Yankee Magazine Jan/Feb 2021

N E W E N G L A N D ’ S M AG A Z I N E

MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME IN A FLOATING LIGHTHOUSE

N E W

E N G L A N D ’ S

FALL IN LOVE WITH WINTER IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

M A G A Z I N E

the

comfort of pie Something We Can All Agree On

N E W E N G L A N D.C O M / / / J A N UA RY/ F E B RUA RY 2 0 2 1

Growing Up Black in Rural New England

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January / February 2021

CONTENTS features 72 /// Winter’s Playground The Mount Washington Valley’s endless options let you take the season at your own speed.

By Ian Aldrich 84 /// Written in Stone Generations of Vermont stonecutters have made a cemetery into a garden of stories. By Julia Shipley

96 /// Memory House

We may outgrow where we grew up, but we never really leave it behind. By Ann Hood

100 /// The Winter Sea

Gabe Bornstein rides his board into New England’s coldest waters to capture images most people would never see.

108 /// Conversations:

Rebecca Carroll Raised in a small New Hampshire town, the acclaimed writer and radio producer looks back on growing up in a place where everyone else was white.

Interview by Joe Keohane

ON THE COVER Photograph by Mark Weinberg; food styling by Kaitlin Wayne; prop styling by Veronica Olson.

Yankee (ISSN 0044-0191). Bimonthly, Vol. 85 No. 1. Publication Office, Dublin, NH 03444-0520. Periodicals postage paid at Dublin, NH, and additional offices. Copyright 2020 by Yankee Publishing Incorporated; all rights reserved. Postmaster: Send address changes to Yankee, P.O. Box 422446, Palm Coast, FL 32142-2446.

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C A I T B O U R G A U LT

Big views meet big powder in the Mount Washington Valley.

Story, p. 72

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More Contents

departments 10 DEAR YANKEE, CONTRIBUTORS & POETRY BY D.A.W.

home

12 INSIDE YANKEE

26 /// The Pie Maker’s Tool Kit

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If our cover story has you feeling inspired to give pie baking a try, these artisan-crafted wares will get things rolling. By Annie Graves

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food 44 /// Baking Power In a grassroots salute to Martin Luther King Jr. Day, pies of all kinds bring comfort and purpose.

By Nadine Nelson

WEEKENDS WITH YANKEE Q&A We catch up with Louisa Conrad, co-owner of the acclaimed Vermont goat dairy and confectionery Big Picture Farm.

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54 /// Weekend Away Fall in love with winter in Woodstock, a classic Vermont town brimming with cold-weather adventures and amenities. By Amy Traverso

LIFE IN THE KINGDOM A son’s love of hunting is both a mystery and a wonder to his father. By Ben Hewitt

Connecticut’s largest wildlife sanctuary rewards nature-loving explorers all year round.

By Erik Ofgang

64 /// The Best 5 For a cozy getaway, nothing beats heading deep into the snow-dusted woods. Here are five destinations that deliver. By Kim Knox Beckius

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UP CLOSE In a world of glamorous specialty ice creams, the no-nonsense Hoodsie Cup keeps a hold on New England’s heart.

By Jessica Battilana

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60 /// Local Treasure

66 /// The Great Outdoors Shake off cabin fever with our editors’ roundup of fun winter outings in every New England state.

FIRST LIGHT Finding stories in the snow with a master wildlife tracker in the winter woods.

By Annie Graves

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52 /// In Season Celebrate the best shellfish of the year with a big bowl of mussels in a creamy cider sauce.

By Amy Traverso

travel

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ADV ERTISING RESOURCES

54

Weekends with Yankee.......... 23 Retiring to the Good Life............................ 40 Retirement Living...............70 Marketplace........................114

B O B O ’C O N N O R ( S H I P) ; L I Z N E I LY ( M U S S E L S) ; TA R A D O N N E ( S TO R E F R O N T )

34 /// House for Sale For decades this Nantucket lightship showed sailors the way home. Now it can be your very own shelter from the storm. By Joe Bills

FIRST PERSON In a Massachusetts town famous for its Revolutionary War history, a different kind of legacy comes to light.

By Todd Balf

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11/11/20 1:44 PM

Unhibernate This Winter. This is no time for sitting around. It’s time to get out and explore. In Maine, a fresh blanket of snow is a welcome invitation to bundle up and head out. With over 14,000 miles of snowmobile trails and plenty of wide-open spaces, Maine is the perfect place to make the most of the season.

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EDITORIAL Editor Mel Allen Managing Editor Jenn Johnson Senior Features Editor Ian Aldrich Senior Food Editor Amy Traverso Home & Garden Editor Annie Graves Associate Editor Joe Bills Senior Digital Editor Aimee Tucker Associate Digital Editor Katherine Keenan Contributing Editors Kim Knox Beckius, Sara Anne Donnelly, Ben Hewitt, Rowan Jacobsen, Nina MacLaughlin, Julia Shipley ART Art Director Katharine Van Itallie Photo Editor Heather Marcus Contributing Photographers Adam DeTour, Megan Haley, Corey Hendrickson, Michael Piazza, Greta Rybus

Publisher Brook Holmberg ADVERTISING Vice President Judson D. Hale Jr. Media Account Managers Kelly Moores, Dean DeLuca, Steven Hall Canada Account Manager Françoise Chalifour Senior Production Coordinator Janet Selle For advertising rates and information, call 800-736-1100, ext. 204, or email NewEngland.com/adinfo.

MARKETING ADVERTISING

Director Kate Hathaway Weeks Manager Valerie Lithgow Associate Holly Sloane PUBLIC RELATIONS

PRODUCTION Director David Ziarnowski Manager Brian Johnson Senior Artists Jennifer Freeman, Rachel Kipka

Roslan & Associates Public Relations LLC 212-966-4600 NEWSSTAND Vice President Sherin Pierce

DIGITAL Vice President Paul Belliveau Jr. Designer Amy O’Brien Marketing Specialist Holly Sanderson Email Marketing Specialist Samantha Caveny CORPOR ATE STAFF Credit Manager Bill Price Staff Accountant Nancy Pfuntner Accounting Coordinator Meg Hart-Smith Executive Assistant Christine Tourgee Maintenance Supervisor Mike Caron Facilities Attendant Paul Langille — YANKEE PUBLISHING INC. ESTABLISHED 1935 | AN EMPLOYEE-OWNED COMPANY

President Jamie Trowbridge Vice Presidents Paul Belliveau Jr., Jody Bugbee, Ernesto Burden, Judson D. Hale Jr., Brook Holmberg, Sandra Lepple, Sherin Pierce Editor Emeritus Judson D. Hale Sr.

NEWSSTAND CONSULTING

Linda Ruth, PSCS Consulting 603-924-4407 SUBSCRIPTION SERVICES To subscribe, give a gift, or change your mailing address, or for any other questions, please contact our customer service department: Mail Yankee Magazine Customer Service P.O. Box 422446 Palm Coast, FL 32142-2446 Online NewEngland.com/contact Email customerservice@yankeemagazine.com Toll-free 800-288-4284 — Yankee occasionally shares its mailing list with approved advertisers to promote products or services we think our readers will enjoy. If you do not wish to receive these offers, please contact us.

BOARD OF DIRECTORS

Andrew Clurman, Daniel Hale, Judson D. Hale Jr., Joel Toner, Cor Trowbridge, Jamie Trowbridge FOUNDERS

Robb and Beatrix Sagendorph

A member of the City and Regional Magazine Association

A member of the Association of Magazine Media

A member of the American Society of Magazine Editors

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

Printed in the U.S.A. at Quad Graphics

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I N S TA G R A M SP OT L I G H T

A POP OF COLOR A curated look at New England featuring standout shots from our Instagram community.

(Use our hashtag #mynewengland for a chance to be featured in an upcoming issue!)

Julia Harpe (@julia.harpe) Greenfield, New Hampshire

Alexa Esteves (@everythingvermont) Mount Snow, Vermont

Amy Welch-Olson (@capshore) Kennebunkport, Maine

@buildingsofnewengland Essex, Connecticut

Sam Trombino (@samtrombino) Stowe, Vermont

Maria Paz GarcĂ­a-Huidobro (@mariapaz_gh) Hamden, Connecticut

A N E W E N G L A N D P I E PA R T Y DARREN MUIR/STOCKSY (PIE)

In honor of National Pie Day on January 23, we’re celebrating all things pastry.

Find 12 classic pie recipes from our archives, discover where to find the best pie in every New England state, learn how to make pie crust from scratch, and more! To get started, go to newengland.com/pie.

FO L L OW US O N S O C I A L M E D I A @YA N K E E M AGA Z IN E

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OUR READERS RESPOND

Rock Fan

CONTRIBUTORS NADINE NELSON A sustainable-foods chef, artist, and social entrepreneur, the author of “Baking Power” [p. 44] is of Jamaican heritage and grew up eating primarily Caribbean cuisine, which is not known for sweet pies. “Nothing delights this immigrant child,” Nelson says, “like a slice of sweet pie—sweet potato, apple, peach, cherry—with a dollop of vanilla bean ice cream to satisfy my sense of Americana.”

JULIA SHIPLEY Having already explored the worlds of steeplejacks, Christmas tree farmers, and Emily Dickinson superfans for Yankee, contributing editor Shipley now introduces us to sculptors who transformed cemetery memorials into masterpieces [“Written in Stone,” p. 84]. “Writing about the power of their art to outlast death—what an assignment,” says Shipley, who makes her home in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom.

JOE KEOHANE The author of the upcoming book The Power of Strangers: The Benefits of Connection in a Suspicious World leads off our “Conversations” series [p. 108] by talking with journalist Rebecca Carroll. “She grew up the only Black person in a small New Hampshire town,” he says, “and I was fascinated by how she dealt with being part of the community but also being kind of an outsider. She’s a wonderful conversationalist.”

XIA GORDON Gordon’s portrait of writer, radio producer, and Come Through host Rebecca Carroll [“Conversations,” p. 108] went beyond just capturing a physical likeness: “I wanted it to also depict playfulness and discernment, to speak to her career as a conversational podcast host and critic,” says Gordon, a Brooklynbased illustrator whose work has appeared in such publications as The New Yorker and The Atlantic.

MARK WEINBERG This busy New York–based freelancer says he became “intrigued” with pie while shooting a piemaking demo for the website Food52; he proceeded to make 100 pies in the months that followed and has baked more than 300 to date. Little wonder he got the assignment for our cover story [“Baking Power,” p. 44], or that his photos fill The Book on Pie, a new baking guide by Erin Jeanne McDowell.

BOB O’CONNOR Photographing the story of Barre, Vermont’s famous granite sculptors [“Written in Stone,” p. 84] gave this former architecture student fresh insight into how things are made. “I’ve always been interested in craft and how raw materials turn into finished objects,” says the lifelong Massachusetts resident. “This was an opportunity to follow the process through from beginning to end.”

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I enjoyed reading “The 85 Best Things To Do” in your September/October issue. However, I disagree with your comment in No. 24 that Plymouth Rock is “underwhelming.” It’s not the size of the rock that matters; it’s what it stands for. Plymouth Rock is a symbol of one of the most important events in our nation’s history. I remember the first time I looked down at Plymouth Rock. I was impressed and actually had a lump in my throat. And then one of my clueless fellow Americans standing next to me shouted out, “Is that all there is?” Talk about breaking a spell.

Ray Vassil Bridgewater, Massachusetts

Lasting Values Regarding your article “Do the Pilgrims Still Matter?” by Justin Shatwell [November/December]: As a member of the Mayf lower Society and a 12th descendant of John Alden, I have to say that some of the beliefs of that time are not like mine—specifically gender issues—but I was moved when I carefully read the covenant signed by the men to found their community before they left the ship.

It contained the spirit and ideas that founded our country: freedom from religious persecution and the right to self-govern. Even though it was a profoundly simple document, it still has great meaning today.

We can not apply our standards and interpretations strictly to that time, but we can still be informed by the spirit of what they accomplished and be awed, and grateful, for their bravery and resolve.

Marsha Donahue Millinocket, Maine

Happy Meals For many years my husband and I have made a September trip from our home in New Jersey to spend several days in Maine, eating our fill of fried

CHRIS R ANDALL (NELSON); DAVID J. WITCHELL (SHIPLE Y ); DIANA LE VINE (KEOHANE) INDI A N HIL L PR E SS ( “A DV ICE TO T R A IL BL A Z ER S” )

Dear Yankee

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11/11/20 1:45 PM

For Now And Ever A Most Unusual Gift of Love

ADVICE TO TRAILBLAZERS Choose a thoughtful way to go When trampling newly fallen snow...

Whatever avenue you make Will be the one that others take.

—D.A.W. clams and lobster. This year, because of Covid-19, we chose to forgo our annual adventure.

Then, thanks to your article about Lobster Landing in Connecticut [“Local Flavor,” July/August], we decided to take a day trip and headed out for a lobster roll lunch (albeit a two-hour-plus ride each way). We are so happy that we did. We didn’t get to see owner Enea Bacci, but we certainly enjoyed our lobster rolls, dripping with butter and atmosphere.

After lunch, we discovered nearby Hammonasset Beach State Park, a beautifully maintained and wellequipped facility. We were only sorry we hadn’t brought our beach chairs, but the water, sand, and sun were the perfect ending to a delightful lunch.

Thanks for your great suggestion.

Mary Margaret Carter Oradell, New Jersey JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

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Inside Yankee |

MEL ALLEN

Listening, Especially Now of interviews that address important issues facing New England and the nation. The first one [p. 108] features Rebecca Carroll, author of the new memoir Surviving the White Gaze, being interviewed by fellow journalist Joe Keohane, whose book The Power of Strangers is due out this spring. She talks about growing up in a small New Hampshire town where as a Black child, she was always the other—and he listens. And we can, too, in the quiet of our homes.

Within these pages you will also find Ann Hood’s “Memory House” [p. 96], about the humble Rhode Island home that gave shelter to her family for nearly 150 years. “The house is not special,” she writes, “except to us.” It’s that same feeling of belonging to roots that we can feel and relate to, no matter where we call home.

Finally, sometimes I wonder if the calm that our country hungers for could start with something as simple as sharing in a home-baked pie [“Baking Power,” p. 44]. Look at the fruit-andnut-filled pie on our cover, and picture your own favorite pie taken hot from the oven. It’s an image, I believe, that resonates equally in red and blue states.

There are no simple solutions for this troubled country. But if any progress is to be made, it needs to begin with one person talking, another listening, and maybe a slice of pie to break the ice.

Mel Allen editor@yankeemagazine.com

To catch up on Mel Allen’s monthly “Letter from Dublin,” go to newengland.com/letterfromdublin.

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JARROD MCCABE

ello, 2021, we’ve been waiting for you. Farewell to a year we will never forget, no matter how much we’d like to. “2020” sounds like a melody, or the start of a rhyme by Dr. Seuss.

It’s a playful number, as well as a signifier of clear vision—yet when we look back on the year 2020, we see disruption, misery, and social unrest. And amid all that, what we least expected was to see empathy for one’s fellow citizens eroding seemingly by the day.

On the news, we heard mostly shouting. The voices of diplomatic, soft-spoken doctors could barely be heard above the din. We all felt the fatigue of constant conflict.

I’m writing this letter just before Election Day, so I do not know what the world will be like when you read it. Whether we awakened on November 4 to calm or disorder, or even whether we remain “one nation indivisible,” as the fourth-graders I once taught in Maine would recite each morning.

Today I teach in a creative nonfiction program at Bay Path University in Massachusetts. When we talk about the craft of interviewing, I stress that it depends not only on the questions posed, but also on listening.

I ask my students, “When was the last time someone really listened to you?”

There’s silence, then a few sighs. Few can recall when that happened.

This issue of Yankee marks the launch of “Conversations,” a series

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First Person

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TODD BALF

Finding Juno

rides Crossing is a lovely part of Beverly, Massachusetts, with secluded old estates off a scenic stretch of Route 127 where the tree-shaded road bends along the coast.

At its center, near the railroad station, is a tiny post office annex, a chocolates store, and an open secret I only recently learned of.

In the wake of last June’s Black Lives Matter protests, I was scrolling through my Twitter feed when I came upon “Set at Liberty,” an online exhibit by the local historical society, Historic Beverly, about slavery in the city. It told the story of a woman named Juno and her slaveholder, a prosperous landowner named David Larcom. He was threatening to sell several of her children to slaveholders in the South, and Juno, 55 years old and in bondage since she was a child, sued to stop him.

I have lived in Beverly for most of my adult life; we raised our children here. I am a well-traveled journalist and an author who wrote a narrative history of a pioneering black athlete. And I have never heard stories of Beverly’s 18thcentury slave population. The city’s glorious Revolutionary War past—the heroic sea battle in shallow waters off Independence Park—is common knowledge. We were the site of General George Washington’s first naval base, in 1775, a fact announced by an ornately lettered sign at the city limits. Beverly’s slavery ties, and Juno’s story, seemed to arise from nowhere, and yet for me it felt like a timely resurfacing of history, vital to this moment.

I set out with two stops in mind: Historic Beverly, whose papers pertaining to slavery had been recently reviewed by the National Museum of African American History and Culture, and the site of Juno’s farm, which apparently was located up the hill from the Prides Crossing 14 |

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rail stop at a hidden entrance to a private neighborhood of expensive homes, some overlooking the Atlantic.

I was the first visitor in months at Historic Beverly’s headquarters, the Cabot House, using mask and gloves to spend time with its 17th- and 18th-century slavery papers. There was an original handwritten note from Larcom: a bill of sale for Juno’s 12-year-old son, Reuben. And there was Juno’s 1774 court petition, in which she explained her background and the urgent reason for action. “Master Larcom has sold two or three of my Children,” she testified, “and now I am oneasy By reason of selling my children … judge ye Weather or noe I hadent ort to Be set at Liberty.”

Future president John Adams argued on Juno’s behalf; however, the case was dismissed after Larcom died in 1775.

In the aftermath, Juno unilaterally declared her freedom and that of her children, which was uncontested by Larcom’s widow.

For the rest of her days, Juno lived in a house on a halfacre of land deeded to her family adjacent to the Larcom farm, near present-day Saint Margaret Church. Shortly before her death in 1816, at age 92, she bequeathed the property to her daughter Chloe and “my long loose gown” to her daughter Flora.

I rode my bike to the address a few weeks later. A handsome old stone wall formed the entrance into the hillside neighborhood just over the railroad tracks. A 19th-century Larcom descendant remembered Juno’s house as being so close to the tracks it “shook” when a train passed. Of course, there is no building left. But when I told a friend who lives in the neighborhood about Juno, she said the handwritten deed to her family’s property describes the development’s boundary—the exact wall I was looking at—as “Larcom Gate.”

She had never heard of the story of Juno, either.

G AY L E K A B A K ER

In a Revolutionary War town, a darker history comes to light.

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First

LIGHT

To a tracker’s keen eye, these footprints near the Quabbin Reservoir in central Massachusetts show the passage of not one but two Eastern coyotes, with the second animal following in the tracks of the first. opposite : A close-up of a bobcat track.

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PAUL RE ZENDES

this page :

11/5/20 11:02 AM

Stories in the Snow In the Massachusetts woods, eyes and ears sharpen on the trail with a master tracker.

BY AN N I E GR AV ES

PAUL RE ZENDES

D

ress for the weather, I was instructed. And bring more clothes than you think you will need. Yes, it was predicted to be warmer than usual for a mid-February day in central Massachusetts, but deep woods can hold the chill. And tracking is a slow process.

It is also something I’ve always wanted to do. Fundamentally practical, it’s at the same time something magical, this ability to “read” the woods— something Merlin would have known.

At its core, tracking is philosophical too. How to see more? Look more. The longer you look at snow, the less it is JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

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simply an expanse of white. And yes, it is an effortless storyteller, but the tale is not always easy to decipher. There are epics written right under your nose, in nature’s equivalent of invisible ink.

Two days before my introduction to David Brown, master tracker, and his Quabbin Trails program, my fellow participants and I get a heads-up email: 2-3 inches of snow on the ground, mostly crusted and durable. A brief reconnoiter this morning indicates that there are tracks and trails to occupy us.

Brown began his immersion decades ago, with renowned photographer and tracker Paul Rezendes, who wrote

Tracking and the Art of Seeing. “Rezendes had the eye for it,” Brown tells me when we meet. “And a mind behind the eye.”

Since then, in the 30-plus years he’s spent following wild creatures, this former English major and Vietnam vet has made his own significant contributions, writing books and offering workshops. Brown doesn’t just identify tracks—he’s invested in the stories they tell. What is this animal, what is it doing, is it walking or bounding, and how is it interacting with place? It’s the difference between knowing letters and being able to put them together to make words. And then sentences. Stories. | 17

11/5/20 11:03 AM

LIGHT

| STORIES

IN THE SNOW

At 9:45 a.m., we gather at the Country Store in Petersham, Massachusetts, about an hour and a half west of Boston.

The store sits off a town green that is stunning in its white-clapboard-ringed grandeur. The only obvious retail spot around, the store serves hot coffee, breakfast, and lunch and sells ruggedly pretty knitted things, along with a mix of local jams and pottery.

Brown is sitting in the far room, near a woodstove. He’s comfortable back here—it’s like a second living room—and several people call out a hello as they walk by. His silver beard is a rumpled version of Hemingway’s, overlooked by a pair of sharp blue eyes that are amplif ied by wire-rimmed glasses. He is rangy, self-contained. It turns out he has a dry sense of humor too, and a gift for stories.

My three expedition mates are already seated, and an easy camaraderie overhangs the group. Kristen, Gail, and Tim have all taken past workshops together. Spread across the table is an array of plaster casts of animal tracks: dog, bobcat, coyote. We study them over coffee, like a pop quiz without the pressure. “See this triangle in the middle?” Brown asks, pointing at one.

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The longer I stare, the more I can distinguish the difference between dog and coyote. The rounder prints belong to our domestic dog; the longer, skinnier ones are coyote. Like that, I catch a glimmer of this new language—a visual one that hangs on subtleties.

Not so subtle? This damp morning that’s colder than predicted, temps in the 30s, when I’d been happily anticipating 40s. We head out and meet up at a parking lot beside a beautiful frozen pond (location undisclosed “to protect the wildlife,” says Kristen).

The stillness is broken by the sound of backpacks being strapped on, gaiters cinching, and walking poles clicking open. Moments later, we’re already in the thick of it.

It’s a small track. Tim points out the toe definition, while Brown takes out his tape measure and instructs us to consider the habitat of evergreens.

Consensus comes quickly: red squirrel.

(These are practiced trackers, although Tim quickly clarif ies, “David’s the veteran, we’re the assistant veterans.”)

Steps later, near a path that connects two areas of water, we f ind beaver tracks and a little heap of something else. Gail sinks down, gives it a sniff.

left : In addition to leading programs for the public, naturalist-tracker David Brown has helped teach others who work in the outdoors, including docents and rangers. right : ID’ing a track with a set of Brown’s “Trackards.”

It’s castoreum, a gland excretion that beavers use to mark their turf. I, too, take a deep whiff. It smells spicy. Turns out, it’s used as a fixative in perfume.

And in some schnapps.

And here are the trotting tracks of a river otter, crossing from one body of water to another. “Fellow travelers,” Tim comments softly. “You know, sometimes we’re three hours into a tracking session and still in sight of the parking lot.” At the beginning of this particular trek, we’ve also had ample opportunity to identify dog tracks (not as easy as you’d think). As I drop to my hands and knees to bring my nose closer to a pile of not-yet-frozen scat, I think of that injunction to do something new every day. “The niacin in dog food gives it the revolting smell,” says Brown, just a moment too late.

But then we wind farther into the woods, walking through a red oak and white pine forest, and now here are coyote tracks, 22 inches apart—

COURTESY OF DAVID BROWN

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| STORIES

IN THE SNOW

the average gait, I learn. “In winter they’ll do anything to save energy,” says Brown, including walking in tracks laid down by others: humans, dogs, deer, anything that might give them a tiny edge to survive. “March and April are the hardest for them,” he says, as we journey deeper into the stillness. Small clumps of snow fall off the trees, and the ground is littered with the indents of these tiny snowballs, obscuring the tracks.

Even so, we begin to find signs of f isher-cats. As anyone who owns a small pet can tell you, there’s a mythology surrounding these animals, often cast as the bogeymen of the forest. In reality, fishers look nothing like cats and are members of the weasel family. Also, out here there’s no judgment, only another set of prints to decipher.

I pull out my Trackards—waterproof cards with life-size tracks that Brown designed to take on treks—and place

The longer I stare, the more I can distinguish the difference between dog and coyote....

I catch a glimmer of this new language. the illustration alongside the mark in the snow. It’s a match. “Classic fisher tracks,” says Brown.

We see delicate princess pines, breaking through the snow. When my feet are freezing, Tim offers spare foot warmers and the gift of heat. I learn that fishers tend to circle around when hunting, whereas otters go straight. Brown tells us about a winter’s day he spent tracking

a red fox up Mount Chocorua, painting a picture of what his eyes read in the snow. And when we find a small clump of crushed and torn branches, we spend minutes trying to decipher the story. In the end: “It’s a mystery,” Brown says, with a grin. “Sometimes it’s more-or-less guesswork; other times it’s guesswork.”

Toward the end of our trek, we come across the dancing steps of a ruffed grouse, a plump bird that “drums” on the air by beating its w ings. It is a moment of shared delight, and a high note on which to end this cooling day, where hours have been spent imagining the intention of wild creatures. Where we’ve traced their stories. Brown nods his head, looks down. Looks up. Looks.

For more information about David Brown’s tracking workshops and other events, go to dbwildlife.com.

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|W I NE R EE KV E INEDWS

W I T H YA N K E E Q & A

Big Picture Farm Catching up with Louisa Conrad, co-owner of the acclaimed goat dairy and confectionery featured on Weekends with Yankee.

W

hen Louisa Conrad and her husband, Lucas Farrell, began farming a little more than a decade ago, these two artists had a pair of overriding goals: They wanted to work with goats, and they wanted to bring their creative instincts to what they produced. “We intended to be more of a cheese farm, but then the caramels just took over,” says Conrad, referring to the sweets that have helped put Big Picture Farm, their hillside dairy and creamery in Townshend, Vermont, on the map. Conrad’s drawings decorate the packaging, and each goat milk caramel is bundled in wax paper by the farm’s 1970s Jolly Rancher wrapping machine. Over the years, Big Picture Farm’s caramels have been featured on The Today Show and in The New York Times, and they regularly take top honors at the acclaimed Fancy Food Show and Good Food Awards. —Ian Aldrich 22 |

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Q. You’re an artist, your husband is a poet—did you two ever imagine doing what you’re doing now?

It wasn’t on our radar screen, but at the same time so much of the work lines up with who we are. I get asked, “When are you going to get back to art?” The truth is I’m 100 percent creatively satisfied working in collaboration with goats on a hillside and creating a product from their milk. I think what I never could have imagined is how satisfied I’d be staying in one place. People forget that farmers are stuck where they are, for better or worse. For us it’s been better, because we’ve had this chance to throw all our eggs into one basket.

Q. Tell me about what it’s like to work with the goats.

Where to begin? For starters, they’re the best. They’re magical and mystical—they’re more like dogs

Louisa Conrad and husband Lucas Farrell with daughter Maisie in Townshend, Vermont, c. 2017.

than sheep. Which means they’re smart, so they’re also a pain in the neck. But they’re super-friendly and have goofy personalities. I also think they’re extremely beautiful creatures.

They’re a nice size. They’re a very manageable animal to work with. Our farm is on a rocky, bony hill, with fields littered with rock piles from previous farmers. It’s not something you could do a lot with, but it’s perfectly suitable for goats.

Q. From the types of caramels you’ve created to how they are packaged, there seems to be a certain kind of experience you want to give your customers.

How would you describe it?

I want people to think about where their food comes from, so when they pick up one of our caramels they go, “I didn’t know you could make caramels from goat milk.” Even

BOB HANDELMAN

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| Q&A

with something like a candy, your assumptions can change. I want people to be aware that what you’re buying comes from somewhere, where there are animals involved in making it, and there is labor and love that went into creating it.

Q. Most people’s idea of caramels is probably those mass-produced things we ate as kids. What’s different about the caramels you’re making?

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Those other caramels use corn syrup and butter—there’s no milk. Which presents some challenges for our version. It isn’t shelf-stable, so that’s why we can’t use large distributors.

Mostly mom-and-pop shops carry our caramels.

When we started, we wanted to tell the story of goats. So we include a booklet that describes the goats, and you can go on our website and find out what the goats were eating on the day your caramels were made. It’s a wonky and weird, but it’s fun to 11/13/20little 3:02 PM have people think a little differently.

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Over the past few years, we’ve been opening the farm up to agritourism, which has been a lot of fun for us, especially when people stay at the farm. You can come for a farm tour and go in with the goats, and that’s lovely, but to wake up here and really breathe the air, to hear the roosters in the morning and to see people have that experience slowing down, is very satisfying. For the first five years we worked so hard to build our business, we just had our faces to the ground nonstop. And so to look up and engage with the community, that’s been very special for us.

Season five of Weekends with Yankee, which includes our visit to Big Picture Farm, premieres this spring on WGBH, WGBY, and New Hampshire PBS. To search your local listings, go to weekendswithyankee.com.

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11/13/20 3:06 PM

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Prized Cup In a world of glamorous specialty ice creams, the no-nonsense Hoodsie keeps a hold on New England’s heart.

ADAM DETOUR

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or seven decades and counting, scores of New Englanders have participated in a beloved ritual: Grabbing the paper tab at its edge, we pull the lid from a Hoodsie Cup, lick it, then scoop the chocolate and vanilla ice cream from the paper cup using the paddle-like spoon.

When Hoodsie Cups debuted in 1947, the cups cost a nickel and the collectible lids featured celebrities of the time, including baseball players and movie stars like Bob Hope, Ginger Rogers, and John Wayne.

Little else has changed about this three-ounce cup of ice cream, now an iconic regional treat that’s part of birthday parties and ball games alike.

(Hoodsie maker HP Hood is the official dairy of the Boston Red Sox, and the cups bear the team logo.)

Today you can purchase Hoodsie Cups from ice cream trucks and grocery stores in every state in New England and parts of upstate New York, but more are sold in Massachusetts, where HP Hood has been headquartered since its founding in 1846, than anywhere else.

The Bay State also boasts Operation Hoodsie Cup, a collaboration between Hood and the Boston Police Department. Officers drive a custom ice cream truck to various neighborhoods and events throughout the city, distributing free Hoodsies. In a typical summer, the BPD gives out about 10,000 cups a month to residents both young and old.

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But for most kids around here, the Hoodsie Cup needs no introduction.

In the words of Matthew Jennings, author of Homegrown: Cooking from My New England Roots: “Hoodsie Cups are a New Englander’s birthright, as much a part of our culinary culture as fried clams, f luffernutters, and frozen lemonade.” We break out bags of them when kids convene for twilight bike rides. We pull individual cups from convenience store reach-in

freezers. When given the option at the snack bar, we opt for a Hoodsie Cup instead of the neon-colored cartoonbranded ice cream bar du jour.

And no matter the season, if we go to a kid’s birthday party we invariably find, resting next to the cake, the Hoodsie Cup. Then we do what generations have done before: Peel off the lid, unwrap our paddle, and get to work before the ice cream melts to foam. —Jessica Battilana | 25

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MADE IN NEW ENGL AND

T H E P I E M A K E R’S

TOOL KIT 26 |

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Pie. Three little letters packed with warm, flaky comfort.

Sweet or savory, pie releases good vibes with every slice, and now more than ever, we crave its handmade solace. That comfort gets a tactile boost when we can mix, roll, and clean up with beautiful, artisan-crafted tools. The following eight New England makers share their wares, plus a few tasty memories‌ B Y A N N I E G R AV E S | P H O T O G R A P H S B Y A D A M D E T O U R | 27

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“A wise man once told me to find inspiration outside of your craft. Ever since then I’ve kept my eyes and mind open for ideas.”

DR EW ARCHER & CASSANDR A A MU

Blackkat Leather | Chester, CT blackkatleather.com

into Blackkat’s storefront, so visitors can watch as he works. When some coveted his work apron—albeit “covered in glue, dye, and paint”—it inspired him to create a version to sell. The rugged canvas body is custom-made

by Steel Canvas in Massachusetts; leather pockets and shoulder straps add another level of durability.

BACKSTORY: In 2013, Drew saw an ad for a handmade leather travel bag in an in-flight magazine, “but the price tag was way more than I could afford, so I got the idea that I could try making it myself.” Three years later, his hobby became a full-time business.

Cassandra, an architect, designed the Blackkat logo and maintains the website and social media. Roro, the titular black cat, still holds the role as company mascot.

ON PIE: “My mother is the true baker of the family—I have watched her make countless pies, so there’s still a chance I might pick it up someday,” Drew says. “Strawberry-rhubarb with vanilla ice cream is my all-time favorite.”

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WINTER C APL ANSON (ARCHER)

PIE WEAR: CANVAS AND LEATHER APRON INSPIRATION: Drew’s studio is incorporated

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K R I S T E N & J OE C A M P

Campfire Pottery | Portland, ME campfirepottery.com PIE PREP: NESTED MIXING BOWLS INSPIRATION: “Campfire is not only our name but a visual

WINTER C APL ANSON (ARCHER)

representation of our roots,” Kristen says of the couple’s “ceramic heirlooms”: ceramic bowls, plates, and mugs rendered in elegant charcoal and sandstone with earthy speckles. “A campfire is the oldest act of human gathering, which makes it the perfect symbol.”

BACKSTORY: From its 2015 debut at the Portland Farmers’ Market, Campfire Pottery has grown into a city storefront, plus a studio in a beautiful old mill on the Presumpscot River in Westbrook. “The Dana Warp Mill is a place for people to gather to learn how to craft ceramics. It’s truly a joy to create in this space.”

ON PIE: “I grew up on my mother’s Swedish apple pie, a recipe passed down from my grandmother,” Kristen says. “You slice up the apples in a pie dish, sprinkle sugar and cinnamon, and mix up this cobbler-like batter that gets poured over the top and baked into a delicious crispcrusted top. With a healthy serving of ice cream—vanilla for sure!”

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MADE IN NEW ENGL AND

K E N & C Y N DI F R E E M A N

Vermont Rolling Pins South Burlington, VT vermontrollingpins.com PIE ROLLOUT: HAND-TURNED ROLLING PIN INSPIRATION: “We started making rolling

pins in 2009 out of desperation” as the economy took a nose dive, Cyndi recalls.

“We now have 29 styles in maple, cherry, and walnut. During this crisis, many people are enjoying their kitchens again, baking and cooking. We love that we can bring some comfort to these homes with our rolling pins.”

BACKSTORY: The couple had started out turning wood for architectural and furniture needs, but after they switched to making hand-turned rolling pins, a new business was born. Their 350-square-foot workshop, with views of the Green Mountains, is dominated by two lathes; some 1,500 to 2,000 rolling pins roll out of here each year.

ON PIE: “Ken makes the pins and I use them.

I learned [pie making] later in life and am still learning. My newest discovery: To keep the crust from shrinking, freeze it when it is rolled out in the pie plate for at least 30 minutes prior to baking, and before freezing make sure you already have your decorative edges on your pastry,” Cyndi says. “I love so many kinds of pie, it’s hard to choose: lemon tart, berry, French silk, apple. We have an apple pie contest every October, and it’s amazing how many varieties of apple pie there are. We taste them blindfolded to make sure the visual doesn’t sway our taste buds.”

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NEWENGLAND.COM

11/5/20 2:06 PM

RO B B I P OR T E L A

Maple Lane Pottery | Windsor, ME Facebook

PAT P I A SE C K I ( F R E E M A N S) ; PAT T E N W I L L I A M S ( P O R T E L A) ; W YAT T K N OX ( K E N N E Y )

PIE DISHING: STONEWARE PIE PLATE INSPIRATION: “My designs are inspired by

my love for all animals, and the fact that I grew up on a farm and live on one now, with lots of wildlife surrounding us,” Robbi says. “I’ve had chickens for as long as I can remember. Right now we have a small flock of Araucanas, the Easter egg chicken. My style? Rustic and whimsical, a place where primitive meets happy-go-lucky. The chicken design was my very first one—it’s still a big favorite.”

BACKSTORY: “I opened my studio in 1988 when we moved to our farm in Windsor. For the first five years I was set up in our barn, in a really fun space between two old wooden silos. Finally, I made the transition to the ell in our 200-year-old colonial house, right off the kitchen, and paneled the walls with oneinch-thick pine from the local sawmill.”

ON PIE: “I love to make pie! My mother taught me—she is an excellent baker. My favorite is apple with a scoop of French vanilla ice cream. We have an apple tree in our front yard with the best pie-making Cortland apples.”

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LINNY K ENNEY

Linny Kenney Leather Littleton, NH linnykenney.com PIE PROTECTION: LEATHER MITTS INSPIRATION: “I use mine daily—the

same pair for two years now, but I’m getting ready for a new color!” Next up: Italian leather mitts. “It really is the most beautiful leather I’ve ever seen. I found it in Milan last winter: full-grain vegetable-tanned leather hand-dyed using eco-friendly dyes.”

BACKSTORY: In 2010, Linny rode her horse, Sojourner, from L.A. to New Hampshire, with tack she made herself, settling into a studio in an old mill and polishing the leather-working skills she learned from her father. “Knife rolls are definitely what put my little business on the map, but as more and more foodies, chefs, and barbecue enthusiasts started following my work, it was a natural progression to making oven mitts.”

ON PIE: “The best pie I ever had was a chocolate macaroon pie baked

by Kathy Knapp [then owner of the Pie-o-Neer restaurant], in a town actually called Pie Town. This was on my cross-country ride, and my horse and I had traveled about 700 miles. I tied Soj up outside this super-Western-looking café and sat exhausted on the front porch.

After taking care of him, I went in and was fed this warm piece of pie with a hot cup of coffee, and possibly nothing has ever tasted so good.

Food like that, on days like that, fills the soul like nothing else.” | 31

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Wicks Forge | Pownal, ME wicksforge.com PIE COOL-DOWN: IRON TRIVET INSPIRATION: “I started making trivets last summer, selling at crafts

fairs across New England—they sold out instantly. They are one of my favorite products to make. I’m able to play a bit with the metal and try out different patterns and shapes. It’s one of the closest things to ‘sketching’ in metal that I can think of.”

BACKSTORY: Tucked into a 12-acre horse farm north of Portland, Wicks Forge was launched in 2012 shortly after Nick returned from apprenticing with a master blacksmith in Scotland. Despite his background in environmental conservation, he succumbed to the family passion: “I still have my great-grandfather’s anvil and work table, and I use my grandfather’s hammers every day.”

ON PIE: “I am the beneficiary of my family’s pie-making history.

My Aunt Madison is the current keeper of the pie tradition. Every Thanksgiving she makes three pies using my grandmother’s recipes: pecan with maple syrup, apple crumb, and pumpkin with graham cracker crust. My favorite is a plate with slices of all three. My favorite pie ever eaten was the first pecan pie I ate when I was 8 years old. It was Thanksgiving at my grandparents’. I had never had pecans or pecan pie before, so the pie was a bunch of brand-new flavors and sensations.”

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Z ACHARY MICHAEL (MORE AU); COURTESY OF BIG PIC TURE FARM (CONR AD)

“My background is construction, so I like things to be artistic and functional— bringing beauty to handmade objects that are used every day.”

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/13/20 2:26 PM

Z ACHARY MICHAEL (MORE AU); COURTESY OF BIG PIC TURE FARM (CONR AD)

E R IC A M O ODY

Erica Moody Fine Metal Work Waldoboro, ME ericamoody.com PIE PRESENTATION: BRASS AND STEEL PIE/CAKE SERVER INSPIRATION: “The aesthetic [of serving

utensils] … and the values that they hold around community, family, nourishment, the land, tradition, and ritual—these were so rich and close to my heart, so that is where I dove in,” Erica says. “All of the utensils have hit the mark, but the pie server is the most popular, for sure. I use it wherever I can—homemade berry pies, flipping eggs, homemade pizza. Give me another reason to use it, I’m there.”

BACKSTORY: “One of the first intrigues of becoming a craftsman was seeing so many old tools and machines in use in these modern times,” says Erica, a professional metal fabricator since 1994, who works out of a post-and-beam barn attached to an 1854 house in midcoast Maine. Five years ago, she started out making tools for building wooden boats, but then she quickly switched to serving utensils because “I was seeing such creativity in the local food movement.”

ON PIE: “I love making pecan pie every fall, crust and all, and learned it from my mom, and she from hers, and so on, back down the line of our moms,” Erica says. “In summer, my favorite is fresh-picked raspberry pie, served warm with vanilla ice cream. I’m lucky to have had some pretty good pies, but I need more!”

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L O U I S A C O N R A D & L U C A S FA R R E L L

Big Picture Farm | Townsend, VT bigpicturefarm.com PIE CLEANUP: TEA TOWELS INSPIRATION: Big Picture Farm earned its name “because we wanted

a farm that was rooted in a ‘bigger picture’ of sustainable agriculture, animal husbandry, being good employers, good neighbors, good citizens,” Louisa says. The tea towels she designed immortalize not only the farm’s first goat, Orion, but also subsequent generations, including Annabelle and Margot. “Our ‘All the Goats’ tea towel is probably the most popular.”

BACKSTORY: In what might be the ultimate in multitasking, Louisa and Lucas run a 40-goat dairy and farm stand confectionery, producing award-winning caramels, chocolates, and cheese, as well as creating tea towels, apparel, and accessories—all while raising young daughters Maisie and Minna. “We started with goat milk caramels and they are still our bread and butter,” says Louisa. “We used the milk of one goat, Orion, and went from there.”

ON PIE: “My mother makes tarts! We lived in France until I was 6, so she learned when we were over there. I stick to the more free-form galette. But the best pie was one we made this spring, with both my parents. The cherry tree we planted 10 years ago finally bore tons of fruit, so we had enough for several sour cherry pies. My mom made the crust; my dad, who grew up eating cherries in Michigan, made the cherry filling. Maisie and I did the eating.”

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HOUSE FOR SALE

Bringing Home the Beacon There are houseboats—and then there are Nantucket lightships.

Shown at its berth in Boston, Nantucket Lightship 612 has been reimagined as a luxury houseboat—albeit one that was built to endure 150 mph winds and 100-foot waves.

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ack in March 2000, Bill and Kristen Golden became the owners—or, as they prefer, stewards—of the ultimate fixerupper. It was impulsive, for sure.

But it needed to be done.

Bill, a former Massachusetts state senator, had just returned from a business trip to Asia when he got a message from a friend. “It said, ‘Your ship has come in, log on to eBay.’ So I did, and there I see this Nantucket lightship for sale,” he recalls. “The auction was about halfway through, but there was an open house the next day. When my wife came home, I said, ‘Hey, were you aware of this?’ and she said, ‘Yes—and that’s why I didn’t tell you about it.’”

Lightships, which are essentially f loating lighthouses, have been used since 1854 in the Nantucket Shoals, an infamously shallow area southeast of the island that had claimed dozens of ships. The history of the Nantucket lightships includes wrecks and rescues, lives lost and saved, and a multitude of storms weathered. Lightships themselves have sunk; one was rammed by a sister ship of the Titanic.

Built by the Coast Guard for $500,000 in 1950, the vessel that Bill was interested in—Nantucket Lightship 612—had served the island from

BOB O’CONNOR

BY JOE BILLS

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/11/20 2:39 PM

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WILL MOSES

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HOUSE FOR SALE

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BOB O’CONNOR

“Art to warm your heart & home.”

1975 until 1983, an assignment that above : Oak and mahogany warm up the followed a 20-year stint off the Cali- interior of the lightship, which boasts six cabins and a dining room that seats 12. fornia coast and four years in Port- below : Relics of the ship’s former navigation system remain in the pilothouse. land, Maine.

At the open house, Bill found himself among a crowd of scrappers, who were keying the paint all over the ship to f ind out what metal was underneath. “That was profoundly disturbing to me,” he says. “When I got back to my office, I couldn’t think of anything else.”

With the auction slated to end in just a few days, Bill embarked on a whirlwind of phone calls and intensive study. Walking through the ship had made it obvious there were problems, but he didn’t know whether they were superficial or serious. So he learned Yankee likes to , sey around and see mo everything he could, riosit y, out of editorial cu n up when as fast as possible. what you can tur ng. u go house hunti yo By the morning in the We have no stake and of the auction’s final sale whatsoever would decline it day, Bill had resigned if offered. himself to backing out.

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BOB O’CONNOR

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him in the eye and said, “You know, ever since I met you, I’ve known how crazy you are. But until this moment I didn’t realize how crazy I am. We should absolutely do this.”

With seven seconds remaining in the auction, the Goldens placed the winning bid of $126,100. At the time, the lightship was the largest item ever sold on eBay. When the couple started dismantling the interior of the lightship, they didn’t know exactly what they would do with it. “The challenge was, here we have one of the most historic ships in the world, and we are gutting the inside of it so that she’ll have [another] function,” Bill says.

“We kept the outside totally historic, but when we decided to convert her into a luxury charter vessel, we worried that we were justifiably going to get tremendous blowback from crew members and the people who loved the ship. But that didn’t happen.”

After Kristen drafted architectural plans for the ship’s three decks, they began a comprehensive rebuild that would last nearly two years. The side of the ship was opened up to create a new entry. A new engine, generators, hydraulics, and navigation system were installed—as was more than four miles of wiring, plus plumbing and pneumatic operating controls.

The end result offers 4,000 square feet of living space on two levels, and a 2,000-square-foot exterior deck.

The interiors are crafted from oak and mahogany. There are six cabins, each with its own bathroom, as well as a dining room, office, main salon, and den. The galley kitchen is big enough for three chefs to work side by side.

Even as they’ve maintained a home on land, the Goldens have spent much of the past two decades living on the lightship; their son, Braden, has grown up on it. But it’s also been chartered by a bevy of clients ranging from chef Todd English to deep-sea explorer Jean-Michel Cousteau. Senator Ted Kennedy JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

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Moving between the upper and lower decks got a stylish upgrade with this open spiral staircase.

rented it for Nantucket Race Week.

Janelle Monáe held a launch party for her album Electric Lady on its deck.

11:06 AM Although it was always the Goldens’ plan to sell the ship eventually, they won’t hand it over to just anyone. “You aren’t just the owner of a ship,” Bill says. “You are agreeing to be a steward of history, of all the sailors and lives that sacrificed to be on this ship and all the immigrants whose aspirations were rea lized because of its beacon. It has to be someone who is willing to share that in some way.”

As for the Goldens ? They’ve already got another ship to tend to: Nantucket Lightship 613, which they bought in 2015. Its interior has been extensively restored, and for the top deck, the Goldens are thinking about creating a restaurant. “To me, the lightship represents stretching toward the horizon,” Bill says.

“So that’s where we’re looking.”

Nantucket Lightship 612 is listed for $4.95 million. For more information, contact Josie McKenzie at Douglas Elliman Real Estate, 617-267-3500, or email josie.mckenzie@elliman.com.

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BOB O’CONNOR

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BAKING Food

RECIPE SPOTLIGHT

At a gathering for Martin Luther King Jr. Day, pie brings comfort and purpose. BY N A DINE NEL S ON P H O T O G R A P H S B Y M A R K W E I N B E R G | F O O D S T Y L I N G B Y K A I T L I N WAY N E PROP ST YLING BY VERONICA OLSON

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11/11/20 3:27 PM

G POWER ON A CHILLY WINTER MORNING,

students from Common Ground— a high school, urban farm, and environmental education center in New Haven, Connecticut—enter the campus’s teaching kitchen toting baskets of fresh eggs, carrots, kale, garlic, onions, and other goodies that they’ve raised over the past five months. They’re here to bake as part of the Peace Through Pie project,

a national nonprofit that engages communities through group baking events. The funds raised from today’s efforts will be donated to the Institute Library, the city’s oldest membership library, to support its charter mission

of “mutual assistance in the attainment of useful knowledge.” As the event’s producer, I’m supervising the drop-off and sorting donated food from Yale University’s dining halls and Haven’s Harvest, a food recovery program.

We work our way through pounds of hearty winter greens, root vegetables, onions, cheeses, and apples. Once the ingredients are organized, we bring all hands on deck to bake a global array of tarts, pies, samosas, quiches, and spanakopitas.

Many of the students are first-time bakers, but this afternoon of shared

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Food

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RECIPE SPOTLIGHT

labor allows them to bring their produce from farm to table.

The idea of pie fund-raisers isn’t new, nor is community baking. In the 1950s, the civil rights activist Georgia Gilmore helped organize a group of local bakers in Montgomery, Alabama, into the “Club from Nowhere,” which sold pound cake and sweet potato pie to pay transportation costs for workers during the 1955– 1956 bus boycott.

In 1995, an Austin, Texas–based artist and activist named Luanne Stovall was brainstorming interactive ways to celebrate the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday. She imagined a shared feast in the style of Thanksgiving, and when she remembered that Dr. King’s favorite dessert was pecan pie, Peace Through Pie was born.

On the day of our bake sale, volunteers hang handmade snowflakes from the library’s ceiling, drape vintage white lace tablecloths over an oversize mahogany table, and lay out white platters and pie stands filled with pies

and tarts. We open the doors to the public, and soon our guests are milling around, exchanging recipes, sharing food traditions, and, most important, enjoying delicious food.

The template for Peace Through Pie is flexible, but the goal is consistent: to use the power of food as a way to connect us to each other, to share our legacies, and to enhance our communal well-being. Whether you want to create your own Peace Through Pie event or just bake for friends and family, I’ve created five recipes that are easy to make and versatile enough to be filled with what is seasonal and on hand.

VEGETARIAN SAMOSA-STYLE POTPIES

The filling for these mini potpies is inspired by potato samosas, those delicious spiced dumplings that come fried in little triangular packets. Here, you bake the filling in ramekins with a puff pastry topper to create a simple and warming everyday meal.

VEGETARIAN SAMOSA-ST YLE POTPIES

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3½ tablespoons vegetable oil 1 medium red onion, diced 2 teaspoons garam masala ½ teaspoon curry powder 1 teaspoon kosher salt ¹ ⁄ 8—¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper 2 large garlic cloves, minced 1 half-inch piece of ginger, peeled and minced 1 large Russet potato, cut into ½-inch cubes 1 medium carrot, peeled and diced 1¼ cup vegetable stock Butter, for greasing ramekins 1 sheet frozen puff pastry, thawed ¾ cup frozen peas 1½ tablespoons lemon juice Milk, for brushing crust

Preheat your oven to 425°. Set a large skillet over medium heat and add the oil, onion, garam masala, curry powder, salt, and cayenne pepper.

Sauté until just translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and ginger and cook, stirring, for 1 minute, then add the potato, carrot, and vegetable stock. Cover and simmer over medium-low heat for 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, grease some oven-safe ramekins with butter and place them onto a rimmed baking sheet. You can use six 8-ounce ramekins or four 12-ounce ramekins. While the filling is simmering, roll the thawed puff pastry out on a floured counter until it’s large enough to cut out pastry “lids” for each of the ramekins. The lids should be the same diameter as the ramekins.

After 10 minutes of simmering, add the peas and lemon juice to the potato mixture. Simmer on mediumlow heat, stirring, until most of the liquid is evaporated, 2 to 4 minutes.

Remove from heat, then divide the filling among the prepared ramekins.

Top each with a circle of puff pastry and brush with milk. Transfer the baking sheet with ramekins to the oven and bake until the pastry tops are golden brown, 15 to 20 minutes. Serve warm. Yields 4 to 6 servings.

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/11/20 3:15 PM

WINTER ROOT VEGETABLE CHEESE TART

WINTER ROOT VEGETABLE CHEESE TART

This tart makes use of whatever hearty winter vegetables you have on hand.

I focused on sweet root vegetables, but you could also use cauliflower, cabbage wedges, potatoes, or broccoli.

4 tablespoons salted butter, melted, plus more for pan 6 cups sliced sweet root vegetables of your choice, such as carrots, parsnips, sweet potatoes, celeriac, beets, or turnips 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 tablespoon honey 1 teaspoon fennel seeds, crushed 1 teaspoon coriander seeds, crushed 1 teaspoon plus ½ teaspoon kosher salt 1¾ cups whole-milk ricotta ¾ cup finely crumbled feta 1 large egg, lightly beaten ¼ cup chopped walnuts JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

YK0121_Food_Opener_Pie.indd 47

¹⁄ 3 cup thinly sliced scallions 8 sheets phyllo pastry (thawed, if frozen) 2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme

Preheat your oven to 400°. Butter an 8-by-11½-inch rectangular or 12-inch circular tart pan with removable bottom and set aside. Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, toss the root vegetables with the olive oil, honey, fennel, coriander, and 1 teaspoon kosher salt. Arrange them in a single layer on the baking sheet and transfer to the oven. Bake, turning the pan halfway through cooking time, until tender and golden, 30 to 35 minutes.

Meanwhile, make the filling: In a medium bowl, stir together the ricotta, feta, egg, walnuts, scallions, and remaining ½ teaspoon salt. Set aside.

Set the buttered tart pan on a rimmed baking sheet. Take one sheet of phyllo and lay it in the pan

so that it drapes over the sides. (How this works depends on the shape of your pan. If rectangular, this will be straightforward. If round, you’ll need to lay the phyllo diagonally and rotate the sheets so that the whole pan is eventually covered.) Brush the first sheet of phyllo with butter. Lay the second piece over that, then butter.

Repeat until all 8 sheets are used.

Spoon the filling into the tart and spread evenly. Arrange the roasted vegetables on top, then sprinkle with thyme. Bake until the phyllo is golden brown and the center is set, 35 to 40 minutes. Yields 6 to 8 servings.

PUERTO RICAN–STYLE SHEPHERD’S PIE

This cozy dish takes its cue from pastelòn, a Puerto Rican casserole that varies by region but usually includes plantains, meat, onion, bell pepper, cheese, tomato, olives, herbs, spices, and sometimes | 47

11/9/20 10:55 AM

Food

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RECIPE SPOTLIGHT

PEAR CRANBERRY CHEDDAR PIE WITH HAZELNUT CRUMBLE

My uncle made this pie for Thanks­giving every year, and as a child I was fascinated by the combination of fruit and cheese—an addition inspired by Vermont apple and cheddar pie. The cheese doesn’t add savory notes as much as a creamy tang, and the cranberries add tartness and a pop of color.

PUERTO RICAN–ST YLE SHEPHERD’S PIE

raisins. Traditionally, the meat mixture and the plantains are layered, which is why some call it “Puerto Rican lasagna.”

Here, we use the plantains as a top crust, in the style of shepherd’s pie.

2 teaspoons kosher salt 4 ripe plantains (yellow with black spots), peeled and halved crosswise 3 tablespoons salted butter, plus more for the pan 3 tablespoons olive oil 1 pound ground beef 1 teaspoon adobo seasoning 1 medium onion, diced 1 small green bell pepper, diced ½ teaspoon ground cumin ½ teaspoon paprika (preferably smoked) ½ teaspoon dried oregano 1 cup tomato sauce ¹⁄ 3 cup pimento-stuffed green olives, sliced 2 teaspoons capers (optional) 2 large eggs, beaten 1¼ cups shredded Monterey Jack, mozzarella, or cheddar cheese

until tender, about 15 minutes.

Transfer the plantains to a bowl and mash with the 3 tablespoons butter until smooth. Set the mixture aside.

Preheat your oven to 400°. Butter a medium baking dish; set aside.

Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the beef and adobo seasoning and cook, breaking up with a wooden spoon, until it’s browned. Remove beef from the pan and transfer to a bowl. Reduce heat to medium and add the onion, pepper, cumin, paprika, and oregano; cook, stirring, until translucent, about 6 minutes. Return beef to skillet. Add the tomato sauce, olives, and capers and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the liquid evaporates. Remove from heat.

To assemble the casserole, spread the meat mixture in the bottom of the baking dish. Pour the eggs over the meat mixture, then spread the plantains over that. Top with the cheese. Bake, uncovered, until the cheese is golden brown, 30 to 40 minutes. Serve warm.

Yields 6 to 8 servings.

For the filling 5 large ripe pears (any kind), peeled and cut into ½-inch chunks 1 cup fresh or frozen cranberries (do not thaw) 1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese ½ cup packed light or dark brown sugar ¼ cup all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon ground ginger 1 tablespoon lemon juice 1 9-inch pie shell, parbaked For the topping ½ cup packed light or dark brown sugar 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ¾ cup all-purpose flour ¹⁄ 3 cup hazelnuts, skins removed, chopped ½ cup salted butter, melted

ONLINE EXTRA

Season a medium pot of water with the salt and bring to a boil over high heat. Add the plantains and simmer 48 |

YK0121_Food_Opener_Pie_REV.indd 48

For our favorite pie crust recipe, with instructions on parbaking, go to newengland.com/pie-crust.

PEAR CRANBERRY CHEDDAR PIE WITH HAZELNUT CRUMBLE

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Food

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RECIPE SPOTLIGHT

Peace Through Pie is a nonprofit that partners with schools, organizations, and communities to promote peace and cultivate the skills of peacemakers.

For more information, go to peacethroughpie.org.

Preheat your oven to 425° and set a rack to the lowest position. Combine the pear chunks, cranberries, cheese, brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, ginger, and lemon juice together in a large bowl. Spoon into the pie shell, leaving the juices behind.

For the topping, combine the brown sugar, cinnamon, flour, and nuts. Pour the melted butter on top and stir with a fork until crumbles develop. Sprinkle topping all over the filling.

Bake the pie for 10 minutes, then reduce heat to 375° and bake until the top is browned and the juices

CIVIL RIGHTS SPICED SWEET POTATO PIE

are bubbling, 40 to 50 minutes more.

Remove finished pie from the oven and place on a wire rack to cool completely.

The pie filling will set as it cools. Slice and serve pie at room temperature.

Yields 8 servings.

CIVIL RIGHTS SPICED SWEET POTATO PIE 2 medium sweet potatoes, roasted, peeled, and mashed ¾ cup firmly packed dark brown sugar ½ cup sweetened condensed milk 4 tablespoons salted butter, melted 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon ground allspice 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ½ teaspoon ground ginger ½ teaspoon ground nutmeg ¼ teaspoon kosher salt 2 large eggs, lightly beaten 1½ teaspoons vanilla extract 1 9-inch pastry shell, parbaked Whipped cream, for serving

Preheat your oven to 425°. In a large bowl, using a standing or handheld mixer, beat the mashed sweet potatoes together with the brown sugar, condensed milk, butter, f lour, spices, salt, eggs, and vanilla until blended and smooth.

Pour filling into the pie shell. It will be full but should not spill over the sides. Bake for 15 minutes, then reduce heat to 350° and bake until the top is puffed and browned, 20 to 30 minutes more. Cool on a wire rack for at least 2 hours. Serve with whipped cream. Yields 8 servings.

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11/12/20 4:30 PM

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11/11/20 1:30 PM

Food

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IN SEASON

Mussels in Cider Cream Sauce The depths of winter bring out the best shellfish of the year.

BY A MY TR AVER SO

Amy Traverso is Yankee’s senior food editor and cohost of our TV show, Weekends with Yankee (weekendswithyankee.com).

ST YLED AND PHOTOGR APHED BY

L I Z N E I LY

he old adage that you should eat shellf ish only in months that end with “ber” may be a slight exaggeration (there are plenty of good oysters in July), but it is based in science. As water temperatures drop, mussels, oysters, and clams store nutrients in the form of sweet-tasting glycogen, which makes for plumper meat and better eating. In the depths of winter, it’s nice to look out at the frozen farmland and remember that under the sea, the shellf ish are ripe and in season.

These are times for cozy eating, and a big bowl of mussels with some crusty bread on the side really scratches that itch. Here, I’ve created a tasty sauce using hard apple cider (that’s the fizzy stuff with alcohol). The recipe couldn’t be easier: You make an aromatic base of onions, garlic, thyme, and paprika cooked in bacon fat, add the cider and reduce by half, and then steam the mussels. Nail the f inish with splash of cream and a sprinkling of bacon and parsley.

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NEWENGLAND.COM

11/12/20 2:58 PM

MUSSELS IN CIDER CREAM SAUCE Any brand of hard cider will do here (I like Citizen, Artifact, Bantam, Shacksbury, Carr’s, and Farnham Hill, all made in New England).

Be aware that the most popular massmarket brands tend to be quite sweet. pounds mussels slices bacon, diced large onion, diced large garlic cloves, minced tablespoon lightly chopped thyme leaves teaspoons paprika teaspoon kosher salt cups hard cider cup heavy cream Fresh parsley, for garnish

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- OLIVES - CHEESE - SALAMI - ITALIAN SAUSAGE - PASTA - SAUCES - SOPRESSATA - ASIAGO - PROVOLONE - OLIVES - CHEESE - SALAMI -

Family recipes passed down for over 130 years making the best all-natural, nitratefree salami!

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First, clean and sort the mussels: Rinse them in a colander, discarding any with broken shells. Remove any stringy threads (beards) from the shells with a paring knife or a firm tug. If any of the mussels are slightly open, tap them. If they close, they’re still alive and ready to cook; if they remain open, discard them.

Line a plate with paper towels and set aside. In a large Dutch oven over medium heat, sauté the bacon, stirring often, until it turns brown and crisp, about 5 minutes. Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon and transfer to the towel-lined plate, leaving the fat in the pot.

Add the onion, garlic, thyme, paprika, and salt to the pot and stir for 1 minute. Add the cider, bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer and cook until the cider is reduced by half, about 10 to 15 minutes. Increase heat to mediumhigh, add the mussels, cover the pot, and cook until all the mussels are open, 5 to 8 minutes. Stir in the cream and transfer to a serving bowl. Sprinkle with reserved bacon and parsley, and serve with crusty bread on the side to mop up the juices. Yields 4 servings.

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Travel

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W EEK EN D AWAY

WOODSTOCK, VERMONT FALL IN LOVE WITH WINTER IN A HANDSOME LITTLE TOWN BRIMMING WITH COLD-WEATHER ADVENTURES AND AMENITIES.

TA R A D O N N E ( T H I S PAG E ) ; A N D R E W R O WAT (O P P O SI T E )

B Y A M Y T R AV E R S O

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NEWENGLAND.COM

11/12/20 4:06 PM

TA R A D O N N E ( T H I S PAG E ) ; A N D R E W R O WAT (O P P O SI T E )

THIS PAGE : Winter light over downtown. OPPOSITE PAGE : Scenes from in and around Woodstock, including Neapolitan-style pizza at the Ransom Tavern, a cozy corner of the Woodstock Inn & Resort, handmade wares at the South Woodstock Country Store, and a staff artisan at work at Miranda Thomas Pottery.

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Travel

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W EEK EN D AWAY

Winter can wear down even hard-boiled New Englanders.

Many tolerate it, others take refuge in skiing, skating, and snowmobiling, while snowbirds flee southward. But there is a special subset who relish the deep snow shoveling, the long nights, the nipped cheeks and frozen toes. And if you aspire to join their ranks, there’s no better way to fall in love with this season than to spend a weekend in Woodstock.

First, there’s the snow. Woodstock sees more than 80 inches a year (twice as much as Boston, three times more than Hartford), so if you’re driving up on a Friday night, there’s a good

chance you’ll roll into town with a fresh blanket crunching under your tires and f lurries swirling in the air. You’re off shoveling duty, so slow down and notice the frost framing the shop win-

dows, which are kept illuminated with twinkle lights long after Christmas.

Next, there’s the concentration of top-notch lodging, shopping, and dining options, remarkable for a town of just 3,000 year-round residents. The most committed city dweller will have no quarrel with a fine dinner followed by an art-house movie at the Town Hall Theater.

Finally, there are the locals themselves, many of whom are young and sporty types lured here by the rolling hills, good schools, and urbane amenities. Seeing young families sipping cocoa after a regional ski meet at the local mountain, Suicide Six, you may even be tempted to move here yourself.

So if the post-holiday weeks of January are looming before you like a threat, give in. Embrace the cold. Let Woodstock show you how.

If you’re feeling hungry on your arrival, Worthy Kitchen is the perfect stop for a stellar burger and top-notch local beers, including cult favorites like Hill Farmstead and the Alchemist. Since Woodstock’s foliage season has long passed, getting a table is easier—as is finding a good hotel room (though if your visit falls in a holiday or school vacation week, book ahead).

The Woodstock Inn & Resort is the grande dame, presiding over the town green and welcoming travelers with a roaring fire. Between its plush beds, on-site spa, and off-site health club

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J US T I N C A SH ( B R I D G E ) ; A N D R E W R O WAT ( I N N )

FRI DAY

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Freshly renovated in 2018, the Woodstock Inn & Resort is a luxury escape with roots that reach back to 1892. opposite page : Middle Bridge, one of Woodstock’s three historic covered bridges.

J US T I N C A SH ( B R I D G E ) ; A N D R E W R O WAT ( I N N )

this page :

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W EEK EN D AWAY

clockwise from left :

SAT U RDAY

down the road (with heated pool and sauna), this is the prime destination for sporty types and hibernators alike.

If you prefer more of a B&B feel, however, the nearby Woodstocker delivers on style—and breakfast in bed too.

West of town, the Lincoln Inn & Restaurant at the Covered Bridge is a romantic white clapboard farmhouse whose award-winning restaurant ensures you’ll hardly need to leave your cocoon. You can’t quite walk to town from here, but Farmhouse Pottery, the rustic-modern Vermont lifestyle brand, has its f lagship store just down the street. Meanwhile, families f lock to 506 On the River Inn for its indoor pool and farmhouse suites, complete with kitchens.

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Most inns here offer breakfast, all quite good, but to caffeinate with the locals, head to Mon Vert Café, which specializes in “rustic, local, country food and good strong coffee.” That translates to terrific breakfast sandwiches, yummy muffins, and cozy lattes (regular, matcha, or chai).

If you’ve come to ski, there are few mountains more charming than the incongruously named Suicide Six. It’s actually a fairly low-octane spot to learn the sport (the instructors are terrific) or spend a day doing runs on its 24 trails (snowboarders welcome).

Free of the crowds found on larger mountains, it boasts a hometown charm, as well as the distinction of TRAVEL NOTE: Since many event organizers and local businesses are adjusting their operations in response to Covid-19 health concerns, please contact them directly or check their websites for updates before making travel plans.

being one of the country’s oldest ski areas and the home of the first rope tow, which must have seemed sportchanging at the time.

Cross-country skiers and snow­ shoers, meanwhile, can take advantage of the groomed trails maintained by the Woodstock Inn at its Nordic Center. These converge with the paths that snake up Mount Peg and Mount Tom, so you can add as much elevation as your skill set allows.

Such exertions merit a heart y lunch, and the Mountain Creamery will f ill you up with its famous VerMonte Cristo sandwich (ham, turkey, and Swiss on egg-dipped bread, served with maple syrup), mile-high apple pie, and homemade ice cream.

It’s located in the heart of the village’s commercial district, so don’t miss the opportunity to visit the Yankee Bookshop, a fixture since 1935. Across the street, Sudie’s specializes in modernpreppy-meets-Vermont-chic clothing, and Unicorn is a great place to get lost

TA R A D O N N E

Pint-size skiers at Suicide Six; starting the day off right at local hangout Mon Vert Café; a colorful nook at Miranda Thomas Pottery, one half of the ShackletonThomas studio-showroom complex.

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Heading off on an old-fashioned sleigh ride at Billings Farm & Museum; a rustic-chic guest room at the Woodstocker B&B; a window filled with snow-day reading inspiration at the Yankee Bookshop.

J O E L L A I N O (SL E I G H ) ; TA R A D O N N E ( B & B , B O O K SH O P)

TA R A D O N N E

clockwise from left :

amid a heaving inventory of fine jewelry, toys, home accents, and gag gifts.

Looking for more outdoor adventure? The Vermont Institute of Natural Science in nearby Quechee hosts a winter wildlife weekend in January, as well as live raptor programs, wildlife rehabilitation workshops, and a wheelchair-accessible forest canopy pathway that gives visitors a bird’s-eye view of the woods.

Cap off your day in town at the Daily Catch, the unlikely Vermont outpost of Boston’s favorite Italian seafood restaurant (the Freddura family bought a country house up here and decided to expand north). Or, head to South Woodstock, where the Ransom Tavern in the Kedron Valley Inn serves excellent Neapolitan-style pies and antipasti in a modern tavern setting.

SU N DAY

As the weekend winds down, it’s time to go deep on Vermont charm.

Start with Woodstock ’s iconic genJANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

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eral store, F.H. Gillingham & Sons, a rambling 135-year-old mercantile that sells everything from French wine to Carhartt essentials. Ounce for ounce, a gallon of maple syrup here is a solid deal compared with those little glass bottles back home, and the toy and home goods departments should take care of any gift-giving you need to do.

For a glimpse into 19th-century Vermont life, spend a few hours at Billings Farm & Museum, which captures the moment when dairy farming emerged as one of the state’s dominant industries. Established in 1871 and now overseen by the Rockefeller Foundation, the farm is still home to a thriving herd of Jersey cows, plus Berkshire pigs and Southdown sheep.

Visitors can wander through the fields and barns, sample cheese made from the farm’s own milk, and, on special weekends, take sleigh rides pulled by draft horses.

Before hitting the road, swing by the Woodstock Farmers’ Market

for some road snacks. This indoor market highlights the most noteworthy Vermont-made foods, from cheeses and jams to bread and chocolate; many aren’t sold beyond the state’s borders, so stock up. While you’re at this end of town, don’t miss Shackleton​­Thomas, where furniture maker Charlie Shackleton and potter Miranda Thomas make and sell their wares. These heirloom pieces offer a vision of the slower, more handmade life that draws all those young families to town. And if you’re feeling sad to leave, you might even consider joining them.

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Travel

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LOC AL TRE ASURE

Sixty percent of the shoreline of Connecticut’s biggest natural lake, Bantam Lake, is protected as part of the White Memorial Foundation and Conservation Center.

Even in winter, Connecticut’s largest wildlife refuge rewards nature-loving explorers.

BY ERIK OFGANG

eep an eye out for butterf lies.” Even in months when snow still blankets the forest f loor, that’s James Fischer’s advice to hikers who visit White Memorial Foundation and Conservation Center in Connecticut’s Litchfield Hills.

Fischer, the research director at White Memorial, explains that the preserve, which stretches from Litchfield to Morris, is home to thousands of winter-dwelling mourning cloak butterf lies. These large butterf lies have dark brown wings edged with beige. They survive the cold by sheltering in small holes drilled by woodpeckers into the sides of trees. And 60 |

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White Memorial has an abundance of maple trees—more than 1 million, by Fischer’s estimation. “ You w i l l somet imes see t he mourning cloak butterf ly f ly through the forest on nice warm winter days,” Fischer says. “It’s seeking out mates at that time of year, but it’s also trying to f ind high-carbohydrate, high-sugar sap to drink from.”

This winged wonder is just one of the many surprises you might discover on a visit to White Memorial.

The 4,000-acre wildlife refuge—the state’s largest—has more than 40 miles of trails that run through beautiful Connecticut countryside and are popular with travelers year-round. It

Shown with their real estate magnate father, May and Alain White founded White Memorial in 1913; the former White family mansion is now the property’s nature museum.

also has a nature museum, which is temporarily closed due to coronavirus concerns, but the natural history of the region it celebrates is still, thankfully, accessible.

L E O K U L I N SK I J R . ( E AG L E ) ; C O U R T E S Y O F W H I T E M E M O R I A L C O N SE R VAT I O N C E N T E R ( P O R T R A I T )

Wild at Heart

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/11/20 2:36 PM

“HIGHLAND LIGHT”

Also known as Cape Cod Light Forrest Pirovano’s painting “Highland Light” shows The Oldest Lighthouse on Cape Cod Highland Light, also known as Cape Cod Light, is an active lighthouse on the Cape Cod National Seashore in North Truro, Massachusetts. The current tower which was erected in 1857, replaced two earlier towers built in 1797 and 1831. Highland Light is the oldest and tallest lighthouse on Cape Cod. During the summer of 1996 the lighthouse was moved from the eroding cliffs to its current location to save it from falling into the sea. The United States Coast Guard operates the lighthouse as an aid to navigation. This beautiful limited-edition print of an original oil painting, individually numbered and signed by the artist, captures the beauty of this famous lighthouse.

This exquisite print is bordered by a museum-quality white-on-white double mat, measuring 11x14 inches.

Framed in either a black or white 1½ inch deep wood frame, this limited-edition print measures 12¼ X 15¼ inches and is priced at only $149. Matted but unframed the price for this print is $109. Prices include shipping and packaging.

Forrest Pirovano is a Cape Cod artist. His paintings capture the picturesque landscape and seascapes of the Cape which have a universal appeal. His paintings often include the many antique wooden sailboats and picturesque lighthouses that are home to Cape Cod.

FORREST PIROVANO, artist P.O. Box 1011 • Mashpee, MA 02649 Visit our studio in Mashpee Commons, Cape Cod All major credit cards are welcome. Please send card name, card number, expiration date, code number & billing ZIP code.

Checks are also accepted.…Or you can call Forrest at 781-858-3691.…Or you can pay through our website www.forrestcapecodpaintings.com

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MAKES A GREAT GIFT!

Photo: Katie Pritchard

Touch the wild in a way you never dreamed possible!

Located in the beautiful, accessible hill-country of Southern NH.

NHSchoolofFalconry.com Call Nancy Cowan 603-464-6213

Email: falconers@comcast.net 62 |

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FROM TOP : Over six miles of the Bantam River runs through White Memorial, giving paddlers a prime spot for wildlife watching; a bobcat on Apple Hill, which is a habitat restoration area for the New England cottontail.

Mountain. They also purchased the land around their family’s estate that today makes up White Memorial.

These siblings ensured that the forests and hills they walked through more than a century ago remain for the rest of us. When you hike or snowshoe across Chickadee Bridge, for instance, you come to Caitlin Woods, where you will be in the shade of an old-growth 40-acre evergreen forest. The centuries-old trees are large, some are as wide as three feet in diameter, and they frequently block the sun, creating a fairy-tale atmosphere of shadow. They are also living artifacts of the region’s history.

“There are trees in that forest that are well over 300 years of age,” Fischer says. “They were here back when George Washington was walking the landscape.” whitememorialcc.org

LEO KULINSKI JR.

Actually Fly a bird!

You can learn about the area’s wetlands at one of White Memorial ’s most popular year-round destinations, the Boardwalk, a 1.2-mile walkway over the Bantam River and around Little Pond. Only a few feet off the ground and an arm’s-length wide, the wooden path traverses through the wetlands, giving you the same view that birds enjoy when they skim over a marsh.

Cross-country skiers and snowshoers head to the Five Ponds Area, where wide trails twist and turn by a series of small ponds. Apple Hill Trail is a twomile route that takes viewers up a hill with an observation deck that provides a view of Bantam Lake from its 1,200foot elevation. No matter how often you walk through the preserve, there is always more to explore.

The preserve was founded in 1913 by siblings May and Alain White in memory of their parents. Their father was John Jay White, a New York real estate magnate who in 1863 built the family a mansion in Litchfield called Whitehall, which today serves as the preserve’s nature museum. As adults, Alain and May became dedicated to saving open space in the region, purchasing more than 10,000 acres of land, much of which they donated to the Connecticut park and forest system, including what would become three beloved state parks: Kent Falls, Macedonia Brook , and Mohawk

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/11/20 2:43 PM

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Get Inspired!

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Absolutely beautiful and magical place. I felt so calm and at peace here.

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Come stay, play, shop, dine, dream & build memories.

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Now through February 28 , use code: Yankee57 to receive a $20 promotional gift card for every $100 purchased. Redeemable at over 300 inns and resorts, it’s the perfect gift or you can use it to make memories of your own. th

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Woodsy Winter Getaways

Discover a cozy retreat amid New England’s snow-dusted woodlands.

BY KIM KNOX BECKIUS

Ripton, Vermont The seven cozily furnished Robert Frost Mountain Cabins glow with the 64 |

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f licker of gas fireplaces and outdoor campf ire pits. Book one, and you’ll have the surrounding 100 wooded acres virtually to yourself. Snowshoes and sleds are free for guests’ use—or bring your snowmobile, hop on the statewide trail network, and ride for miles. Here in the heart of the Green Mountain National Forest, you can give cross-country skiing or fat biking a try on Rikert Nordic Center’s 2,000 conserved acres, or ski backcountry glades at the Middlebury Snow Bowl.

But Robert Frost, who spent his last two decades of summers harvesting inspiration from Ripton’s dense wilds, would surely approve if you never

budged from your cabin’s Swedish reading nook except for a brief evening walk through snowy woods. 802-3889090; robertfrostmountaincabins.com Poland, Maine Gaze out at frosted pine boughs and frozen Tripp Lake while awaiting delivery of a steaming-hot morning meal and Maine-roasted Carrabassett Coffee at Wolf Cove Inn, which indulges guests with not only breakfast in bed but also ease of access to winter adventures. Within an 18-mile radius, you can cross-country ski at Roberts Farm Preserve; skate, sled, snowshoe, ski, or ride a fat bike at Pineland Farms;

COREY HENDRICKSON

n t he st i l lness of the forest—and the w a r mt h y o u fe e l when you come in from the cold— you’ll find peace for both body and mind in these lesserknown New England towns. These woodsy outposts beckon you to leave your imprint on the snowy landscape, even if it’s only the boot tracks from an outdoor ramble leading back to your toasty lodge.

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ing Mount Cardigan is also an option (winter climbers prefer the West Ridge Trail). There is contentment, though, in simply admiring the 3,155-foot peak through dining hall windows while a fire blazes, board game battles ensue, and someone inevitably strums a guitar.

603-744-8011; outdoors.org

clockwise from left :

A view across the fields at Rikert Nordic Center in Vermont; hitting the trails at New Hampshire’s AMC Cardigan Lodge; the lakeside Eagle’s Nest cabin at Wolf Cove Inn in Poland, Maine.

C O U R T E S Y O F T H E A P PA L AC H I A N M O U N TA I N C LU B (SK I E R S) ; C O U R T E S Y O F W O L F C O V E I N N (C A B I N )

COREY HENDRICKSON

THE BEST 5

or bundle up for an outing with professional musher Alex Therriault at his Ultimate Dog Sledding Experience. At Carousel Horse Farm, sleigh rides and beginner-friendly trail rides follow the same route: through hayfields, timberlands, and old- and new-growth forest, then back up over Leach Hill with the Presidential Range in view. Restore warmth to your extremities with an in-room massage back at Wolf Cove.

207-998-4976; wolfcoveinn.com

Barkhamsted, Connecticut Come winter, the trout wriggling around in the Farmington River have grown to a nice size, and the fairweather anglers have gone home. That means on sunny days—especially in the village of Riverton, where the water stays a smidge warmer—you’ll have good luck f ly-casting nymphs and swinging streamers. Look downriver, and you’ll see little but trees and rocky riverbank. The woodlands here are conserved within the American Legion and Peoples State Forests, a place where hikes and snowshoe treks this time of year are disturbed only by the shrill cries of blue jays and the whispers of 200-year-old white pines. There are yellow-blazed trails for cross-country skiers in the Whittemore Grove area; however, if you’ve had a beer in the tavern at the newly renovated 10-room Old Riverton Inn, where winter wanderers have warmed themselves since 1796, you may feel

| Travel

drawn to local Norbrook Farm Brewery instead. Its 450 acres are yours for snowshoeing, cross-country skiing, and working up a thirst. 860-3798678; rivertoninn.com Charlemont, Massachusetts Charlemont’s lone hotel, the Warfield House Inn, sits amid 180 hilltop acres where trees hold new snow in the pretty-yet-precarious way doughnuts hold powdered sugar. Just four miles down the road, at the headquarters for the 6,000-acre Mohawk Trail State Forest, hikers and snowshoers can pick up a segment of the Mahican-Mohawk Trail, a footpath traveled for millennia.

Connect to the Hoosac Range Trail and hike out along the Berkshires’ northeastern wall for valley-and-mountain scenes. This actively managed wilderness grows quieter as it merges with Savoy Mountain and Florida State Forests’ 13,000 adjoining acres. Ice fish on Savoy’s North and South ponds; cut your own cross-country trails or ski those blazed by snowmobilers; spy on turkeys and grouse; or watch otters and hunks of ice glide down the Cold River.

Any time spent here, beneath the long shadows of some of New England’s oldest white pines, brings reassurance that life marches on. 413-339-6600; warfieldhouseinn.com

Alexandria, New Hampshire When Shem Valley Road dead-ends at the AMC Cardigan Lodge, there is nothing beyond but forest. And without the lights of civilization to steal your view, you’ll wonder, Who scattered all those extra stars in the sky? Winter weekends are full-service: You’ll have to bring sleeping bags, but hearty multicourse meals are provided from Friday’s dinner through lunch on Sunday. That means the days are yours to hike, with supplied snowshoes or microspikes, as deep as you’d like into the Appalachian Mountain Club’s 1,100 acres. With the essential gear and stamina, ascendJANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

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T H E G R E AT O U T D O O R S

Make like Hans Brinker and give Nordic skating a try at Lake Morey in Fairlee, Vermont.

Cures for Cabin Fever A roundup of favorite ways to have winter fun in every New England state.

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England state, these are the kinds of places that help get us through a long, cold season with a smile on our face, even as we look forward to brighter days ahead.

TRAVEL NOTE: At press time, many winter attractions and businesses had not yet finalized their operating plans for the current season. Please visit their websites or check with them directly before traveling.

NEW HAMPSHIRE Muddy Paw Sled Dog Kennel, Jefferson. Hurtle through a New England winter wonderland behind a team of sled dogs at Muddy Paw Sled Dog Kennel, which counts many rescued and secondchance pups in its canine force. During the sledding season, which typically runs from December to March, there’s a variety of tour options ranging from introductory experiences to interactive clinics. Guests are given the opportunity to harness and hitch the team—and maybe even help drive the sled. dogslednh.com

DOG SLEDDING :

Gunstock Mountain Resort, Gilford. This mountain is a favorite among New England families for a number of reasons: It’s easily accessible (just 90 miles from Boston), it has terrific views of Lake Winnipesaukee, it has well-groomed trails for all ability levels (nearly 70 percent are rated beginner or moderate), and it offers a large selection of activities and programming. The six-lane snow tubing setup boasts the longest run in the state, while the Mountain Coaster provides a unique thrill ride of up to 25 mph.

Plus, its signature 12-acre Blundersmoke

FA M I LY SKI I NG :

MARK FLEMING

he pull of being outside has never been stronger, it seems. But where New England ’s other seasons may invite us to sit in contemplation of nature’s beauty, winter demands a more vigorous communion with the outdoors: namely, fuel up, bundle up, and get that blood pumping. And whether this winter finds us still staying close to home or venturing out into the wider world, we want to share some of our favorite ways to spend a snowy day, from ice skating on a serene frozen lake to zipping downhill in a snow tube. Representing every New

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/9/20 10:45 AM

terrain park is the biggest night park in New England. gunstock.com FAT BIKING: Mt. Washington Valley Ski Touring & Snowshoe Foundation, Intervale. Combine the beauty of a snowy Mount Washington Valley with a bike with supersize tires, and you’ve got yourself a terrific way to do some wintertime exploration. This nonprofit maintains 45 km of trails in the Intervale and North Conway area, including groomed trails in Whitaker Woods specifically for biking, making it a perfect place to try out this relatively new winter sport. Don’t have your own bike? Stan and Dan Sports in nearby North Conway offers rentals. mwvskitouring.org ICE SK ATING : Labrie Family Skate at Puddle Dock Pond, Portsmouth. While there’s plenty of great food, culture, and shopping in this charming Seacoast city to keep visitors occupied, a must-do in winter is putting on skates and gliding out onto Puddle Dock Pond at Strawbery Banke Museum, the living history complex that preserves the structures and stories of New Hampshire’s oldest neighborhood. The ice rink is typically open daily from December through February, and Northeast Passage, a nonprofit affiliated with the University of New Hampshire, has traditionally been on-site once a week with adaptive equipment that allows individuals with disabilities to experience the thrill of gliding on ice. strawberybanke.org SLEIGH RIDES: Nestlenook Farm, Jackson. This 65-acre Victorian estate provides a scenic backdrop for a number of classic winter activities, from ice skating on a frozen pond to snowshoeing through the woods, but it’s hard to top the thrill of riding in a comfy, upholstered horse-drawn sleigh. When you’re done, you can sip hot chocolate in the warming center or roast marshmallows at one of multiple outdoor f ire pits. nestlenookfarmsleighrides.com SNOWMOBILING : Northern Extremes Snowmobiling, Bartlett and Bretton Woods. Covering both the Whites and the Great North Woods with its two locations, Northern Extremes—which celebrated its 20th anniversary in 2020—makes the most of the longest snowmobile season in the state. Rent a machine for a self-guided trek or opt for one of the guided tours, ranging from an hour to a full day of riding. nxtsnow.com

STAY WITH US

& find your smile.

ACADIA NATIONAL PARK | BAR HARBOR 1-833-963-0001 • www.winterinbarharbor.com

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VERMONT Craftsbury Outdoor Center, Craftsbury. Little surprise that the rugged Northeast Kingdom is home to this adventure Mecca. While specializing in all things outdoor sports year-round, the Nordic center offers some of the best crosscountry skiing in New England. Its northern locale, dedication to snowmaking, and consistent grooming keeps the 100-plus km of skate and classic trails in top condition.

Need gear for the day? The center has more than 100 sets of Rossignol and Fischer nowax and high-performance waxable skis for rent. craftsbury.com

MARK FLEMING

CROSS-COUNTRY SKIING:

JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

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Ken Haggett adopted his first Siberian husky from a shelter in 2001, and within five years he had traded a career in woodworking to launch his dogsled tour business, Peace Pups.

With his team of about 20 Siberians, he offers day trips on a trail in Morrisville that features beautiful views of the Worcester Range as well as woodland vistas, with streams to cross and hills to climb. peacepupsdogsledding.com FA M ILY SKI I NG : Smugglers’ Notch, Jeffersonville. In 2020, Smuggs was rated the No. 1 family-friendly resort in the eastern U.S. by the readers of Ski magazine. It wasn’t the first time for the resort, nor likely the last, given its hold on New England families’ hearts that goes back nearly half a century.

Included among the 78 trails across three big mountains are miles of easy terrain for newbies to find their ski legs. Those in need of a more black-diamond experience can face off against the gnarly runs on Smuggs’s signature peak, Madonna Mountain. There are also six terrain parks, a Nordic ski and snowshoe center, and award-winning instruction programs for all ages. smuggs.com ICE SKATING : Lake Morey, Fairlee. Lake Morey is home to the longest natural ice-skating trail in the country, a breathtaking 4.5-mile track protected from harsh winds by the deeply forested hillsides around it. Lake Morey Resort maintains the trail and also rents equipment including Nordic-style skates, which glide on top of the ice instead of digging into it and are ideal for this kind of surface. With a skating season that generally runs from late December to mid-March, Lake Morey is perfect for a quiet day with family or friends amid panoramic views of Vermont’s snow-covered mountainsides and cliffs. lakemoreyresort.com S N OW T U B I N G : Mount Snow Ski Area, West Dover. At one of the largest snow tubing hills in the state, visitors can choose from 10 different lanes to whisk them downhill at thrilling speeds. Save your legs and let the covered surface lift—aka the Magic Carpet—return you to the top. And if that isn’t enough to fill your day, this southern Vermont ski resort’s 600 acres of skiable terrain, 20 lifts, four mountain faces, and a 3,600-foot summit ensure that you won’t be short on options. mountsnow.com SNOWSHOEING : Blueberry Hill Outdoor Center, Goshen. The first Nordic center to receive a U.S. Forest Service special-use permit in Vermont, this Green Mountain National Forest gem has developed a network of nearly 60 km of trails in the 15,857-acre Moosalamoo National Recreation Area. Blueberry Hill actively chooses to keep the trails quiet and ungroomed for a more authentic backcountry experience, so if you’re looking for a more natural, less manicured experience, this is a great place to try. Plus, you can rent snowshoes (or if preferred, cross-country skis) if you don’t have your own. blueberryhilltrails.com

MAINE New England Outdoor Center, Millinocket. Founded in 1982 and located just down the road from Baxter

CROSS-COUNTRY SKIING :

State Park, NEOC bills itself as Maine’s ultimate adventure resort. And while it’s true you can pump up the adrenaline with a snowmobile tour here, it’s the winter views that really get hearts racing: the Penobscot River, Black Cat Mountain, and of course, mighty Mount Katahdin. Slow down and drink it all in with a cross-country ski trek on 16 miles of groomed trails (most of which are rated beginner or intermediate). Stay at NEOC and use of their equipment is included, or rent or bring your own. Cross-country and skate ski instructors are available for lessons too. neoc.com FA M I LY S K I I N G : Sunday River, Newry. The Yeti, a magical furry white creature said to live in the forest and roam the mountains, has found a home at Sunday River. To the delight of youngsters, Eddy the Yeti is a frequent visitor to the resort’s base area, and skiers and boarders can even visit Eddy’s home on the Enchanted Forest Trail on North Peak. For older kids and grownups, eight different peaks and 135 trails ensure there’s skiable terrain for all levels; the base-to-peak Chondola promises warmer lift rides. Plus, the SnowSports School can help skiers of all ages and abilities improve their skills. sundayriver.com SKI BIKING : Sugarloaf, Carrabassett Valley. Set in the stunning terrain of western Maine’s Carrabassett Valley, the largest ski area east of the Rockies has long been a magnet for winter fun-seekers, who come here to ski, snowboard, snowshoe, fat bike—and more recently, go for a spin on a ski bike. Last winter Sugarloaf debuted a small rental fleet of Sno-Go ski bikes, which are designed to travel on lifts and deliver riders to the summit. There’s no seat, wheels, brakes, or gears: You just strap in, grab the handlebars, and go. (Don’t worry, everyone takes a onetime intro lesson before hitting the slopes!) sugarloaf.com SNOW TUBING : Seacoast Adventure, Windham.

With a sound system that pumps out upbeat tunes and light towers that extend hours until 9 p.m. most Fridays and Saturdays, the atmosphere is electric at Maine’s largest snow tubing facility. As many as a dozen lanes are groomed to ensure peak conditions (bonus: Seacoast Adventure makes its own snow when nature conks out), and the carpet lift makes getting to the top as effortless as stepping on an escalator. Two-hour sessions sometimes sell out, so buy timed tickets online in advance. seacoastadventure.com SNOWMOBILING : Moosehead Lake. With 160 miles of scenic groomed trails (thanks in large part to the efforts of loyal local snowmobile clubs), you can’t beat the Moosehead Trail for snowmobiling adventure. In addition to wrapping around Maine’s largest lake, it joins with the Maine Interconnected Trail System, letting riders explore more of the Pine Tree State plus New Hampshire and Canada as well. Greenville and many of the other towns along the way are snowmobile-friendly, with rental shops, guide services, and plenty of resorts, as well as easily accessible trail condition reports. mesnow.com

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/16/20 11:54 AM

Camden Snow Bowl, Camden.

The Camden toboggan chute—formally named the Jack R. Williams Toboggan Chute—is one of North America’s biggest, and the only one of its kind left in New England. The 440-foot-long chute has a vertical drop of more than 70 feet, propelling toboggans at speeds of up to 40 mph; little wonder that it is home to the hugely popular U.S. National Toboggan Championships each February. It’s open to the public on many winter weekends, holidays, and school vacation days, weather permitting. Cost is $5 per person per hour, toboggans provided. camdensnowbowl.com

TOBOGGANING:

MASSACHUSETTS Notchview, Windsor. Overseen by the Trustees of Reservations, Notchview is 3,000-plus acres of scenic forest and open meadow in the heart of the Berkshires. Much of the reservation is above 2,000 feet in elevation, where beautiful skiable snow can typically be found more than 80 days out of the year. It has 17 km of classical track-set cross-country trails, and 10 km of groomed skate-skiing trails—and with seven beginner trails, 11 intermediate trails, and seven expert trails, there’s a good range of skiing for everybody. Plus, there’s an entirely separate trail system groomed for skiing with dogs, aka skijoring. Rentals available (of skis and snowshoes, not canine companions!). thetrustees.org/notchview FAMILY SKIING : Jiminy Peak, Hancock. First opened in 1948, Jiminy Peak today is southern New England’s largest ski resort, at 167 acres—which means families have lots of room to spread out. There are 45 trails and nine lifts, including the Berkshire Express, a six-passenger high-speed ride to the summit. A host of beginner and intermediate trails cater to first-timers as well as those looking to knock a little rust off. Full-day kids’ lessons, a mountain coaster, and night skiing round out the appeal. jiminypeak.com ICE SKATING: Boston Common Frog Pond, Boston. In the heart of America’s oldest park, the Frog Pond is transformed each winter into an ice rink that is unparalleled for nostalgia and seasonal sparkle (especially after twilight, when the city’s lights make the professionally polished ice gleam). In typical years the skating rink opens in mid- to late November and runs to early March, with daily operations including skate rental. bostonfrogpond.com SNOW TUBING : Nashoba Valley Ski Area, Littleton. As New England’s largest snow tubing complex, Nashoba Valley’s 15-acre park can definitely stake its claim as the tubing go-to for Massachusetts. Separate from the ski area with its own entrance, parking, and lodge, this winter wonderland has four lifts to maximize playtime on up to 18 lanes. Off-limits to kids under 6, and offering late-night hours under the lights, it’s ideal for heart-racing date nights as well as family-and-friends outings. skinashoba.com CROSS-COUNTRY SKIING :

JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

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VERMONT

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Ludlow, VT 802-228-4846 PettigrewInn.com

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www.VermontInntoInnWalking.com • 833-Inn-2-Inn (833-466-2466) | 69

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RE T IREMEN T L I V ING & RE A L E S TAT E Staying Vital and Connected

The perfect retirement awaits.

Even in Difficult Times

INDEPENDENT LIVING * RESIDENTIAL CARE * MEMORY CARE 100 EastView Terrace, Middlebury, Vermont 05753 (802) 989-7501 * www.EastViewMiddlebury.com Hilltop Orchards, Richmond.

There may be no better winter playground in the Bay State than the rolling hill country of the Berkshires, which is where this unexpected Nordic center makes its home. Hilltop Orchards is known for its apples and its Furnace Brook Winery, but when the snow flies it also draws visitors with miles of groomed moderate and challenging terrain with separate trails specifically designed for snowshoeing. Among past highlights: guided full-moon snowshoe treks with a bonf ire warm-up. Equipment rentals available onsite. hilltoporchards.com

SNOWSHOEING :

CONNECTICUT Winding Trails Cross-Country Ski Center, Farmington. A worthy destination for cross-country skiers that rivals some of the Nordic centers of northern New England, Winding Trails is set among 350 acres of woodlands, lakes, ponds, nature, and wildlife. Its 20 km of groomed trails are double-tracked, mapped out for easy navigating, and great for newbies and pros alike. The center uses grooming equipment to pack the snow on the trails and comb them out, providing optimal ski conditions with sometimes less-than-optimal snowfall. windingtrails.org FAMILY SKIING : Mohawk Mountain Ski Area, Cornwall. It was 1947 when legendary skier Walter Schoenknecht, a future U.S. National Ski Hall of Fame inductee and pioneering ski resort developer, opened Mohawk in northwest Connecticut. Today this family-run CROSS - COUNTRY SKIING :

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business caters to skiers and riders of all levels with 26 trails, including the Deer Run, a 1.25-mile green that’s guaranteed to produce smiles, and other diversions such as its newly debuted snow tubing runs. Rounding out the appeal: night skiing, on-mountain dining, and instruction for both kids and adults at the Snowsports Discovery Center. And keep your eyes peeled for mountain mascot Goggles the Yeti. mohawkmtn.com SNOW TUBING : Powder Ridge Mountain Park & Resort, Middlefield. This small but spunky year-round destination within easy reach of Hartford and New Haven recently added a second tubing surface lift, increasing the capacity at its multiple chutes. Powder Ridge’s popular “Interstellar Nights” amp up the fun with neon lighting and lively music. No snow?

No problem: This place can make its own. powderridgepark.com WINTER WILDLIFE CRUISES: RiverQuest, Haddam. In winter, the highest concentration of eagles in the Northeast can be found on the shores of the lower Connecticut River, already a prime locale for wildlife-watching. In February and March, birdwatchers and wildlife fans can join RiverQuest captain Mark Yuknat for two-hour cruises during which a naturalist will help them spot the majestic birds, as well as hawks, swans, seals, coyotes, deer, and more. ctriverquest.com

RHODE ISLAND The Providence Rink, Providence.

A perennial favorite with Rhode Island families, the rink at the BankNewport City

ICE SKATING:

Center boasts a total surface of 14,000 square feet, or twice that of the Rockefeller Center rink in New York City. Open daily, weather permitting, this well-lit, beautifully situated facility offers skate lessons throughout the season for individuals as well as groups, and skate rentals are also available. Past years have seen the additional attraction of New England’s first ice bumper cars. Check the website for the latest info on this season. theprovidencerink.com SLEDDI NG : Roger Williams Park, Providence.

When Mother Nature comes through with a blanket of slidable snow, youngsters and the young at heart can often be found hitting the hills in this venerable 435-acre city park.

The landscape includes slopes of varying steepness; a favorite spot is near the Greekcolumned Temple to Music. In past years the Roger Williams Park Conservancy has even rented sleds and provided free hot chocolate on select winter days. And when you’re done, warm up those frozen fingers with a visit to the Roger Williams Park Zoo and its “Faces of the Rainforest” exhibit. rwpconservancy.org SNOW TUBING: Yawgoo Valley Ski Area and Water Park, Exeter. Rhode Island’s sole ski area, the longtime family-owned Yawgoo Valley, is also home to its sole snow tubing park, which has been a hit ever since it made its debut back in 1995. Set off to the side of the ski area, the park features up to seven tubing runs that stretch an estimated 600 feet from top to bottom, with two tow ropes to keep things moving along. Tickets for each 50-minute session go on sale in advance, and buying early is a must. yawgoo.com

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/17/20 10:35 AM

Living Single in a Retirement Community

M

any people assume that retirement communities are built for couples.

But you may be surprised to learn that nearly half of Edgewood Retirement Community’s residents are either widowed, divorced or single-by-choice. If you find yourself in one of these categories, you owe it to yourself to consider your retirement living options and find out how living in a community could help you live a longer, healthier, happier life.

According to Pew Research, almost 19 million Americans over age 60 live alone.

This fact has led to volumes of research studying the effects of social isolation and loneliness, both of which are risk factors for conditions such as a weakened immune system, heart disease, high blood pressure, obesity, anxiety, depression, cognitive decline and Alzheimer’s disease.

But the news is not all bad. Research cited by the National Institute on Aging** has also shown that “people who engage in meaningful, productive activities with others tend to live longer, boost their mood, and have a sense of purpose. These activities seem to help maintain their well-being and may improve their cognitive function.”

THE NOT-SO-SECRET BENEFITS OF LIVING IN A COMMUNITY WHEN YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN: New friends around every corner.

Many people compare moving into a retirement community to moving into a college dorm. You’ll find a diverse group of people who share similar generational

experiences and who are always interested in making new friends. Plus, a full calendar of activities and events will help you stay as busy and involved as you want to be while also introducing you to people with similar interests.

All the privacy you want, when you want it. This is where the college dorm comparison ends. With your own private residence, you’ll have all the privacy and alone-time you want, whenever you want it. And, while you’ll never run out of fun and interesting things to do, you’ll never be forced to do anything. You’ll live your life on your own schedule, knowing your autonomy is always respected.

A built-in network of support.

At a retirement community, there’s always a helping hand when you need one.

Whether it’s a friend to talk to, a nurse to check on you when you’re under the weather (and a chef to send you soup), a maintenance person to change a lightbulb, or a personal trainer to help you stay fit, you’ll have an entire team of people looking out for you.

Financial predictability and peace of mind. LifeCare Communities provide financial predictability and priceless peace of mind in knowing that, as your needs change, you’ll be able to receive the assistance and care you need right on our campus. Your family and friends will never be faced with having to find care or a place in a community during a crisis situation.

Take advantage of a great value.

While a one-bedroom apartment home might feel a little too cozy for a couple, people living solo in a retirement community often find that this type of home delivers a lot of bang for the buck. That’s because, even though you may choose a smaller floor plan, you’ll still have full access to everything the community has to offer — from helpful services that make your life easier and more convenient, to an array of amenities that are all included in your monthly fee.

Plus, when you consider common spaces such as community living areas and dining venues, game rooms, classrooms, an art studio and gallery, computer lab, library, and even individual resident garden beds, you’ll find that your home is much more than the square footage of your apartment.

A home for your furry friend, too.

Research has clearly demonstrated the health benefits of having a pet, and Edgewood welcomes your furry, feathered or finned friends to join you.

There’s so much more to community life than we could describe in this article. We invite you to discover Edgewood, the Merrimack Valley’s only LifeCare Community, and see how our community can add more life to your years. To learn more and to see available floor plans, call us at 978-965-3715 or visit our website at EdgewoodRC.com.

Edgewood Retirement Community | 575 Osgood Street, North Andover, MA 01845 | EdgewoodRC.com | 978-965-3715 Sources:“Older people are more likely to live alone in the U.S. than elsewhere in the world.” Pew Research Center, March 10, 2020. “Social isolation, loneliness in older people pose health risks.” National Institute on Aging, April 23, 2019.

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11/20/20 1:49 PM

winter’s play g

Cruising down Wildcat Mountain near Jackson, New Hampshire, provides a view of Mount Washington that could almost stop you in your tracks.

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NEWENGLAND.COM

11/12/20 2:22 PM

y ground PHOTOGRAPHS BY CAIT BOURGAULT

JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

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The Mount Washington Valley’s endless options let you take the season at your own speed. By Ian Aldrich

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t had been a good 90 minutes since I’d last seen my son when I finally spotted him. I was halfway into my chairlift ride when a familiar 9-year-old figure came into view, his body jutting forward as he rocketed down a black diamond run just below me.

“Calvin!” I yelled, but I might as well have been calling to the snow. He barreled downward as though he had the trail to himself.

Which he pretty much did. It was a Tuesday at Cranmore Mountain in North Conway, New Hampshire, mere weeks before a pandemic would upend the world, and we’d managed to just about grab first tracks. But what started as a father-son day quickly dissolved after our initial run. Our two-man band was kaput.

Back at the top of the lift, I waited for Calvin to reappear. “How about another run together?” I asked. He fell silent for a moment, searching for the right words.

“I kind of want to go fast, Dad,” he said, finally. Then he smiled and skied off by himself.

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It was official: I’d lost my son to the White Mountains.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Over the past several winters we’ve regularly ventured to the Mount Washington Valley. Though New England is populated with many fine skiing regions, nothing quite matches the diversity of terrain found in the seven Alpine ski areas here. These mountains garner the kind of loyalty usually reserved for sports teams. Smaller, family resorts like Cranmore and Black Mountain in nearby Jackson share the neighborhood with the same steep wilderness runs that helped birth the American Alpine scene. You can glide down a nearly three-milelong green at Wildcat, blast down one of New Hampshire’s steepest trails at King Pine, find solitude in the glades at Bretton Woods, or take a crack at the hundreds of miles of Nordic trails that course through the region. We’ve adventured in snow in other parts of New England, but it was in this valley that my son truly fell in love with winter.

And why wouldn’t he? Here, a winter day can feel as light and carefree as any Sunday in summer. There is no judgment.

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/11/20 2:47 PM

CLOCKWISE FROM FAR LEFT :

The Omni Mount Washington Resort in Bretton Woods, which first opened in 1902; the hotel’s regal lobby; a snow-lapped brook off the Tuckerman Ravine Trail on Mount Washington; hitting a freshly groomed crosscountry trail; a cozy home base near Hermit Lake for the snow rangers who help keep Mount Washington’s backcountry skiers safe.

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11/5/20 3:30 PM

You can go as hard or as soft as you want. If you know what you’re doing, you can hike up Mount Washington. You can scale some of the best ice climbing routes in the country.

You can cross-country ski to the brink of exhaustion. Heck, you can even zipline. There are so many ways to get up and down in the snow, it’s almost as if you’ve landed in winter’s own playground. But you can also live large at the preeminent grand hotel in the Northeast. You can drink local beers, eat local food, and lose yourself in a sprawling shopping trip.

You can even ascend part of the Mount Washington Auto Road from the cozy confines of a transport van that rides on tractor treads as it takes you to a landscape few ever see.

You can, in other words, throw yourself into the beauty of the season—or just take it in. Either way, there’s no getting around the fact that you’re more than likely to come away from the Mount Washington Valley liking winter just a little bit more.

T

hat night, after father was dusted by son on the slopes, the two of us slid into a booth at the Red Fox Bar & Grille in Jackson. Valley evangelists are everywhere, and as we dove into nachos and burgers, I asked our server if he and his family skied. He gave me a look as if I had asked whether he breathed oxygen.

“A little,” he said with a laugh. “But I get most of it starting in February, after the schools have come through and

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the days are longer. My daughter works at Cranmore, and last year my grandson squeezed in 122 days on the mountain.” He leaned in a little closer to drive home his point.

“He was only 5.”

I encountered more of that good-natured winter bravado at the REI Co-op in North Conway, where winter was getting a big old bear hug. Opened in 2019, the store represents the West Coast retailer’s entry into New Hampshire, and it cut no corners in making a good first impression. I knew the space: It had been the former home of Eastern Mountain Sports. But in its revitalized form it was unrecognizable, packing a kind of coffee-shopmeets-warehouse vibe. Racks of climbing ropes and rows of bikes hung from the walls. There were long stretches of tents and other camping equipment. A leather couch anchored a sitting area, a big wall mapped out employeerecommended hikes, and scratchy indie music played in the background. More than a place to shop, it felt like an homage to the outdoors.

And oh, what a place to spend money. Behind a long wooden table, a bearded 20-something named Connor was handling the equipment rentals. His eyes grew large when I asked him about renting or maybe even buying some climbing skins for backcountry skiing.

“Dude! ” he exclaimed. “I was just out this morning. Took a pair of Black Crows out that we rent. These NEWENGLAND.COM

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Snapshots from a day at the Jackson Ski Touring Foundation, better known as Jackson XC. The nonprofit was chartered in 1972 to maintain trails in and around the town, and today it serves as a gateway to 150 kilometers of prime cross-country and snowshoeing routes.

things—you can practically dance in them.” He did a quick spin to emphasize his point.

Connor, who grew up in the area, pulled out the skis and boots, then walked me through the bindings with such obsessive detail it was almost as if he had invented them.

“We’re all outdoor geeks, and every one of us had someone in our life who showed us how to do something that we’d never tried before,” he said.

This kind of pay-it-forward attitude is a part of the Valley’s ethos. In the 1930s, after America’s earliest skiers tired of the farm hills and backyard runs that coursed through snow country, they cut trails in the mountains for bigger thrills, and northern New Hampshire became a major skiing destination. Cranmore emerged as one of the first ski resorts in the country. Black Mountain experimented with early ski-lift technology. Cannon opened the country’s first aerial passenger tramway in 1938 , and in 1967 it hosted North America’s inaugural World Cup ski races.

Much of this history is colorfully told at the New England Ski Museum in downtown North Conway. A small museum shouldn’t be this good. Walking through it, you follow skiing’s wild evolution via a trove of early videos, posters, ski equipment, and clothing—but it also isn’t afraid to delve into the personal. America’s early skiing industry was built by men and women who brought a nothing-tolose attitude to their endeavors. Here, you can find stories JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

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of the pioneers who carved out or rebooted their legacies in the Whites, including the so-called father of modern skiing, Austrian native Hannes Schneider, who landed in New Hampshire after imprisonment by the Nazis and who oversaw the development of Cranmore. You get a sense, for example, of what starting over for Schneider must have felt like when you see the weather-beaten suitcase and ski boots he brought with him to his new country.

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eather Chase’s journey to the Mount Washington Valley wasn’t nearly as grueling as Schneider’s, but like him, she found a home here. Chase grew up on an organic farm in Maine, arrived in the Whites via Dartmouth College in the early 1990s, and, like so many freshly minted grads, found the chance to “ski and play” too hard to resist.

Today, Chase is a clinical herbalist and holistic nutritional consultant who presides over her own mini wellness empire. In 2010 she took over a North Conway health food store and rechristened it the Local Grocer. She added a café (whose foods include many ingredients grown at the farm she and her partner, Russ Van Deursen, run in nearby Intervale) as well as studio space for yoga and reiki practitioners. And more recently, she reconfigured an adjacent building into Table + Tonic, a bistro that incorporates her own veggies, edible flowers, and herbs. | 77

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I met Chase at Table + Tonic one weekday evening after a day of skiing. It was a quiet night, and as people filtered in, Chase circled the dining room, greeting them like family. In a region where pub restaurants almost outnumber the peaks, Chase’s eatery is a reminder that the Valley isn’t just about endorphins. A local spirit infuses everything about the place: The plates and mugs were made by an artist friend, the bar’s back wall is crafted from old barn boards, the tables were made from doors salvaged from the shuttered Balsams Hotel in Dixville Notch. It’s a space made for lingering on winter nights, even if the only thing you pluck from the menu is a cocktail enlivened with a house-made tonic.

“This is the kind of area that’s always offered something for everyone,” Chase told me. “It’s got the recreation, it’s got the shopping, and now we are starting to see a food scene.”

She motioned toward a building site next door, where another business owner was constructing the state’s first organic distillery. “There’s a lot to be excited about.”

Reimagination and reinvention are hallmarks of the Valley. John and Mary Kendzierski know that as well as anyone. The couple own the Inn at Ellis River in Jackson, and my son and I met them one blustery afternoon after arriving at their doorstep looking and feeling haggard after a full day of skiing. Mary quickly dispatched our paperwork and got us to our room, where Calvin and I promptly collapsed on the bed to regain our legs for dinner.

The Kendzierskis’ path to the Mount Washington Valley followed the same course as many of their guests’.

Drawn by its beauty and the ease with which two city folks could slide into outdoor culture, the Massachusetts couple began spending summer and fall vacations in the region in the late 1990s. They quickly homed in on Jackson, hopscotching around its various inns. In April 2014, the couple, who’d both spent years working in finance, learned that one of their favorite inns had hit the market. By fall, the two novice hospitality entrepreneurs owned the 22-room B&B. “I remember we went out for a drink to celebrate, and just as we sat down we got a text message saying we needed to return to swap over the credit card processing system,” Mary said. “It was a sprint from there. It was foliage season, Scenes from around the Mount and I lost 15 pounds those Washington Valley, including a hearty meal of maple-roasted first few weeks.” chicken at Table + Tonic in Today, Mar y runs the North Conway ( top row, center ); front of the house while Jackson residents John and Mary Kendzierski, owners of the Inn John cooks up big breakat Ellis River ( middle row, left); fasts. There’s considerable a backpack demo at the REI online praise for the bacon, Co-op in North Conway ( middle row, right); penny candy at Zeb’s and my son stared in awe as a ( bottom row, left); a breakfast few giant strips arrived with power-up at the Sunrise Shack in his pancake plate. The inn’s Glen ( bottom row, center ).

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spacious dining room allows for minimal morning chitchat if you are aiming to simply fuel up and hit the slopes.

There’s a hot tub and a cozy bar where the ski muscles can relax a little further, something even the Kendzierskis have come to appreciate.

“We learned to ski last year,” said John, shaking his head seemingly in disbelief. “We might take time off during the day and zip over to Black Mountain to get in a few runs. Not that long ago, I was sitting with my daughter in the lodge. It was in the afternoon. We’d all been out together and I just kept thinking, I can’t believe this is my life.”

Not surprisingly, the Inn at Ellis River attracts a skiobsessed crowd come winter. There’s a big downhill contingent, but many are here for the 450-plus kilometers of Nordic trails that slice through the Valley. More than a quarter of them crisscross Jackson, an 800-resident village that has become one of the cross-country power centers of the Northeast. The central hub is a short walk from the inn, and on a winter weekend as many as 1,200 skiers set off on trails that peel off from four main branch heads.

The hardest of the hard-core is a 17-kilometer descent off the back side of Wildcat Mountain, which you can reach by chairlift from the Alpine center. The trail features wooded glades and narrow, steep sections that cater to skiers I’m just going to defensively assume are aliens. On one visit, Calvin and I bypassed the gnarliest part of the route and took on one of the f latter legs of the Wildcat Trail, a wide and beautifully groomed section with straight, even stretches and soft turns. Along the way, we passed serenely slow skiers who were chatting with their partners, and we were passed by polite-but-on-a-mission skaters, who zipped up hills as though gravity were only a rumor. There wasn’t a bad mood among the bunch. When one of my bindings stuck, a stranger gave me a hand clipping in, then recommended a few trails to hit.

“You just gotta keep going,” she said. “Because the farther you go, the more beautiful it gets.”

Beyond just the surroundings, some of that chipperness is no doubt due to the work of the Jackson Ski Touring Foundation, the half-century-old nonprofit whose founders saw a chance to turn what was a struggling small town into a major sporting destination. Each winter it transforms the Wentworth Golf Club into its ski center, where it’s a no-fuss process to buy tickets or season passes, pick up rentals, and buy new equipment or other gear and clothing.

One morning I skied from the clubhouse, circling the course, then through a covered bridge (yes, really) before ducking into the woods to follow a path that largely tracked the Ellis River. Along the way was a scattering of the foundation’s touches, like the trail-side stands where the Jackson Public Library displays pages of a selected | 79

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children’s book as a way to keep young skiers motivated.

There was a warming hut about a mile and a half into the woods that sold hot chocolate. And just across the way, the playfully named “Jackson Hole” outhouse was available for public use.

There was also this: I was in the deep woods and I was not. That’s the thing about the White Mountains. If you come for that gnarly backcountry experience, it’s here. But really, you don’t have to venture too far to get a taste of the wilderness. You can get the rivers, the big snows, the big trees, and still just be a few miles from one of the best postski dinners you’ll ever have.

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f course, it’s impossible to tell the story of the Mount Washington Valley without a mention of its namesake, the imposing peak that hovers over the region like a god. Everything about the area is defined by the existence of Mount Washington—none more so than the grand hotel that bears its name.

When it was built in 1902, what is now the Omni Mount Washington Resort catered to trainloads of monied Bostonians and New Yorkers who were keen on northern pampering. Through boom years and leaner stretches, the hotel remained a seasonal destination. But then, two decades ago, it opened for winter guests and subsequently embarked on an ambitious run of expansions. It added a wellness center and spa and new luxury suites, and just this past year it built a new mountaintop lodge at Bretton Woods, the resort’s neighboring ski mountain.

Today it seems unfathomable that this hotel once shuttered when the snow hit. The truth is, you could build an entire winter vacation solely around a stay here. On its staff are expert ice climbing and winter hiking guides. Snowshoe and Nordic trails venture around the property, while Bretton Woods offers scenic downhill trails to rival any in the Northeast. Those same views of the western Whites are also available via the resort’s Canopy Tour, a through-thewoods zipline experience that features nine different lines and descends more than 1,000 vertical feet.

If you want to get a sense of just how varied the Valley’s winter visitors are, put in a good end-of-the-day hour by the fire in the Omni Mount Washington’s grand room.

That’s where I stationed myself after a frigid afternoon at Bretton Woods. Around me swirled a mix of go-getters: two old friends discussing their snowshoeing route for the next day, a crew of young couples resting after a full day on the slopes, a retired couple occasionally looking up from their phones to talk about hitting the North Conway outlets the next morning.

But I suspect a common thread tied them all together.

A place like the Omni Mount Washington puts you in the 80 |

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A guide at Glen-based Northeast Mountaineering leads winter hikers up the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail to the summit of Mount Washington, which soars 6,288 feet above sea level.

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Sunrise in the Valley finds two early birds getting first tracks on the “Sherbie,” aka the John Sherburne Ski Trail, a popular backcountry skiing destination on Mount Washington.

Appalachian Trail crossed and peered out at the Great Gulf Wilderness and across the Presidential Range.

Micucci had driven the road in all seasons and in almost every kind of condition that could be thrown at him, and he didn’t hide his affinity for the passengers he enjoyed most.

“Winter visitors are hardier,” he remarked as he pulled the snowcoach off at the four-mile marker. “It can be blowing 70 mph and there’s no visibility, and people will be like, ‘Bring it on.’ The summer crowds have higher expectations. We may have 100-mile visibility most of the trip, and then nothing for the last half mile and they’ll wonder if they should come back tomorrow. They want the conditions to be perfect.”

We hopped out of the vehicle and walked a short distance up the road. The wind howled, the air was freezing.

We were all brimming with excitement. Micucci snapped a picture of me standing on the road, a colorless, unforgiving landscape at my back. In the months since, through the pandemic and stay-at-home orders, I’ve looked at that picture or thought about that moment. Invariably it leads to a conversation with my son about our time there. And often, he says the same thing.

“I can’t wait to go back.”

Neither can I. NEWENGLAND.COM

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middle of the action and the beauty. Winter’s allure can be found whether you’re up high, in the woods, or gazing through giant picture windows at a sun-splashed peak early in the morning. In an age when the ability to wow has been diluted, when we can swipe and tap our way to practically any part of the planet, a visit to the Mount Washington Valley is a reminder of just how refreshing it can be to gaze up and look around. To appreciate the season.

I was reminded of that on my final day in the Valley. I had returned to the region on my own, and steel-gray skies hung overhead. Powerful winds had forced a temporary closure of Wildcat; by midmorning, gusts had hit 127 mph atop Mount Washington and were swirling around half that at treeline. It seemed like a prime day, in other words, to see a little of the big mountain itself.

At the Great Glen Trails Outdoor Center I joined an older Massachusetts couple boarding a snowcoach for a partial ascent of the Mount Washington Auto Road. Built in 1861, the privately owned and operated road isn’t so much plowed in winter as it is flattened. The snowpack can build so high that it’s not uncommon for the road “surface” to be at treetop level in places.

Our driver, Mike Micucci, knew the route about as well as anyone. He’d led tours since he graduated from college some 40 years ago, and as we rumbled forward at a steady 15 mph, the landscape unspooled like a movie. The hardwood forest changed to softwood; we passed the spot where the

Exploring the Mount Washington Valley TABLE + TONIC : Local fare and

house-made tonics play starring roles at this cozy bistro. North Conway; tableandtonic.com THOMPSON HOUSE EATERY: A restaurant and a

farm. You can’t go wrong with the roast chicken and artisanal cheese board, nor the array of house-made breads, sauces, pickles, and pastas. Jackson; thethompsonhouseeatery.com

Table + Tonic

E AT & DR INK CHEESE LOUISE : Youth-run food trucks that take grilled cheese to new levels with healthy and unexpected ingredients, many locally sourced. Don’t miss the signature New England–style lemonade. Conway and North Conway; eatcheeselouise.com J-TOWN DELI & COUNTRY STORE : A skier’s refueling stop

for wraps, sandwiches, and baked goods covering breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You can also stock up on local crafts and craft beers alike. Jackson; jtowndeli.com MOAT MOUNTAIN SMOKEHOUSE : Rib-sticking

portions of pulled pork and other smokehouse favorites, washed down with cold beer brewed right next door. North Conway; moatmountain.com

THE WENTWORTH : Elegant dining in a country inn located in the heart of the village. Jackson; thewentworth.com

S TAY

Beloved AMC property located smack-dab in Crawford Notch. Take advantage of the gear room, filled with everything needed for all-season outdoor recreation. Bretton Woods; outdoors.org INN AT ELLIS RIVER : Family-

oriented 22-room B&B within easy walking distance of the Jackson Touring Foundation; close proximity to all the other major downhill resorts. Jackson; innatellisriver.com

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Set at the base of Cathedral Ledge, with beautiful views from the dining room. The heated pool is ideal for relaxing after a day in the mountains. North Conway; whitemountainhotel.com

SHOP Zeb’s General Store

SPRUCE HURRICANE :

Women’s “mountain chic” specialist offering clothes, shoes, and accessories. North Conway; Facebook WHITE BIRCH BOOKS: A

small but worthy independent bookstore that’s been a valley fixture since 1992. North Conway; whitebirchbooks.com ZEB’S GENERAL STORE :

New England–made specialty foods, handmade items, books, toys, and the sweet nostalgia of a soda fountain. North Conway; zebs.com

MOUNT WASHINGTON VALLEY SKIING : With

seven downhill areas and six cross-country centers within 30 to 40 minutes of North Conway, you can choose a different experience every day. mtwashingtonvalley.org

THE CASSIDY GALLERY:

NEW ENGLAND SKI MUSEUM : Shining a light

Showcasing more than 50 New England artists, with most living and working in the Mount Washington Valley. Conway; cassidygallery.com

on the region’s key role in the development of the U.S. Alpine and cross-country scenes. North Conway; newenglandskimuseum.org

JEWELRY BY TIM & FRIENDS:

SNOWCOACH TOURS: Travel four-plus miles up the Mount Washington Auto Road, and see a winter world not soon forgotten.

Gorham; mt-washington.com

Sophisticated handcrafted baubles, plus jewelry restoration and clock repair. North Conway; jewelrybytimandfriends.com

Funky and fun gifts, decor, jewelry, cards, kitchenware, and, well anything else you may want to bring home for a gift. Check out the “made in New Hampshire” room. North Conway; tootoocool.com SETTLERS GREEN : The best The Glen House

the nearly 25,000-square-foot REI Co-op. North Conway; settlersgreen.com

PL AY

THE PENGUIN GALLERY:

THE SUNRISE SHACK:

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WHITE MOUNTAIN HOTEL:

HIGHLAND CENTER LODGE :

where the must-try dishes include chicken and waffles and the dining room is full of ski memorabilia, so the mountains are never far from mind. Glen; redparkapub.com

JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

mountain across the road and miles of cross-country trails on-site, you can park your car here and forget it. Bretton Woods; omnimountwashington.com

THE GLEN HOUSE : Expect modern amenities with an outdoor vibe at this eco-friendly hotel in the heart of the White Mountain National Forest. Gorham; theglenhouse.com

RED PARKA STEAKHOUSE & PUB: Après-ski favorite

A hip eatery housed in a 1950s-era drive-in restaurant specializing in hearty omelets, breakfast bowls, and burgers.

Glen; sunriseshack.com

OMNI MOUNT WASHINGTON RESORT: With a major ski

collection of name-brand stores in the North Country, including

WEATHER DISCOVERY CENTER : The Mount

Washington Observatory hosts this, the only museum in the country dedicated to weather.

(Check out the wind room and see what it feels like when 231 mph winds are howling outside.) The gift shop is a muststop for hard-to-find items for weather buffs. North Conway; mountwashington.org

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Plaster casts used as guides for final granite sculptures fill the Barre studio of master carver Giuliano Cecchinelli.

STO WRITTEN IN

IN BARRE, VERMONT, GENERATIONS OF STONECUTTERS 84 |

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H

ONE

RS

HAVE MADE A CEMETERY INTO A GARDEN OF STORIES.

BY JULIA SHIPLEY PHOTOGRAPHS BY BOB O’CONNOR

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iuliano Cecchinelli, who can take one of the world’s hardest materials and sculpt it into a rose petal or an angel feather, unlocks his studio door and opens it. An aroma hits: the peppery dust of plaster mixed with the tang of moist clay. No bigger than a potting shed, this master carver’s work space teems with faces—gigantic busts and smallscale figurines—a visual library of humanity. Although the 77-year-old is retired from the monument industry in Barre, Vermont, where he has lived since the ’60s, he continues to create in this backyard studio, first developing ideas in clay and plaster, then carving them on his lawn in hunks of granite the size of refrigerators and washing machines.

Cecchinelli is the last of the renowned Barre artisans, who predominantly used traditional hand tools rather than pneumatic ones. He looks the part, too, with his pointy beard, and f loppy beret, and muscled arms. Using mallet and chisel he turns the hard, heavy granite into mortuary pieces depicting a soaring plane or a billowing sail or Mary’s sorrow.

Just inside the studio, on a tiny table, he’s created the face of an older woman; her head rests on a pillow, and she looks as if her health is fading. “That’s my wife,” he says of the work in progress. Cecchinelli was with her when she died in December 2015. He calls this piece “Last Breath.”

While Cecchinelli’s art has captured a first breath as well—another of his carvings features a newborn being tenderly relayed from one pair of hands into the waiting hands of its mother—what he is best known for is commemorating all the life experienced between these moments. Consequently, his art can be found throughout the globe. But an exquisite showcase of Cecchinelli’s work, more than a dozen monuments in all, is just down the road in Hope Cemetery.

Well, you want to go? he asks. I do.

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arre, Vermont, is situated amid one of the largest deposits of sculpture-quality granite in the nation, estimated to be four miles long, one to two miles wide, and 10 miles deep. In the 1700s, settlers began prying this prehistoric rock out of the ground to use for millstones, fence posts, steps, and sills. After Barre’s first commercial quarry opened in the mid-1820s, the extracted granite was used for curbs and to undergird buildings and to line 86 |

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streets—for example, the city of Troy, New York, ordered 10 million hand-cut granite paving stones. In other words, Barre’s mother lode was used as something to step on.

However, after an industry delegation from Barre marketed their durable material at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893, orders poured in for more-refined granite products.

Architectural and mortuary goods manufactured from “Barre Gray” were soon being used in the mausoleums of F.W. Woolworth and Walter Chrysler, as well as for headstones of the less well-known. Monuments traveled via railroad to New Jersey, Ohio, Indiana, Virginia, and Tennessee.

In Pennsylvania, Barre granite was used in the construction of the state capitol. In Manhattan, it composes the 16 columns in the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine.

In 1903, when architects began planning Washington, D.C.’s immense Union Station, a Barre-area company was awarded the largest single stonecutting contract for a building, at $1.3 million; its stone carvers ultimately produced six colossal statues for the station’s facade. By the turn of the 20th century Barre’s granite industry was making things to stare at. Today, Barre products constitute an estimated one out of every three monuments nationwide.

“This story is enormous,” Vermont Granite Museum director Scott McLaughlin tells visitors who wonder how much signif icance a stone can hold. The museum was founded in Barre in 1996 to educate the public and celebrate this city’s history. Appropriately, the museum is housed in the former cutting shed of Jones Brothers, once the largest rawblock-to-finished-product operation in Barre, and within its 27,000 square feet the exhibits explore everything from the NEWENGLAND.COM

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The graceful Simonetta monument is one of four pieces at Hope Cemetery carved by the late Alcide Fantoni, a native of Castelpoggio, Italy, who came to Barre in 1966.

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geology of granite to the social lives of the stoneworkers to the art being sculpted by the next generation of carvers.

“Now that you’ve seen the museum,” he often tells visitors, “you have to see Hope Cemetery.”

They look at him with wilting smiles.

“The cemetery?”

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one portraying the departed wearing an Italian jacket and holding a cigarette in which his lovely wife’s visage miraculously coalesces in the smoke.

Next to diamond, granite is the hardest natural material on the planet. To work the rock so that it expresses a biplane’s propeller or a lily’s pistils or wafting smoke (that blooms into a woman!) is a feat of effort, for even after drilling and excavation, the manufacturing process is boisterous, organized violence. “I come home sometimes and my arms are just dragging from having to push against this incredibly hard medium,” one stone carver admitted to the Burlington Free Press in 1985. Furthermore, these beautiful deceptions— for example, stone made to look like skin—are the product of supreme talent, and Cecchinelli, like many of the Barre stone carvers who arrived from Italy, was trained via a chain of masters passing on their techniques to apprentices, a chain that links back centuries to artists like Michelangelo.

To meet the labor needs of the thriving granite industry, skilled stoneworkers moved to Barre in droves. Between 1880 and 1940, the city’s population swelled from 2,206 to 11,855. They arrived from Canada, Scotland, Scandinavia, Spain, Poland, and France, but mainly they came from Italy.

Cecchinelli’s family joined the influx relatively late, arriving NEWENGLAND.COM

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long Barre’s streets you’ll f ind at least a dozen granite monuments. Basking near a 14-pump gas station is one made to resemble a Victorian couch; it commemorates the “forever residence” of the Zanleoni family, where Angelina raised her children and sold homemade ravioli. On South Main Street, there’s a bike rack bookended by life-size granite reproductions of Big Wheel tricycles. Traditional masterpieces, such as Sam Novelli and Elia Corti’s 1899 sculpture of poet Robert Burns upon a pedestal intricately carved with scenes from his poems, abide by unconventional ones, such as sculptor Chris Miller’s granite zipper.

Over the past century, Barre has been home to more granite carvers than anywhere else in America. Even so, the city is a long way from fulfilling Miller’s proposal to have so much public art that pedestrians could encounter it every 10 feet.

Yet that’s exactly what happens at Hope Cemetery. Both a resting place and a local showroom, the cemetery offers a permanent exhibit of granite monuments in unusual shapes, such as a race car, a soccer ball, and a couple in pajamas holding hands in bed.

Cecchinelli and I turn onto the hilltop cemetery’s main access road and drive through its entranceway, which is f lanked by a pair of pious Virgin Marys. Then we pull off to the side of the road and begin wandering on foot among some 10,000 monuments set upon 85 acres, all made from the area’s famous rock.

Hope Cemetery was established in 1895 to create an additional resting place for the city’s surging populace.

Instead of implementing a gridded layout, the cemetery’s draftsman, Edward P. Adams, arranged the grave sites in groups and constellations, partitioned by hedges and mature trees, so that visiting the property now feels like browsing the adjoining rooms of a gallery.

Cecchinelli shows me one of his first jobs, a monument featuring some handsome columns. He scowls at his novice work, because, he says, they should taper at the top. But they don’t, and the f law still haunts him even though the work looks solid and strong. We amble over to view his more recent works: Here is the gravestone he sculpted into a biplane tipping out of a pillowy cloud. And here is one he made into giant prayer-tented hands clasping a bouquet of lilies. And here is one of a boat under sail aimed toward a far-off horizon. And then there’s a primly dressed woman, waving good-bye to her husband, who’s hunkered on his motorcycle—it’s so broad and detailed, it has the feel of a mural. And here is another of Cecchinelli’s memorials, this

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LEFT : Opened in the late 1800s, the Smith Quarry is still operated by the Rock of Ages granite quarrying and finishing company.

ABOVE : A 1989 issue of Barre Life featuring a 1920s-era photo of local stonecutters.

from Carrara, Italy, in the 1950s, when his father began to work for a marble company in Proctor, Vermont.

Growing up, Cecchinelli learned to carve marble, but later moved to Barre to work in granite. Explaining the difference between the two mediums, he is emphatic: “Marble, you cut.

It bruises—just like an apple. But granite?” he growls. “You have to pulverize. You have to beat the life out of it!”

Cecchinelli shows me a modest stone tucked back in the shade of a juniper, a rough-edged monument featuring a maiden in a long gown holding a drooping flower over the names of the deceased. Looking at the peaceful scene, it’s easy to disregard all that culminates here. Beneath the stone lies a man who in 1901 left behind everyone he’d known in Italy and crossed the ocean. In Barre, he went into business and started a family, but as the newspapers reported, the man of “kindly impulses,” who helped translate for workers with poor English, ended his life at 54, ingesting arsenic when a health issue and “adverse business conditions” began to overwhelm him. The stone also commemorates his daughter, who survived him but was still a young wife and mother when she died in 1930 of a sudden illness.

This lovely double memorial was executed by one of the most accomplished sculptors in Barre, Angelo Pietro JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

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Ambrosini, another Italian native who crossed the ocean in 1901. Because the departed and the stone carver knew each other, it’s possible that Ambrosini furnished his services for free, as was common among friends in the industry.

However, within two years of completing this monument, Ambrosini also became a permanent resident of Hope, at 52.

And herein lies the story’s terrible irony: That what makes Barre’s granite so ideal, also makes it lethal. When it was formed (“Before humans even existed!” Cecchinelli reminds me. Yes, nearly 400 million years ago, long before dinosaurs, eons before humans walked the earth, which means before mortality itself!), some magma cooled slowly and evenly, allowing fine silica grains to be spaced uniformly within the stone. It’s this feature that ensures the granite will scarcely erode, even as it’s exposed to weather over the next million years. Yet as the men labored in poorly ventilated sheds—chiseling, hammering, polishing—shattering crystals in the rock, the air around them filled with silica dust. And this by-product cut their lungs.

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o know the story of Angelo Ambrosini is to know the story of many. He boasted to his family that he would not get the stonecutters’ disease known as silicosis, even though by the 1920s the life expectancy rate for men in the industry was less than 50 years. In 1922 the Washington County Tuberculosis Hospital opened in Barre to treat laborers with silicosis-related TB. Unfortunately, because of the high mortality rate from the disease, many viewed the hospital not as a place to heal, but as a place to die. | 89

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“Marble, you cut.

It bruises—just like an apple. But granite?

You have to pulverize.

You have to beat the life out of it! ”

From 1903 to 1907, Ambrosini was one of four stone­ cutters who worked on the Union Station contract. Newspa­ pers praised his skills, which they claimed had persuaded the station’s designers to select granite over marble. By sculpting a figurine with “flowing hair … robed in rippling garments and … flowers cradled in her arms,” as the 1974 history book Green Mountain Heritage recounts, Ambrosini had proved that “granite could stand the stress required to make the fine detail needed in the huge tableaux.”

Thus Ambrosini and the others began to sculpt the larg­ est works ever cut from single blocks to produce the six “heroic statues,” each made from a piece of granite weigh­ ing as much as 85 tons. Based on models created by Louis Saint-Gaudens, the less famous brother of sculptor Augus­ tus Saint-Gaudens, they represented “The Progress of Rail­ roading,” as each figure stood for an aspect of train travel: science, liberty, electricity, justice, agriculture, and mechan­ ics. When I meet Ambrosini’s son and namesake, Angelo, he says his father spent a whole year just working on Ceres, the goddess of agriculture and the harvest.

Unfortunately, working environments for carvers in America differed from the open-air structures found in Italy. The stone sheds in and around Barre were shut tight in winter to keep out the cold. As a result, they clouded up with dust that stuck to anything moist. Sometimes there was so much dust, a carver couldn’t see the man working 90 |

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next to him. I picture Ambrosini using the newly developed pneumatic tools as he pulverizes stone, making the folds in the goddess’ dress, and developing her thick tresses, and delineating the seeds in her sheaves of wheat. I imagine the month he devotes just to carving her arm, leading into her hand, gripping the reaper. And as the block of granite trans­ forms into majestic Ceres, Ambrosini breathes.

The final statues weighed somewhere between 25 and 40 tons and stood 18 feet high when, at last, they were trans­ ported via railroad to Washington, D.C., for installation in 1912 and 1913. Special derricks hoisted them onto their platforms, 50 feet above street level, where they continue to endure, more than a century later, in the station’s facade.

After the statues’ completion, Ambrosini returned to his hometown of Varese, Italy, to propose to his local sweet­ heart, Rosa. Although she said yes, she qualified her answer, stating she would not leave Italy. However, her teenaged sis­ ter, Maria, overheard the proposal and volunteered to marry him instead. Within two weeks these newlyweds were on a steamer to America. Eventually they rented a hilltop house in Barre and raised four children, naming their two daugh­ ters Aurora (meaning “the dawn”) and Louisa Liberty, and calling their two sons Avveniri (“the arrival”) and Angelo Lincoln—all in honor of their adopted nation.

Ambrosini’s daughter Aurora reminisced in her unpub­ lished Memories of Ma and Pa that granite manufacturers NEWENGLAND.COM

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TOP ROW :

Old world meets new guard in Giuliano Cecchinelli, left, and Heather Ritchie, whose works include an award-winning sculpture in downtown Barre called “Coffee Break.” LEFT : An archival photo of Angelo Ambrosini working on the Ceres statue for Washington, D.C.’s Union Station.

often climbed the hill to their family home carrying specifications for various stone projects, which her father would consider carefully. If he got the contract, he would make a preliminary model, called a maquette, working in the basement of the family home or a spare room. Sculpting the small figurine out of clay, he sometimes used Maria as a model or, Aurora writes, “my sister Louisa, too.” Then Ambrosini would leave his family for the granite sheds, where he’d cut the work into rock.

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n Hope Cemetery, all the monuments allude to the joys of living, with the exception of one. Luigi “Louis” Brusa (1886–1937) was a carver who designed his own stone to depict the egregious way he died. His grave features a woman attending a collapsing middle-aged man. The man’s eyes are already closed, and his arms hang slack by his sides.

The work includes so many details: the dimple in the woman’s elbow, the skim of her dress, his rolled-up sleeves, and, poignantly, his hollow cheek, resting in the crook of her arm.

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In an oral history project published in 2003 as Men Against Granite, a widow describes the onset of silicosis as “a terrible sound, that coughing, [that] kept getting worse.”

In the fall of 1931, only a year after Ambrosini had finished that monument honoring his deceased friend and his daughter, he was diagnosed with silicosis. Before, whenever he had medical issues, his wife, Maria, always knew what to do. On the occasions when he came home from the granite sheds with a sliver of steel from a broken-off chisel in his eye, she’d turn up his eyelid with a wooden match and deftly pick out the sliver with a broom straw. But now, neither she nor the doctors had any remedy. “In those days there was only rest, either at home or up in the hated Washington County Sanatorium,” Aurora writes of her father’s illness. Silicosis quickly mutates into tuberculosis, which is highly contagious, and Aurora remembers her mother boiling the family’s dishes. And after Ambrosini moved into the sanatorium, Maria would bring him homemade soup, carrying it through the cold streets.

There’s a photograph of the sanatorium in the Vermont Granite Museum. It’s a charmless rectangular brick build-

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Hope Cemetery is full of love— in the way that a wife holds her wilting husband, and in the parents’ sentiment etched on the stone of a young son: We would give up forever to touch you. ing with three floors. There are long rows of windows and a balcony. In the 2008 documentary If Stone Could Speak, Aurora said nobody in her family would dare hug or kiss their father for fear of catching the disease. Ambrosini’s namesake, Angelo, who was 6 years old at the time, remembers not being allowed to enter the sanatorium.

Consequently, his final memory of his father was when he stood at a distance and waved a white handkerchief. And his father, who stood on the balcony, waved back.

Succumbing in the same manner as the stone man in

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Brusa’s monument, Angelo Pietro Ambrosini took his last breath in April 1932. His youngest son, now 95, still chokes up trying to speak of it.

Before Ambrosini died, he made Maria promise that she would never allow their sons to work in the granite industry. When I visit Angelo Lincoln Ambrosini (or “A. Lincoln,” as he says with a grin), the first thing he shows me are chipmunks. Angelo, who seems much more youthful than his years, sits behind his house with a few sunflower seeds on his knee. Presently one scurries out of the woods, across the lawn—a russet blur—and then pauses at Angelo’s feet, its tail hanging like a question mark. Then it rushes up his pant leg, grabs a seed, and dashes off. As it scampers back to the trees, it skirts a slab of carved granite leaning against below :

A standout for its scale and artistry, the Hope Cemetery memorial for stone carver Elia Corti was sculpted from a single block of granite by his brother and brother-in-law. right : Beyond the cemetery, stonecutters’ talents can be seen throughout Barre, as with this 1920s soldiers’ memorial downtown.

Angelo’s shed. The slab features an eagle, its wing feathers spread open like a cape: Ta-da!

Angelo carved it when he was part of a monument industry delegation that traveled to Washington, D.C., in the mid1980s to set up a display on the Mall. The sculpture took shape as Angelo gave stone-carving demonstrations with both traditional and modern tools just a mile away (as the eagle flies) from his father’s Union Station goddess. Angelo later told an oral historian at the Vermont Folklife Center, “When I decided to go into [stonework], they had come up with the suction hoses, which made it safe. So I kinda overlooked my father’s wishes and went into the granite business.”

In 1936, four years after Ambrosini’s death, the state of Vermont allocated $300,000 for the installation of dustcollection systems, which were installed in 80 of Barre’s manufacturing plants. By 1938 there were no new cases of silicosis, and today, owing to the required use of respiratory devices and ubiquitous suction hoses, there are no deaths in the industry from the disease.

But a generation of men died before being able to pass on their carving techniques to the ones who came after them.

Angelo is still pained by what he wasn’t able to learn from his father. His 52-year occupation with the granite industry began in the early 1950s when he enrolled in the Barre Evening Drawing School, which was founded by an Ambrosini family friend, Carlo Abate.

Abate, a lauded carver in his own right who walked around with plaster dust in his beard, emigrated from Milan in 1899. In addition to making a famous bust of Thomas Edison—whom he revered for creating the light bulb, which enabled sculptors to work with longer and better light—Abate also carved the pair of Marys that stand at | 93

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the gates of Hope Cemetery, using Angelo’s sister Louisa Liberty as a model. And, because everything in this story of Barre’s stonecutters is interrelated, the statue honoring the Italian-American Stonecutter that looms at the intersection of Routes 302 and 14 is dedicated to Abate and is based on a model created by none other than Giuliano Cecchinelli.

This tribute shows a man gripping his chisel and gazing south, in the direction of Mrs. Zanleoni’s granite couch.

His bushy mustache and dignified chin give him more than a passing resemblance to Angelo, whose nickname was Barbetta (meaning “whiskers”)—so much so that Angelo’s granddaughter, Louise, actually hopes for a red traffic light there, so she can sit in her car and pretend to visit with the man she never met.

In Ambrosini’s era, women’s involvement in the granite industry was pretty much limited to depiction only—e.g., the Virgin Marys and Ceres—but slowly their presence as creators has been growing. Angelo’s daughter, Mary, is a drafter for a granite company. She designed one of the monuments in Hope Cemetery, a simple stone with an etched name and an illustration of a pine cone, for one of her dad’s hunting buddies. During my visit with Angelo, I notice that he has blueprints for Mary’s latest designs scrolled on his side table, next to the television remote.

Also, within the past two decades the streets and cemeteries of Barre have begun to host the work of one of the first local female carvers, Heather Ritchie. Ritchie, 45, has a slight build and fine features, and looks as if she could have been a model for the sculptors of an earlier generation. She grew up near Barre and is the great-great-granddaughter of a Scottish immigrant who owned a quarry. In 1999, she began an apprenticeship with George Kurjanowicz, a Polish-born sculptor, currently the in-house carver at Adams Granite Company. Under his tutelage she learned to shape the dense material (granite weighs 190 pounds per cubic foot) into angels’ cheeks (for mortuary pieces) and Big Wheels tricycles (for a downtown art commission.)

So far, the only piece she’s carved for Hope Cemetery is buried. When her uncle died in 2015, she honored their shared heritage by hand-carving a thistle onto his granite urn. One of Ritchie’s professional goals is to carve a monument that sits above Hope’s soil.

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n the Vermont Granite Museum off ice, there’s a poster published by the 120-year-old Barre Granite Association that reads, “This is a cemetery. Lives are commemorated—deaths are recorded—families are reunited—memories are made tangible—and love is undisguised.”

Love is undisguised—yes, Hope Cemetery is full of it—in the way that the smoker dreams of his wife, and the woman holds her wilting husband, and in the sentiment that parents etched on the stone of their deceased young son: We would give up forever to touch you. The poster con-

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Ambrosini was diagnosed with silicosis in late 1931. Before he died the next spring, he made his wife promise she would never allow their sons to work in the granite industry. tinues, “The cemetery is a homeland ... a perpetual record of yesterday,” and concludes with, “A cemetery exists because every life is worth loving and remembering—always.”

Many of the residents of Hope died with dust in their lungs, or from the Spanish flu; some by accidents, others by their own hand. But the cemetery zealously commemorates what they loved, how they thrived. This nearly immortal granite has been shaped to convey how these people were snowboarders, violinists, pilots, baseball players, soccer players, race car drivers, anglers, woodsmen, smokers, lovers. And, case in point, they were neighbors: Cecchinelli shows me a stone with an authentic reproduction of a drilling rig and says, “That’s the guy who drilled my well.” And this makes Hope Cemetery more than a place where people are buried—it’s a garden of stories. Each grave is a page in the Book of Barre.

My favorite monument in the cemetery was carved by Guiliano Cecchinelli. The stone is pre-need, meaning there’s no one buried beneath it yet. The person who bought it saw it on Cecchinelli’s lawn, where he’d been carving it, and asked to buy it. Made from a ragged waste piece of granite, it features a couple wearing long coats. As the woman leans into the man, the man wraps his arm around her shoulder affectionately. They could be lingering on a moonlit street on a chilly night, taking comfort in each other’s company and the forest-covered mountains before heading back inside.

On the grass in front of his home, Cecchinelli is carving another monument. This one is a five-foot-tall chunk of rock featuring a man, and a woman, and a dog. “It’s me and my wife and Isha,” Cecchinelli says, the last being their brown mutt. Each figure faces a different direction and though each is distinct, right now they are all clearly part of one shared thing, part of each other. The trio seems to be an animation of the monolith itself.

Forget that old adage “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the piece seems to say, suggesting instead it’s merely: people and stone.

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“To a co unk Cem by

“Together forever,” a couple gaze into the unknown on this Hope Cemetery memorial carved

by Giuliano Cecchinelli.

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M e m or y Ho u se

The author, age 8, West Warwick, Rhode Island.

We may outgrow where we grew up, but we never really leave it behind.

BY ANN HOOD

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MOST FAMILIES EVENTUALLY DOWNSIZE, BUY CONDOS, MOVE TO FLORIDA. Mine stays put. We stayed for almost 150 years, ever since my great-grandparents moved from Italy to the house on 10 Fiume Street, in what used to be the Italian section of West Warwick, Rhode Island. The house is not special, except to us. Over the years it changed, and not necessarily for the better. In the beginning, it had leaded pane windows, fancy glass doorknobs, a coal stove and an icebox, and a garden out back filled with fruit trees— apple, cherry, fig—and grapevines and tomato plants that stretched forever.

In the ’30s, after my grandmother had her 10th child, they built what we called the Shack, a small one-room building nestled by the blueberry bushes, with an enormous stove, a double slate sink, and a table that also seemed to stretch forever. For the next three decades, all meals were eaten there in warm weather. Corn was always being husked at that table, tomatoes and green beans were washed in the sink, a pot of strong coffee bubbled on the stove. When my aunt was widowed, the Shack and most of the garden were leveled to build a new garage with an apartment above it for her and her toddler daughter. Happily, that also was the end of the outhouse, rabbit hutches, and chicken coops, holdovers from the days before plumbing, when we raised everything we ate.

The house got modernized too. Aluminum siding.

Wood paneling in every room. A brand-new avocadogreen bathroom and harvest-gold glass sliding doors on the china cabinet. Although I, 8 years old and frightened of change (and lightning and dogs and those chickens and, well, almost everything), cried as they cut down the fruit trees and bulldozed the Shack, I quickly fell in love with this new, improved house of ours and all its electric wonders: toothbrushes, carving knife, can opener, stove. In my family, as one generation died, the next just moved upstairs to the biggest bedroom, and it was my mother’s turn. She bought Marimekko sheets with giant red poppies on them and hung a wicker door on one closet, which gave the room a vaguely tropical vibe. Then she settled in for, as it turned out, the next 50 years, at which point it would be my turn to take over that bedroom and the family home.

Except by then, unlike the four generations before me, I had long since left that house and my little town, with no desire to return. And so I sold it, an act that still, a year later, feels like a betrayal. I removed years and years of accumulated papers and knickknacks and just stuff, most of it put into a dumpster and carted away. Even my mother had known that I would sell the house—“Sorry to leave you with such a mess,” she’d say, not really sorry at all. Yet still, as I watched it empty, I felt that I was disappointing all the people who had lived

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there and died there. We were a family who stayed. But I was the one who didn’t.

MONTHS AFTER I SOLD THE HOUSE, I STILL go there every night. I walk up the uneven steps of the deck that my father built during a misguided carpentry phase in the late ’70s. The dark red paint has been getting more and more chipped and faded since Dad died over 20 years ago. Every time I stand on that deck, I imagine it filled with people: Dad drinking a cold beer, Mom with a cigarette pressed between her lips, various cousins sitting on each other’s laps because we never had enough chairs.

The first time I brought my boyfriend Josh home from New York City, he sat on the railing, which immediately collapsed (thanks to Dad’s poor carpentry skills), sending him tumbling backward a good seven feet. Long after we broke up, the patched railing was still called Josh’s Seat.

When I go inside, I enter what we called the pantry but other people would call the kitchen. In this house, there is always food on the stove. Usually it’s a big pot of spaghetti sauce and the green bowl of meatballs and sausage. Sometimes it’s chicken cutlets, coated with seasoned bread crumbs and fried until crispy. Or pork chops on a sheet pan, sausage and peppers in the red bowl, simmering pasta fagioli.

“Eat something,” my mother, Gogo, calls from the kitchen, where she is sitting at the table smoking cigarettes, drinking black coffee, and playing poker on her iPad. I fill a plate and pour myself a cup of coffee from the Mr. Coffee machine. My mother makes terrible coffee from a giant can of Maxwell House that sits in the cupboard below the Mr. Coffee. The cups hang from a weird little wire contraption and are always different because my mother changes everything—coffee cups, shower curtain, plates, silverware, rugs, curtains, and knickknacks—to match the season or holiday. These cups, and everything else, are red for Valentine’s Day. When I walk into the kitchen, she is right where she is supposed to be, sitting at the table in a cloud of cigarette smoke. The table has a red tablecloth with a piece of vinyl over it to protect it. In the center is a tray

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Snapshots from life at 10 Fiume Street, from top: dad Lloyd (“Everyone, even my mother, called him Hood”); Ann at age 3; an Easter 1968 photo of Ann, brother Skip, and mom Gloria.

C O U R T E S Y O F A N N H O O D ( FA M I LY P H O TO S) ; R YA N J L A N E / I S TO C K ( B A C KG R O U N D )

that holds a pack of Carltons, an ashtray, several colorful lighters, a pen, a letter opener, a deck of Bicycle playing cards, a book of stamps, a wicker basket of red napkins and a smaller one of packets of Equal, and a salt and pepper shaker. It never changes, what’s in that tray. When I was in TWA flight attendant training, we had to be able to identify liquor miniatures just by their shape, without labels. We had to stick our hand into the bar cart and pull out whatever the instructor ordered. I could do that with the tray on my mother’s table. I could close my eyes and locate anything easily.

Gogo is 86 years old, and her cheek, though not wrinkled, feels papery when I kiss it. “Sit down,” she says, her brown eyes shining out at me from behind her glasses. My mother is always happy to see me. Always. “Let’s talk,” she says, finishing her hand of poker. I tell her everything.

As I talk, I look around. There are the Arts and Crafts chairs with the big, f lat cushions by the window. On the wall, the painting of Vermont in autumn that Uncle Jim painted. Beyond this room, the TV room with two La-Z-Boy recliners and a plaid couch. Behind the door is a pillow and a fuzzy mint-green blanket for napping, or for burrowing beneath if you’re sad or sick. The room beside it, the living room, has a straw door now too, and the flowered sofa and armchair are stacked with all the things Gogo used to store in the basement or the garage but, with age, needs to keep close by.

I get us more coffee and we talk about my new husband and my son in Brooklyn and my daughter starting high school. We gossip about cousins and friends and we laugh about things we’ve done or seen and the light coming through the Venetian blinds on the two kitchen windows shifts and it’s time to leave, but I linger, even though I know that tomorrow night, and the next, I will return to walk these rooms, to see my mother again, because the only way to go home is to sleep and dream it, now that it, and she, and everything and everyone is gone.

“HOME IS SO SAD,” THE POET PHILIP Larkin wrote, “it stays as it was left, shaped to the comfort of the last to go.” The last to go from the house at 10 Fiume Street was my mother. She was born in that house—as were her nine siblings—and she never wanted to leave it. Gogo loved her house. Sometimes when I’d call her and ask what she was doing, she’d say, “I’m just sitting here looking around at my beautiful house.”

It wasn’t beautiful. Not to me. When I was young, I used to imagine us living in a modern

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When I was young, I used to imagine us living in a modern house, like the turquoise split-level down the hill. But that was before I learned the difference between a house and a home. house, like the turquoise split-level down the hill. But that was before I learned the difference between a house and a home. I loved all the Little House books back then, and even though Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote, “Home is the nicest word there is,” all I wanted was to leave mine behind.

The last time I saw my mother in her house was on Valentine’s Day, 2017. It had been a strange year. She’d had a heart attack, a psychotic episode from neglecting to take her antidepressants during her recovery from the heart attack, and a litany of small health problems that brought us to the emergency room too often. But she’d announced herself fully recovered from “this socalled heart attack,” and we were going to lunch for Valentine’s Day. We sat at the kitchen table after our steaks at Outback, not knowing it would be the last time the two of us would drink coffee and gossip there.

Not knowing that in a few hours she would leave in an ambulance and never return.

The next time I went into the house, two weeks later, she was dead. Everything was as she had left it—her cigarettes and ashtray and online poker game waiting for her. Everything was how it had always been. Over the years, more times than I can recount, this house had taken me in. Weekend breaks from college, unemployment, broken hearts; failed attempts at leaving a bad marriage, even for a night, with my children crowded into my childhood bed with me. It sheltered me, too, in the shock after my brother died at the age of 30, holding the three of us who were left for a long, sad summer. And again during my father’s six months dying of lung cancer, when I would go to the bathroom cabinet and uncap his bottle of Old Spice, just to feel him close.

When my 5-year-old daughter, Grace, died a few years later, that kitchen was the only place I felt free to howl with grief. That kitchen, over a century old, knew grief too well by then. The night my favorite aunt died in a car accident, I went home and climbed into bed with my mother, the two of us holding each other beneath the tired roof that had held my family for generations.

It was that history that made having to sell the house so difficult. My great-grandmother moved in, and no one ever moved out. Things accumulated in the basement and in closets—so many years of newspapers and

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photographs and papers that they melded together, forming some new unidentifiable object, an artifact of love. The neighborhood, once all Italians from the same region, distant relatives or friends from the old country, had changed. A few years earlier, after the house was burglarized, the young policeman who took the report said to me, “What do you expect in a neighborhood like this?” I looked around at the familiar street—the hill that I rode my bike down with my hands lifted from the handlebars, the places where we’d play kickball or tag after dinner, the yard where every Fourth of July my father grilled all three meals and then set off fireworks to celebrate not only Independence Day but his birthday too. I could almost hear the John Philip Sousa music he played, almost feel the wind in my hair as I f lew down that hill even as I saw what the policeman saw: houses in need of repair, a general shabbiness covering everything.

What do you expect in a neighborhood like this?

With my niece and my cousin and my husband, I dismantled over 100 years of our family’s life, most of it put into a dumpster and hauled away. After Merry Maids came and cleaned it, I was supposed to go and inspect their work. But I couldn’t do it. The thought of walking into that kitchen and finding the house empty—of the familiar furniture and knickknacks, yes, but of all the people who belonged there, too—was more than I could take. My husband went, and even though he’d known my family and my home for only a few years, it broke his heart to walk through those empty rooms.

In daylight, I can’t even look at the highway exit that leads to the house. Even as everything changed, keeps changing, in my mind I want 10 Fiume Street to stay exactly the same. I want it to smell like Old Spice and Chloé perfume and cigarettes and meatballs frying.

I want my mother at the kitchen table and my father standing at the grill and my brother doing complicated math problems on the sofa. I want that long-haired girl f lying endlessly down that hill on her purple bike, lifting her hands from the handlebars, unafraid and untouched by what’s around the corner. Larkin wrote that home is “a joyous shot at how things ought to be.”

So I go back every night and walk those rooms, dwelling ever so fleetingly, in that joyous shot of what used to be.

Of what, in my heart, still ought to be.

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PHOTO CREDITS

Photographer Gabe Bornstein rides his board into New England’s coldest waters to capture images most people would never see.

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PHOTO CREDITS

THE WINTER SEA

T R OY R . B E N N E T T/ B D N ( P O R T R A I T )

PHOTO CREDITS

PHOTO CREDITS

If

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on a winter day in Maine you find yourself enjoying the sunrise or sunset at Old Orchard Beach, or maybe at Pine Point in nearby Scarborough, you may see a trim man in a wetsuit paddling a surfboard into the churning waters. His name is Gabe Bornstein. He is 28, and he is a surfer, but he’s not seeking the thrill of the waves. He is looking for the moment when the glow from the horizon bathes the coldest water in New England. He is there to create images from a perspective that few have had. While there are many photographers who take pictures underwater, Bornstein paddles with a camera strapped to his board, hoping to capture the ocean and sky the way a seabird floating on a wave might see them.

The water will be in the 30s, low 40s at best. Though encased in thick neoprene, after half an hour Bornstein is closer to freezing than not. “Once you start losing your fingers, you have maybe 10 minutes left,” he says. His icy fingers struggle to adjust the aperture, to press the shutter button. He heads into the teeth of the surf—he calls it “wearing the wave”—knowing he must get his shot in the instant before he is tossed about like driftwood.

He swims out early and late because light is most dramatic then, but also because of the solitude. The boats are still; birds are aloft. He is part of the sea rising and falling. This is when “the ocean’s raw energy comes out,” he says. He wants to find what he calls “the creamy, almost milky water.”

Bornstein grew up by the southern Maine ocean. He knows that the tides and currents that can drag you out to sea don’t care if you’re an artist. If you don’t pay attention, you can be in deep trouble in these winter waters. But after he climbs out, soaks in heat at home, and sees the images he’s brought back, he dreams of what he may find the next time he paddles alone out there in the cold. —Mel Allen To see more of Gabe Bornstein’s work, go to gabrielreuben.com.

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Paddling against the Nonesuch River’s current only to be pulled back toward the ocean felt “like a bit of a game,” Bornstein says, “but I was able to steady my camera just long enough to capture Miss Amelia for what would be the first of many times.”

Bornstein captured this moonrise on a March night while wading in stomach-high water at Old Orchard Beach. “Although I had never attempted to shoot the moon from the water before, I knew if everything lined up, it could be really special.”

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“In between sets of waves, the sunrise was just beginning to peek over the horizon. I was hoping to get the sun itself, but instead I dipped into the shadow of an oncoming wave, resulting in a beautifully backlit and tranquil scene.”

“The air was in the single digits on this day, yet to me personally this image feels warm, thanks to the blurred landscape and colors”—an aesthetic created by “dragging” the shutter (using a longer shutter speed) and panning while taking the shot.

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This image was shot with a macro lens, which can be tricky to use because of its limited depth of field—“a challenge that’s magnified when you’re trying to control the dials on the camera through 5mm of neoprene.”

“Brooding storm clouds and blustery winds created a really dramatic energy this day,” Bornstein recalls. “It was almost like being in a real-life Winslow Homer painting.”

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While photographing fellow surfer Jason McMichael on a brisk winter afternoon off the coast of Kennebunk, Maine, Bornstein “swam under more white water than I would have liked to, but this image made it worthwhile.”

“I’ve spent countless hours chasing moonrises over at the Pine Point Fisherman’s Co-op, and go home cold and emptyhanded more often than not,” Bornstein admits. (Note: The tattered name of the boat in the foreground reads Persistence.)

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Heavy water breaks over a submerged rocky ledge off the coast of Maine.

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11/5/20 2:50 PM

GROWING UP BLACK IN NEW ENGLAND I N T E RV I E W BY J O E K EO H A N E

For a time, Rebecca Carroll had a quintessential New England childhood. Adopted into a family where, a friend once exclaimed, “kids are king,” she grew up in the small town of Warner, New Hampshire, in the ’70s and ’80s. Her bohemian parents had left behind the turmoil of urban life intending to establish a utopian one in the country. And by Carroll’s reckoning, they succeeded.

Among her earliest memories: climbing apple trees, making mud pies amid the scent of milkweed, eating dinner outside under radiant sunsets, and running around the property at her family’s rented farmhouse in a place called Pumpkin Hill. “Look how lucky we all are,” she remembers her father saying. “Can you believe this?”

There was just one thing: Carroll was Black, and her family was white. And her classmates were all white.

And her town was all white. And her state was almost all white. When Carroll was little, the only Black people she saw were on TV, like Easy Reader, the character played by Morgan Freeman on the kids’ show The Electric Company. It wasn’t until later in her childhood that she even met another black person.

I L L U S T R AT I O N B Y X I A G O R D O N

CONVERSATIONS

REBECCA CARROLL

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11/5/20 2:51 PM

Joe Keohane: For starters, tell me a

little bit about your parents.

Rebecca Carroll: My parents are artists. They met at the Museum School in Boston, and they were married very, very young and started a family right away. They were idealistic. They were hippies, really.

Not in a traditional sense—they didn’t sort of wear their hippiness in a way that would be immediately identifiable—but they were very much leaning toward, you know, Let’s all just love each other, and We can work it out, and Love is the way.

J.K.: They had two biological kids

before thinking about adoption. How did you become a Carroll?

R.C.: My father was a high school art teacher and had two students, a [white] sister-brother pair who came from Boston, from a volatile situation in their own family. The sister got pregnant with her boyfriend back in Boston, who was Black, and she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t really have a plan. And my dad said, “Well, we’ve been trying to adopt. What do you think?”

J.K.: He told you that before that

happened, he had also considered

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adopting a Native American child.

What was the appeal of adopting a kid who wasn’t white?

R.C.: I don’t know what it was, but my father thought the idea of a child of another race, there was something romantic about it. As an artist and certainly as a white male artist very much of his time, there was an exotification that happened, I think, a sort of otherness that was intriguing. It was a way that he could sort of paint a portrait of his life that included something other that he choreographed, that he pieced together. It feels like the family was curated with my adoption, in a way.

J.K.: Do you think your father’s desire

to adopt a Black child was partly about validating his own self-image?

R.C.: Oh, for sure. I think he wanted his life to look a certain way, and he pulled it off. I don’t think it was Machiavellian. I don’t believe it was evil. They’re not the kind of people who were like, We’re doing a good thing for the world. They weren’t white saviors—they didn’t have that complex at all. But they did think of it as lovely, and beautiful, and open, and Look what this could be. And it was really that, for a time. It was truly idyllic.

J.K.: When you were a kid, how early

on did your parents address the fact that you were Black?

R.C.: Address it? No. But, I mean, I guess by addressing it, there was my dance teacher. I had a neighbor who was taking ballet lessons in New London, and the teacher happened to be Black. So the neighbor suggested to my mom that I start taking ballet lessons with this woman, without saying to me anything about her being Black. I went to the first class, and I was seeing a Black person for the first time—at 6.

J.K.: You walk in the door, you lay eyes

on her—what did that feel like?

R.C.: Well, I was an extremely social

child. Just very, very down and game for people. I was always like, Ooh, what’s happening? So little me comes onto the scene, looking around, looking at the other girls. And then I looked over across the room, and there is this statuesque, beautiful, muscular, brown-skinned beauty. And I kept thinking over and over about Easy Reader from The Electric Company. He was my reference point. It was almost like a confluence in my mind, of like, Wait: Is she related? Is he related? Am I related? I just couldn’t process it. But I do remember feeling thrilled, and somehow moved in a way I couldn’t possibly articulate.

That experience, when I reflected on it, prompted me to write a little NEWENGLAND.COM

11/5/20 2:53 PM

COURTESY OF REBECCA CARROLL

Today, at 51, Carroll is a celebrated writer and producer in Brooklyn, New York, serving as cultural critic for the public radio station WNYC and host of the podcast Come Through. She’s also just published a memoir called Surviving the White Gaze, a timely, empathetic, at times shocking, and ultimately hopeful account of her upbringing. The book looks at not only the overt racism she experienced, but also the more insidious effects of good New England liberals—her parents included—failing to understand what it meant for her to be who she was in the place where she lived.

Carroll’s work was particularly interesting to me—a white, Brooklyn-based, New England–bred writer—because I’ve spent the past few years working on a book called The Power of Strangers, which looks at how talking to strangers, especially those who are different from us, can both enhance our own individual sense of well-being and help address some of the thorniest issues facing American society. To my mind, Carroll’s experiences are an example of what happens when we don’t talk, and don’t meet, and don’t try to understand the lives of the other people with whom we share a town, a state, or a country. And her book is a call to try harder.

We spoke on the phone this past September. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

essay, which I still have on yellowed lined paper: “My name is Rebecca Anne Carroll. I am a black child.”

Because I don’t remember anybody ever telling me that.

J.K.: It’s interesting, because your

parents had this very old-school liberal idea that we don’t see color, that race is cosmetic, but the experience with your teacher shows that you had a real, pent-up need to encounter people who looked like you. That never seemed to occur to your parents.

R.C.: It never occurred to them. Their intention in adopting was just to bring me into the family, as a member of the family. They were unable to begin to understand not only what an experience like that would feel like, but also what it would prompt in me— this yearning that I couldn’t even put words to. It was so visceral.

“The teacher looked at me and she said, ‘And you’re very pretty, too, for a Black girl.’

And then she said, ‘Because most Black girls—ick— very unattractive,’ and she scrunched up her face.”

COURTESY OF REBECCA CARROLL

J.K.: No, what happened?

R.C.: I was about 7. There was this

lake that we would go to, a local lake with lots of families. And one day an older girl who was a friend of my sister’s—she would have been about 11—asked me if I wanted to go out to the deep water. I couldn’t swim; I just mostly played around. And I knew that young kids weren’t supposed to JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2021

YK0121_FEA_Conversation.indd 111

J.K.: It’s astonishing that no one

would have told you about this.

R.C.: It’s pretty mind-blowing. But

then I think about all these stories and the knee-jerk response from other people in my family, which is like, Are you sure you remember that correctly?

Maybe you’re exaggerating? And how many times I heard that with things that I experienced firsthand.

J.K.: What’s behind that? What are

people trying to spare themselves?

R.C.: I think that living in isolation,

J.K.: At the same time I was reading

your book I was also reading some essays by James Baldwin, and two of his lines jumped out at me: “Blacks in this country are schooled in adversity long before white people are” and “The children of the despised and rejected are menaced from the moment they stir in the womb.” And I think they stood out to me because your parents, in failing to understand how important race is in America, were not able to protect you from what was coming.

You just rolled completely unprepared into being Black in America.

R.C.: Exactly. Did you read the story I wrote in The Atlantic about a neardrowning experience I had?

to living an entire life, and writing an entire memoir, and then discovering that a childhood incident that I thought was just a near-drowning was actually a hate crime. A racist attack.

Rebecca Carroll with her adoptive parents on the front porch of their home in Warner, New Hampshire, c. 1976.

go out to the deep end. But I thought it was very cool that she was interested in me. I thought it was exciting, the idea of going out to the deep water. So she had me on her hip, and she carried me out, and when we got to the deep water she dropped me and I almost drowned.

What I did not know until about six months ago was that when she came out of the water, leaving me to drown, she called me a n----r.

My sister heard it, but she never told me. It didn’t even make it into the memoir because I’d already written it when I found out. That is a testament

in small towns—even with beautiful farmland, and nature, and antique shops, and organic things—stunts your growth. It stunts your thinking.

It puts you in a kind of cultural holding pattern. That ends up a lot of the time sounding to my siblings like I’m being an intellectual snob. And I’ve really struggled with that, with the value I placed on reading, and conversations, and understanding the way this country works. I just can’t imagine being satisfied in another way. If that makes me a snob, which I’m sure on some levels it does, then so be it.

J.K.: You were the only Black kid in

your middle school and high school.

What else stuck with you?

R.C.: Um, well. [Laughs.] Notably, Slave Day. J.K.: Really? Slave Day? R.C.: It was a time-honored tradition

[in seventh grade]. Slave Day was when boys bid on girls, and girls bid on boys, and whoever bid the highest got to make that person their slave for the day—which usually involved some kind of costume or onerous thing to wear—and then also carry their books all day. The boy who bought me was a skier. He put me in a neoprene suit and | 111

11/12/20 4:42 PM

J.K.: In your book there’s a story about

your fifth-grade teacher that’s even worse than that.

R.C.: So, my friend Leah was my best friend from birth. And one afternoon at recess, my teacher was on duty, and we went to ask her how much more time we had to play. And she said, “You’ve got a few more minutes.

You should be fine.” And then it just—it happened so quickly. She looked at Leah and she said, “You’re a very pretty girl, Leah.” I remember looking at Leah and just thinking, She is. And then the teacher looked at me and she said, “And you’re very pretty, too, for a Black girl.” And then there was this pause. And then she said, “Because most Black girls—ick—very unattractive,” and she scrunched up her face. And I remember thinking, Ooooh, wow, this is not good. Leah and I looked at each other. We didn’t really even know what to make of it. So we just turned around and ran back down to play.

But that was the moment. That was the turning point for me, for sure.

It felt like coming out and seeing the tires slashed on your car. Like everything I know about my mobility and my agency has been slashed.

J.K.: You were a popular kid, and you

worked to get in with that crowd. But when you even acknowledged your own race, things got weird.

R.C.: That’s right. I was really ambitious. I didn’t want to just be in 112 |

YK0121_FEA_Conversation.indd 112

Warner, New Hampshire, my whole life. I wanted agency. I wanted to taste self-confidence. I wanted to know what that felt like. And because I didn’t have a Black parent to say, “You have to work twice as hard”— which you do—I ended up just doing that, and feeling really resentful about it, but also knowing that it was the only way.

And that also meant if a Black boy came and performed break dancing, and he was so cute and was looking at me, I was risking everything by indicating any kind of alliance with him at all.

J.K.: Tell us about that story.

R.C.: So in the early ’80s, break

dancing was the coolest thing. And we had an assembly for this breakdancing crew. The boys were probably 15 or 16, and I was just dazzled. I mean, absolutely dazzled. I was a dancer. I always loved dancing, but I also just felt this connection—very much like I felt when I met my dance teacher. This visceral pull. Like nothing I’d ever experienced before. It was almost like being in a trance.

They hung around afterward, and I was in my little clique with my friends, and this boy I had a very big crush on caught me looking at this cute Black dancer. And he was like, “Ooh, it looks like somebody has a crush.” And I felt like I had been caught doing something criminal, like I had been caught in an act of betrayal, and that this white boy could take everything away from me in one sentence.

So I immediately said, “What are you talking about? I’m not looking at that.” And then I sort of pushed myself against this white boy to make him understand that I would never be interested in a Black boy, and thereby you can continue to not see me as Black.

J.K.: It’s like in that one glance you

had violated the terms of the deal.

R.C.: That’s right.

J.K.: And the dancer saw you turn away.

R.C.: He definitely did. We locked

eyes for sure. But to me it was like, Where did you even come from? It was like these boys dropped in from somewhere where Black people lived, where I’ve never been, or seen. It was like the gamble wasn’t worth it on many levels. When I was caught looking at him, I knew that I wouldn’t give up the popularity that I had acquired. Because this guy was just going to go away again, and I would continue to be the only one. If there had been a sense of support—even one or two other Black kids who might have rallied around that effort—it would have been so different.

J.K.: After a school trip to D.C.

where you spent time with some Black students from another school, one of your white friends snapped at you, “Oh, what? You’re Black now?”

Which suggests: What did he think you were before that?

R.C.: These popular white kids decided how they would see me. And that’s the white gaze. Not only did they decide how to see me, but when I decided that I was going to see myself as Black, and asked them to see me as Black, I was met with disdain. It wasn’t even like, “Oh, OK, Beck.

You’re Black. Whatever.” It was like, “Why would you want to be Black?”

J.K.: What do you think was behind

that reaction?

R.C.: I think they felt betrayal. But

I think they also felt threatened, because what does it mean, then, for me to be Black? They have to think about what that means, and all they know, all they can conjure up, are stereotypes. All they can conjure up is what their parents have told them.

So if I am Black then I am dumb, or I am likely to steal something from the store, or I am all of these things. Their pool of resources was so limited that it couldn’t possibly be a good thing for me to be Black.

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/5/20 2:55 PM

L AUR A FUCHS

ski boots and goggles, and I carried his books around. And what really stands out for me in that memory was that I was really pleased that I was bought.

Because that was a sign of being popular. If you hadn’t been bought, it was because you were a nerd, or you were unpopular, or nobody cared. I didn’t even take issue with it—but that none of the adults did either is so egregious. [Laughs.] I can’t even believe that that was just fine. It was just: Ah! Slave Day! We love it!

J.K.: When I read that chapter of the

book, I started thinking about the idea of tolerance. It seemed as though some of the students you went to school with—even if they were well intentioned—were still like, We’re being tolerant. We’re accepting you.

It struck me that tolerance is an expression of power. Like, they can decide to tolerate you. But you, as the one Black student in school, didn’t have that same luxury.

R.C.: No. It’s one of the things I say a lot in conversations with white people, especially white women, and in conversations about feminism, which is: You can choose to not have this conversation. You can choose to not have this kind of awareness at any moment. Even if you spend weeks upon weeks raising your fist in solidarity with Black women and women of color, the next day you can pretend that never happened and go on about your business.

“Be that person in your family who’s like, There’s a bigger world outside this dinner table.

You don’t even have to have Black folks in your life to have these conversations.”

J.K.: If there’s one thing that you want

L AUR A FUCHS

J.K.: Did you gain a special wisdom

from existing in two worlds for such a long time? Was it formative in a positive way?

R.C.: Uh [laughs], I am well positioned to deal with white people. I’ve spent a lot of time with white people, as you know. And so I do feel well positioned, so long as I’m able to do it on my own terms, and that there isn’t an expectation that I am like a “whitepeople whisperer.” [Laughs.]

But to my mind, I survived without being a victim. I survived and was able to emerge with a much stronger voice. And who I am has everything to do with that experience.

I’ve had countless white adoptive parents say to me, “Well, what do you want? Do you think they shouldn’t have adopted you?” How could I possibly even begin to contemplate that answer? My parents really loved me, and love me. My mom is all heart.

I don’t fault her for that; I fault her for not being a little more “mind.” But her love has been incredibly pure and absolutely unconditional.

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YK0121_FEA_Conversation_REV.indd 113

inclusion initiatives—in education, corporations, whatever it may be—that you’re still using the managerial tools of a systemically racist culture. The folks in office, the folks who have power, the folks who can make decisions—that has to change first. Which is not to say if New Hampshire suddenly had a Black mayor, I’d be like, “Oh, let’s move back to New Hampshire.” But that’s somebody who can start to address and speak from another vantage point.

Carroll in 2020 with her son, Kofi, outside their home in Brooklyn, New York.

J.K.: New England states are

among the whitest in the country— particularly New Hampshire, Maine, and Vermont—but they’re also losing population at a pretty good clip.

I’ve been reading the work of UNH demographer Kenneth Johnson, who’s basically said if these states want to sustain their population levels, they’re going to have to attract non-white people. And a lot of institutions are trying to do this, but it’s a struggle.

What are your thoughts on that?

R.C.: I mean, good luck. There’s no way to sustain a kind of cultural inclusion if you don’t take down the original tentpoles and really examine what it is that would appeal to Black and brown folks. I feel like with diversity and

New Englanders to take from your book, what is it?

R.C.: Have conversations, unsolicited.

Be that person in your family who’s like, There’s a bigger world outside this dinner table. You don’t even have to have Black folks in your life to have these conversations. And really push yourself outside of yourself, and rethink the language that you use, even if you’re watching the news. My mom says a lot, “We watch the news and we see what’s happening and we see these protests.” But it’s not enough to just see it or bear witness. You’ve got to then have some movement in your perspective; there has to be some accountability to yourself and to the people who are in your immediate life.

It really is like, If you see something, say something. I think the trickiest thing for folks in New England is that they don’t see anything. So even if you don’t see the gross injustice, if you don’t see another Black man being killed by police, even if you’re not on social media—this is happening all around you. And you need to sort of examine why it’s just occurring to you now to think about it, and how you’re going to keep thinking about it, and how that’s going to contribute to the betterment of all of us as a society.

Editors’ note: As this article was going to press, Carroll announced she would be leaving WNYC to pursue other projects, including an adaptation of her memoir as a limited series for MGM/UA Television. | 113

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Life in the Kingdom (Continued from p. 120) droppings, the clipped-off tops of balsam firs from browsing—but not as much as he’d seen the week before, when scouting with friends in another forest within the district. Still, he wants to have options; he wants to find the places the other hunters are unlikely to reach, either because they don’t know of them or because it’s too far to walk or too challenging to consider packing out an 800-pound kill.

I notice how quietly my son walks through the woods, and how noisy I am by comparison. I notice how he’s always scanning the terrain at the periphery of our vision, looking for things I don’t know to look for, and seeing things I don’t understand the meaning of. I notice that I can barely hold his pace; despite his seeing and noticing, he’s not here to immerse himself in nature, or to fully inhabit the moment, or for so many of the other reasons people come

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to the wild. He’s here with a purpose.

He’s devising a plan, and like all plans that involve the taking of life, it is serious business, and it requires that we cover serious ground.

In so many regards, it’s all a mystery to me. I did not grow up hunting; my sons did not grow up with a father who took them hunting. Part of me regrets that I wasn’t able to offer them that, and part of me revels in the reversal of traditional roles: It’s my sons, and Rye in particular, who’ve taught me about hunting; about the animals, with their particular habits and habitats; about the guns and the gear, and how to prepare the less savory bits of the creatures they harvest. If my son kills a moose this fall, I know our entire family will be well nourished all winter, and every edible bit (including those that many wouldn’t consider edible) will be utilized.

I don’t hunt often, but I love to accompany my sons on scouting trips, or to serve as the licensed partner during youth weekends. Of course I’m glad for the time with my boys, but I’m also

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glad to know what it’s like to inhabit the landscape through the prism of pursuit, because even at my very pedestrian level of skill and commitment, I can feel how different it is from inhabiting it as a nonhunter. Everything seems enhanced, the colors brighter, the sounds clearer, the air cleaner. If there are other ways to achieve this state, I’ve not yet discovered them.

And it makes me happy to witness my sons navigate the world in ways of their own making, their own learning. Like many parents, I want a lot of things for my children, maybe more than is reasonable to expect. But of those things, I’ve wanted none more than for them to develop resourcefulness and a belief in their own capacities. To know that if there’s something they want to learn, or simply to do, it is within them to learn it or do it. Hunting is not how I expected they might develop this self-knowledge, and of the many ways I imagined us spending time together as they approached the cusp of adulthood, sighting in rifles and tracking moose were never under consideration. I wouldn’t have even known to consider them. But at the cusp of 50, I’m finally (finally!) awakening to the truth that what we expect and what we get are often two very different things, and that one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves is to remain open to the unexpected.

Rye and I arrive at the edge of a large wetland fringed by cedars. It’s maybe half past 9; we stop to shed jackets and drink water. It’s a warm, dry morning at the end of a warm, dry summer. The surface of the wetlands’ mudded areas is crusted and cracked. There are tracks pressed into the mud, a few in the telltale cloven shape of moose, and many more in the delicate pattern of coyote.

We push through swathes of chesthigh brush so dense that I lose sight of Rye, though he’s only a dozen or so feet ahead of me. On the opposite side of the wetland, we find another Tolkienesque stand of balsam fir. There is a game trail weaving through the trees, but what tracks we find are those of deer, not moose. We follow the trail, anyhow, unsure of where it will lead us, but also not needing to know. | 119

11/5/20 10:52 AM

Life in the Kingdom

|

BEN HEWIT T

The Lottery A son’s love of hunting is both a mystery and a wonder to his father.

ILLUSTR ATION BY

TOM H AUGOM AT

y son Rye has procured a moose permit. This is a very big deal, since the Vermont Fish and Wildlife Department does not allocate many moose permits. Because the moose population fares better when it’s at a moderate level of density, the state helps manage the population through hunting. As it attempts to optimize herd health—which has been profoundly impacted in recent years by a scourge of winter ticks—the state can change the number of permits it issues from year to year (last year there was no moose season at all).

This year, it awarded 55 permits by random lottery among the more than 4,300 applicants.

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All of which is to say that being a 15-year-old in possession of a moose permit in Vermont is a stroke of almost incalculable good fortune, and my son knows it. It’s been weeks since he was notified of his permit, and it still seems as if he can’t quite believe it. “I’ll never have this opportunity again,” he keeps saying.

Early on a Thursday morning in mid-September, he and I leave in the truck to scout the vast stretch of wilderness that’s been assigned to him (moose permits are distributed across specified hunting districts). It’s still more than a month until the six-day season begins, but he’s leaving as little to chance as possible. Already, there have been numerous trips to the gun range to hone

his distance shooting. Specific ammunition has been purchased at more than $2 per round. He cleans his gun over and over again, and on many evenings, our house is infused with the acrid odor of gun oil. He burns his cleaning cloths in the wood stove, and the flames leap from the high-octane fuel.

We park at a pullout and head down a worn trail that becomes a narrow footpath, and soon after, a faint suggestion of a possible direction. The forest is lush and almost medievallooking, the ground covered in a soft carpet of moss, the light filtered through a dense canopy of conifer branches. We see moose sign—tracks, (Continued on p. 119) NEWENGLAND.COM

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