme’s First Congregational Church rising above the treetops. I was interested that day in ospreys. My guide, Paul Spitzer, an ornithologist who grew up in Old Lyme, described the species as a very Connecticut bird, “a bird of steady habits.” It migrates each fall to South America but remains loyal year after year to its North American summer nest site and to its mate. Both male and female are industrious at the business of catching fish to feed the young, and they share the work more or less equally.

Spitzer and other birders started working with ospreys here in the 1960s—another recent thread of history worth picking up—after the population plummeted from 200 nests to a few dwindling holdouts. Under the guidance of Barbara and Roger Tory Peterson, the bird artist, volunteers established the first 10-foot-high osprey nesting platforms on a place called Great Island, mainly to rule out the possibility that nest-raiding predators might be the real problem.

The platforms were an old New England idea updated. Someone remembered that Connecticut farmers used to put wagon wheels on poles to attract ospreys, with the idea that the fish eaters would keep the chicken hawks and redtail hawks away from their poultry. The problem for ospreys in the 1960s turned out to be not predators, of course,

but the inadvertent eggshell-thinning effect of the widely misused pesticide DDT, abetted by dieldrin in the river from the woolen mills upstream. Even so, the ospreys took to the platforms on Great Island, especially as the population recovered after the banning of DDT and dieldrin in 1972. The platform idea soon spread along the East and West Coasts, and across to Europe. It was a bit of Yankee ingenuity, still at large in the world.

Great Island is now a kind of osprey garden, with more than 20 platforms, and on an earlier visit, Spitzer had peered into a nest to check on progress with the help of an old bicycle mirror attached to one end of a bamboo pole. Now, though, the young had fledged, and they were in the sky all around us, a male and female “jagging and flaring,” as Spitzer put it, in some sort of display, and others winging out to fish, and back again with their catch slung underneath, face forward, bright blood streaming down from where the talons gripped each fish’s flanks.

There’s an older sort of Yankee ingenuity at work here. Some of it is built in: Ospreys can, for instance, dislocate their shoulders to get their wings out of the way as they plunge beneath the surface to pick flatfish off the bottom. And some of it is just an extraordinary ability to spot shifting resource possibilities: An osprey will fly long distances to hit a fish hatchery, for instance, or pluck an expensive meal from an ornamental koi pond.

Mostly, though, their food comes, as it always has, from the river and the Sound. One osprey turned to run off a black-backed gull trying to steal its catch, and the gull, plainly outnumbered here, soon fled. Across the river, a “kettle” of ospreys—23 of them—wheeled over South Cove in Old Saybrook. I breathed in the salt air, glad to be apart from the rest of humanity for a while—something still highly possible in a state that remains more than 60 percent forested. The fledglings splashed down feet first to the water with a kind of childish exuberance, missing the fish much of the time, but hitting often enough to be happy.

You could call this place Connecticut, you could call it New England. The birds didn’t give a damn. On this gorgeous morning, it was simply a very fine place to live.

Join Yankee Magazine at these upcoming summer events:

July 8 - 17, 2016

The Cape Cod Hydrangea Festival’s annual celebration of the region’s signature flowers is happening July 8 - 17. The ten day festival’s main attractions are the daily tours of private gardens, each designed and maintained by the individual homeowners, with all proceeds benefiting more than 20 local nonprofit causes.

Gardens are only one part of the festival. Enjoy workshops and lectures presented by leading international horticulturalists, discover promotions at participating nurseries and home centers, take a class to learn proper hydrangea pruning techniques, or even watch a painting demonstration by renowned Cape Cod artists both in-studio and in the gardens themselves.

For more information: CapeCodHydrangeaFest.com

SAVE-THE-DATE July 17, 2016 at Shelburne Farms from 10 A . M .- 4 P. M .

Join Yankee Magazine and The Vermont Cheese Council for a day of celebrating locally made food products and the artisans behind them at The Vermont Cheesemakers Festival in Shelburne, Vermont. Yankee editors

Amy Traverso and Aimee Seavey will be on-site to lead cooking demonstrations and tastings featuring favorite recipes from the magazine. Per capita, Vermont has more cheesemakers than any other state; and more than 40 will be on hand at the event to offer hundreds of local cheese, wine, beer and food products.

EVENT SPONSOR

New to the event this year, check out Kenyon’s grill slider station for their take on the ultimate Vermont burger.

For more information: VTCheeseFest.com • CookWithKenyon.com

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Established 1958

‘All Aboard for Quisset’

Baldwin Coolidge found inspiration in the comings and goings of Woods Hole scientists and students.

he intersection of art and science came together when Baldwin Coolidge (1845–1928) brought his heavy, large-format cameras and dry-plate glass negatives to the dock on Quissett Harbor in 1897, at a time when Woods Hole, a village in the town of Falmouth, Massachusetts, was already amassing a reputation for its oceanographic research. Coolidge had made his mark as a Boston photographer, especially with his exquisite portraits of art and priceless objects shown at the Museum of Fine Arts. But when summer came, he’d retreat to Cape Cod and a studio on Martha’s Vineyard. He was drawn to the countryside and to Quissett Harbor life (he spelled it Quisset), but especially to the Woods Hole students who spent days collecting marine specimens. On this voyage aboard the Vigilant in 1897 was 23-year-old Gertrude Stein. Just six years

later she would move to Paris and in time become both a famous writer and a cultivator of artists and writers, including Picasso and Hemingway. But all that still lay ahead. Here she stands in the stern (at far right in this photo), a young woman immersed in the pursuit of tiny sea organisms, hopeful of becoming a doctor: one more image in a lifetime of frames preserved for history by Baldwin Coolidge. —Mel Allen

Historic New England has a collection of more than 2,000 regional images by Baldwin Coolidge. To learn more and to order prints, contact: archives@historicnewengland.org. To see additional Coolidge photos online, visit: woodshole museum.org/wordpress. The Woods Hole Historical Museum has also published a book of Coolidge’s work: New England Views: The Photography of Baldwin Coolidge (1845-1928)

Born in Woburn, Massachusetts, in 1845, Baldwin Coolidge was an engineer for many years before taking up photography in the late 1870s. He was renowned for his shots of Boston buildings and street scenes, as well as images of Cape and Islands life. Ships and boats of all kinds were among his favorite subjects.

RIGHT : The Vigilant, Falmouth, Mass., 1897.

The Pelatiah Leete House is one of the earliest surviving dwellings built in Guilford, CT in the early 18th century, by Pelatiah Leete, the grandson of Guilford founder, and Connecticut governor, William Leete. It is one of only a handful of properties in Guilford that is included on the National Register of Historic Places. In 1781, during the American Revolution, the Battle of Leetes Island was fought across the road from the house and its surviving 1705 barn, and Simeon Leete, who lived in the house at that time with his wife and three small children, was mortally wounded near the conclusion of the battle. He was brought back to the house, where he died, at age 28, the following day. His gravestone is around the corner from the house, on land owned by the Leete family since 1661, and an annual celebration of his life is held every June on the Sunday nearest June 19, the anniversary of his death date. The Sixth Connecticut Regiment of the Continental Line performs musket drills and live firing at the event, which draws numerous neighbors and townspeople.

AUTHENTIC COLOURS crafted by masters of 18th and 19th Century color fidelity - fifth generation paintmakers. The Old Village paint craftsmen create the authentic colors that simply cannot be matched by a mass production process or by guessing and mixing. Old Village Paints are of superb quality, using natural earth pigments from around the world, as well as the heartland of America.

P.O. Box 130

• Perkiomenville PA 18074

Email: info@old-village.com

Tel: 215-256-0077 • Fax: 215-256-0022

Toll Free: 800-498-7687 | www.old-village.com