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Art amidst the mills of North Adams

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November December 2013 104

Fall leaves and outdoor swimming go great together!

A decaying mill town on a gray November weekend in an isolated corner of Massachusetts might seem an unlikely destination, but North Adams had been on my radar for a while.

The  Massachusetts Museum of Modern Art (Mass MoCA) offered intriguing, colorful and large-scale modern art likely to engage a 12-year-old non-artsy boy.  The Porches Inn provided a 24-hour outdoor heated pool and hot tub.  And Spruce Hill, just outside of town, is listed in Jeffrey Romano’s book, 100 Classic Hikes in New England.  Plus, right above town, we could experience the hair-pin turn on Route 2.  Why go to Disney World when North Adams awaits?

North Adams is a classic New England mill town, with acres and acres of massive red-brick empty mill buildings. Manufacturing in North Adams dates back to the Revolution, but now industry is all but dead, the final nail in the coffin coming with the 1985 closure of the Sprague Electric Company plant on Marshall Street (previously the home of the country’s largest textile print mill).  The Sprague plant was much more than a small-town components factory; it had state-of-the-art equipment and served as the company’s research and development center.  Employees included physicists and electrical engineers as well as line workers making electrical components.  At its peak in the 1960s, the company employed more than 4,000 workers.  The 1985 closure struck a massive blow to the community.

In the 19th century, sheep farmers in the hills around North Adams abandoned their fields for the relative comforts offered by row houses in the town.

In the 19th century, sheep farmers in the hills around North Adams abandoned their farms for jobs in the mills and the comforts offered by the row houses in town (on the Spruce Hill hike).

Soon after plant’s closure, town officials set their sights on reviving the town. In 1999, Mass MoCA opened at the sprawling Sprague complex to become the world’s largest contemporary art museum.  Although it’s unlikely that art will ever replace Sprague’s 4,000 jobs (plus the related jobs in other businesses), Mass MOCA has served as the cornerstone of the town’s revival, with other art galleries opening in its wake, along with restaurants, shops, and The Porches Inn.

Mass MoCA is fun – the perfect art outing for families with tweens or teens (and many were wandering around the place). Kids who might be bored with the portrait galleries of the Museum of Fine Arts will find much here to intrigue them.  The exhibits are constantly changing.

When we visited, Jason Middlebrook’s monumental hanging water fountain sculpture, Falling Water, packed a big “wow” factor. Mark Dion’s Octagon Room offered an intriguing bunker-like space to explore.  The colorful patterned paintings of Sol Lewitt (more or less on permanent exhibit) provide hope to non-artists that they too can create something beautiful, as Lewitt allows others to use his patterns to recreate his art.

The marble bridge, unique in North America, offers another sort of sculpture at Natural Bridge State Park, just outside of town.

The marble bridge, unique in North America, offers another sort of sculpture at Natural Bridge State Park, just outside of town.

European sculptor Joseph Beuys’s three-dimensional montage, Lightening with Stag in Its Glare, intends, per the catalog, to evoke “the spiritual power of animals and nature” while celebrating “the victory of socialist warmth and self-determination over materialist greed and alienation.”  For kids, however, the most interesting question is whether the irregularly shaped brown objects lying on the floor are lacquered turds or primordial worms (or perhaps both).

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Just getting up to see Michael Oatman’s Airstream trailer repurposed as some kind of exotic aircraft (titled “The Shining”) is a unique museum adventure.  Visitors have to climb a few flights of stairs past old boilers and pipes to reach the outdoor platform where the trailer is perched.  The rusted pipes and equipment, which probably clanked and boiled well into the 1980s, now seem ancient.

A chilly November dawn in North Adams.

A chilly November dawn in North Adams.

Across the street from MASS MoCA, the Porches Inn is laid back and easy-going, with 24/7 access to the hot tub, sauna and pool. Visitors can order happy hour drinks at the small bar and sip them in the living room.  We decided to catch the sunrise each morning from the hot tub, although we kept forgetting to get up early enough due to the recent “fall back” switch to Eastern Standard Time.  Although we missed the official moment of the sun rising, we enjoyed sitting in the hot tub sipping fresh coffee and watching the pink sky.

The 3.5-mile loop hike up to Spruce Hill provided a good opportunity for leg-stretching and views of North Adams and Mount Greylock.  The loop trail through the forest took us along a massive beaver swamp, with many freshly chewed trees. The beavers remained hidden.

View from the summit of Spruce Hill, with Mount Greylock in the background.

View from the summit of Spruce Hill, with Mount Greylock in the background. The ledge was slippery, with a steep drop-off on one side. I lost my footing and fell hard on my behind, but at least I was on the right of the ledge!

In Mass MoCA, I took plenty of photos of the art, but I can’t publish those shots online. So when I was in North Adams, I tried to make my own art by shooting artsy photos. If you don’t know what they are, then I guess I have succeeded in creating modern abstractions (see below).

By the way, last year, on this same November weekend, we made our first-ever trip to Orlando to visit Harry Potter world at Universal Studios.  Jeremy rated that trip as a five-star adventure.  Our weekend in North Adams:  4.5 stars.  A pretty good rating, I’d say, for a place that exemplifies “November” in New England (i.e. gray, barren, and chilly).  Chamber of Commerce, take note:  with the right spin, marketing North Adams as the alternative destination for families weary of roller coasters just might work.

What kind of monster beavers can fell a tree this thick?

What kind of monster beavers can fell a tree this thick?

 

Stream in fall.

Stream in fall.

 

Modern art in the forest: the exposed veins of a tree.

Modern art in the forest: the exposed veins of a tree.

White elephant in a green valley

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The trail map at Evergreen Valley.

The trail map at Evergreen Valley.

Here at Evergreen Valley, the outside temperature is 12 degrees, but a full 28 degrees warmer, at 40, inside our “villa.”  We lost power yesterday (2/17), late in the afternoon after a day of wild snowless winds. Now, this morning, we sit wrapped in blankets in this electrically-heated 1970s condo.   Somehow the outage seems fitting, what should be, one more challenge to overcome in Evergreen Valley’s long struggle to become a destination.

The ski lodge remains a functional building. A little TLC and it could be open for something....

The ski lodge remains a functional building. A little TLC and it could be open for something….

I first discovered Evergreen Valley, in Stoneham, Maine, about 10 years ago, as my husband and I spent a summer afternoon exploring the area while staying at another spot on nearby Kezar Lake.  Intrigued by a sign on Route 5, we turned off and followed the road for a winding 3.5 miles as it went far back into the woods and then opened up, improbably, onto a scruffy but still-functioning golf course.  Further back, a lodge-style inn was tucked into the woods.  The road climbed another couple of hundred yards up a steep hill and ended in a small parking lot bordered by a dozen lonely condos backed up against the edge of the White Mountain National Forest.   Down the hill and around the corner from the Inn, a massive ski lodge loomed at the base of an abandoned ski area.  A memory clicked into place for my husband as he recalled having attended a rock concert here back in the 1970s.

Evergreen Valley was once a place of big dreams and big schemes, and a tale of how easily local and state officials are wooed and won on the hopes of a little economic development in an unlikely spot.  Developers wanted to build a mega-ski resort here, one of the largest in New England, with a golf course, bubble-topped tennis courts, a marina on Kezar Lake, and hundreds and hundreds of housing units.  At first, the idea for the resort was a grass roots effort, but as the project expanded from a small ski mountain to a mega-resort, other locals –especially the well-off part-year residents who populate these parts during the summer months – organized against the project, citing the scale of the resort as incompatible with the surrounding area.  But really, environmental activism was the least of the challenges faced by Evergreen Valley.  The sad fact is that skiers don’t flock by the thousands to an off-the-beaten path mountain with a 1,000 vertical feet – a hill really – in an industry that already was beginning the process of consolidation that would see many of New England’s small ski areas close in the 1980s.

The Olympic-sized pool was intended for year-round operation.

The Olympic-sized pool was intended for year-round operation.

For the dreamers who envisioned Evergreen Valley, no expense, it seemed, was spared.  Timbers for the massive lodge were trucked in from Oregon.  An Olympic-sized outdoor pool – intended for both summer and winter use – was dug next to the lodge.  Tennis courts protected by a bubble dome were built, along with a riding stable with stalls for with 30 horses. Three chair lifts were installed on Adams Mountain.  When the Evergreen Valley ski area finally opened for business in 1972 (after many delays), it was a state-of-the-art recreational facility, the most ambitious opening debut in New England ski history. At the time, some other resorts had more trails and lifts, but these ski areas had typically started small, with a rope tow and a T-bar, and gradually developed over time.  At Evergreen Valley, skiers would not strain to balance on T-bars or flail around on a rope tow.

A half-finished condo unit greets visitors as they drive up the lonely road into Evergreen Valley. The inside was never finished. Today, several holes punctuate the roof.

A half-finished condo unit greets visitors as they drive up the lonely road into Evergreen Valley. The inside was never finished. Today, several holes punctuate the roof.

But the mountain struggled to attract skiers.  By the mid-seventies, it was bankrupt and closed,  although it did open again later for a few more seasons. At one point, the state of Maine purchased the resort at public auction for $500,000, and later sold it to another hopeful developer (for full details, see the link to the article below at the New England Ski History website). Today, the lodge sits empty, and the swimming pool is an empty hole.  But the valley offers great snowmobiling, with access to miles and miles of trails, and has become a destination for snowmobilers from around the Northeast, many of whom stay at the Evergreen Valley Inn.  Maybe the snowmobilers stay at the condos too, but we don’t know, because on most nights, our car is the only one in the parking lot. The resort would be a great setting for a Stephen King novel. I’m surprised it hasn’t showed up in one yet, given that King spends a lot of time in the area, at his home on Kezar Lake.

So why are we here at Evergreen Valley? (Not only are we here, but this is our second week-long stay). We’ve come partly because I like places that feel remote and apart from the hustle-bustle.  Also, Evergreen Valley is located in convenient proximity to Bethel and the mega-resort of Sunday River (a slope with a few trails when Evergreen Valley opened), and to Shawnee Peak, a family ski area in Bridgton.   When I saw that this particular condo at Evergreen Valley came equipped with its own hot tub, I was sold.  Also, I guess I like giving a little business to the underdog, keeping hope alive. Back-door access to snowshoeing, along the old ski trails of Mount Adams or to the ledges of Speckled Mountain, is another bonus.

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Hikers can follow the abandoned ski trails to the summit of Adams Mountain.

On my first attempt to snowshoe up Adams Mountain, I took long steps through the woods as high winds with 60 mph gusts howled. Birch trees bent and flailed and snow swirled up from the ground.  I knew that the supple birches were not likely to snap in the wind, but older oak trees stood deeper in the woods.  Every time I heard a crack, I looked about to see if a tree had snapped, although I knew logically that plotting an escape from a tree falling in my direction would be a fruitless exercise.  I felt a bit like Thoreau on his final ascent of Mount Katahdin, feeling awestruck and terrified at the same time. Although I could clearly see the trail, I wasn’t sure what I would see if I reached the summit, so I decided to turn back to the condo.

The following day, remnants of the wind storm still ruffled the trees, but the howling had ended.  With the sun softening the snow and cloudless blue skies that promised great views, I was determined to make it to the 1,650-foot summit of Mount Adams, about an 800-foot elevation gain from the condos.  I snowshoed across the brook behind the condos, and bushwhacked through the trees, following yesterday’s tracks to one of the ski trails.  This time I pushed further through the woods and began to hike uphill on a wider ski trail, now filled by a glade of birches.

Views of Kezar Lake. I took this photo on a third hike, as the day was drawing to a close. Skies weren't as clear, but the view was still great.

Views of Kezar Lake. I took this photo on a third hike, as the day was drawing to a close. Skies weren’t as clear, but the view was still great.

Stomping uphill through the snow, I came upon a snowmobile trail, which provided a path up a steeper section. (Snowmobiles aren’t allowed on Adams Mountain, and I’m not sure if this trail was legal, but it provided a good reference for bushwhacking).  After a final bushwhack through the trees, I arrived at a southwest-facing ledge with views of Kezar Lake.  Further south, I could see the ski trails of Shawnee Peak, and to the west, mountains folding upon mountains, although the wind had kicked up just enough moisture to conceal Mount Washington’s summit.

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The summit is topped by a flat open area. It’s a great snowshoe hike, and a good family hike in warmer months. In the distance, the trails at Shawnee Peak are faintly visible.

I hiked up along the ledge until arriving at a flat area, forested with a grove of white pines.  The snow mobile trail ended here, and then circled around and back down the mountain.  I could see footsteps where the renegade snowmobilers had stepped out to admire the view, but on this day, I was absolutely alone on the summit.    And even though I love downhill skiing, I was happy that I had this beautiful snow-capped rocky ledge to myself on a February afternoon.

Evergreen Valley, yeah, it’s definitely grown on me. The entire valley is for sale, for a reported $2.9 million dollars. Maybe someday another visionary with deep pockets and more realistic expectations will buy the resort and do more to bring in the snowmobilers, add a destination restaurant to the Inn, or at least a cozy bar.  Maybe a millionaire yoga lover will transform the Inn into a yoga and meditation retreat that offers exquisite healthy meals and a New Age summer camp.  Maybe, like the developers and their consultants, I’m a dreamer too, because I believe that potential exists to do more here in Evergreen Valley.

I wouldn’t want to see much more than what’s here now, just enough to add some  economic development to the region, to keep the country stores open in Stoneham and Center Lovell, to add some kids to the school systems, to sustain the sense of community in this beautiful but hard-to-make-a-living corner of Maine.

I’m not interested in buying the condo next door (on the market at a 1980-ish price of $50,000), but I’ll return again to Evergreen Valley. Maybe on the next visit, I’ll hike up to the ledges on Speckled Mountain.  I’ll definitely sit in the hot tub and gaze up at the stars in the inky sky.

P.S.  The power was restored mid-morning, but we hardly suffered.  The Inn provided us with hot coffee and an invitation to hang out in front of the fire in their great room.  After breakfasting at not-too-far-away Melby’s, we returned to the warmth of a sunlight-filled living room.  Not too long afterwards, the lights blazed and the hot tub began its steady hum.

References and further reading

Evergreen Valley History – New England Ski History

Evergreen Valley, Stoneham, Maine – New England Lost Ski Areas Project

 View from Adams Mountain, Stoneham, c,. 1960

 

The storm of the century, 35 years ago today

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Thirty-five years ago today, February 6, 1978 began like any other Monday at my childhood home in Weymouth, Massachusetts. The fact that nothing stands out about that morning suggests that it was ordinary – I probably got up about 6:45, had breakfast, and walked down the street to catch the bus to Weymouth North High School.

The street was lined with snow banks left from a record-breaking storm on January 20 which had dropped 21 inches of snow. My father had already left for work in nearby Rockland.  My brother must have taken the school bus, because he was just a few weeks shy of a driver’s license. My younger sister walked the 1.5 miles to Bicknell Junior High.  My mother drove off to the Quincy subway station to take the T into her job at Mass Eye and Ear.

We knew about a pending storm.  The National Weather Service had issued storm warnings on Sunday for heavy snowfall on Monday.  But we had just weathered the January blizzard, so more snow was no big deal.

I’m pretty sure we were dismissed from school that morning around 11. Eventually we all arrived home  — my father, my sister, my brother and finally my mother, whose usual 15-minute ride from Quincy took an hour.  The snow kept falling, sometimes in bursts of three inches per hour, and falling, and falling.

Almost everyone who lived in the Boston area at that time remembers what was to follow. Hundreds of cars stopped on Routes 128 and 95. Their drivers either sat shivering, waiting for rescue, or if they could, they walked to the nearest house or other shelter, like the movie theater in Dedham.  Thousands of people lost power, although not us.  A state of emergency closed all roads for days.

After the storm, kids experienced the joy of leaping into huge drifts of snow and the thrill of a week-long unplanned vacation from school.   After being snowbound for a couple of days, we relished the novelty of walking along foot-stomped paths in the middle of the road to get to Angelo’s grocery store, about a mile-and-a-half away in Hingham.

But even though we didn’t lose electricity and could watch the news and Governor Dukakis in his black turtleneck reassuring the residents of Massachusetts, we experienced only a small slice of the Blizzard of 1978.  We didn’t know that just to the south, in the coastal town of Scituate, a five-year-old girl,  Amy Lanzikos, had been swept out of her mother’s arms after a wave knocked four people out of the boat that had just rescued them their ocean-battered homes.  Or that in the central Massachusetts town of Uxbridge, while we

Peter Gosselin, age 10, disappearing during the storm. His body was found three weeks later, three feet from his back door (uncredited photo from blizzardof78.org)

Peter Gosselin, age 10, disappeared during the storm. His body was found three weeks later, three feet from his back door (uncredited photo from blizzardof78.org)

jumped off snow banks, searchers were desperately looking for ten-year-old Peter Gosselin, who had gone out to play on February 7 as the storm was dying, and never came home.  Or that to the north, in Salem, the pilot boat had been lost with five experienced men after the boat had set out from Gloucester to aid a floundering Coast Guard boat that had been on its own mission to aid an oil tanker threatening to break apart.

We didn’t know how that on Cape Cod, the sea and the wind had surged onto the dunes at Coast Guard Beach and had crumpled a vast parking lot like a sheet of shredded paper.  Or that entire neighborhoods of homes just down the road in Hull, and in other coastal towns, had been wiped clean by the storm, with homes swept from their foundations and tossed about like a set of children’s blocks.  We didn’t know the feeling of being stuck in dark cold houses without heat or electricity.

We didn’t know then, and we don’t know now.  Today the world is supposed to our oyster in terms of information. We are surrounded by news and bombarded with information, but we haven’t changed all that much in our ability to grasp the sum of disparate events.  We still need a narrative to understand the world, a person to tell the story.

Last fall, Hurricane Sandy was the “storm of the century” in the some parts of the Northeast.   Here in Kittery, we celebrated an early dismissal and spent a night in the dark, lighting candles and hunkering down with the cats.  The temperature was too warm to light the wood stove.  The storm was noisy and exciting, an awesome event but not a hardship.

To the south, in Rhode Island, New Jersey and New York, a terrifying ordeal was unfolding for millions of people.  The next day, on the morning news, we could see the picture of the New Jersey roller coaster in the Atlantic Ocean, but we couldn’t really see.  I could only began to understand the immensity of Sandy after the storm was shaped into a narrative, in this case, the excellent Nova documentary, Inside the Megastorm.

I’m not exactly sure where I’m going with this thread, but maybe I’m trying to say something about how narrative and story will never go out of fashion.  That narrative – the shaping of experience into meaning– will always be more important in understanding the world than mere information.  You can have all the data in the world, but if you don’t tell a story with the data, it’s just numbers.

Snow’s in the forecast for Friday – 18 to 24 inches, with cold temperatures and howling winds.   A good day to hunker down with the cats, fire up the wood stove, and read a story  — or write one of my own.

Further reading and viewing:

There are many websites with materials relating to the Blizzard of 78, as well as books and print articles, so I’m not going to attempt to list them here.  However, for an interesting 35-year retrospective view of the blizzard, and links to further sources, see the February 5, 2012 episode of WCVB’s Chronicle.

Also, I currently reading Ten Hours Until Dawn: The True Story of Heroism and Tragedy Aboard the Can Do, by Michael J. Tougias (St. Martin’s Press, 2005). So far, I’m impressed with how Tougias recreates, in incredible detail, the events of the night of February 6 off the coast of Salem, Massachusetts.

Rangeley days, now far away

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Every summer, the town takes us by surprise.  We crest the hill on Route 4, catch our first view of the lake, and descend into an unlikely enclave of commerce:  the Pine Tree Frosty, the video store, the Laundromat, the hulking building of the Rangeley Inn.  Who would expect to find expect this vibrant lakeside village deep in the western Maine mountains?

Should we go to the equator, or the North Pole?

We’ve been coming to Rangeley for ten years now, for a week or so each summer, and the drive through town always generates the same kind of anticipation.  We feel as if we are returning home and can’t wait to get there.

As we drive down Main Street, we check the storefronts to see what’s changed.  Three years ago, Rangeley lost the pharmacy. Before that, the hardware store and soda fountain. Several restaurants have come and gone, but look, the bookstore’s still going, the movie theater is showing Spiderman.  Nancy’s Gifts has closed, but the parking lot of the Alpine Shop is full. The library has expanded its hours.  The new Moose Alley bowling alley is open for business. We’ll go there on a rainy afternoon.

After passing through town, we head up the hill on the other side of town and turn on the Mingo Loop, drive past the golf course, and turn off onto the dirt road that leads to North Camps.  Our cabin, the Silver Doctor, is the same one we stayed in last year, with the same furniture and the same view of the lake from the screened-in porch.  At the main lodge, Henry the parrot squawks as always.  Sonny, the owner, is not here, but he’s still alive andwill return by Friday.  His son Fran, who runs the place now, tells us that the lakeside campfires will be on Monday and Thursday nights, as usual. We’ve come prepared with our marshmallows, Hershey bars, and scary stories to tell around the fire.

The sun sets over Bald Mountain, across the lake in Oquossoc.

During our Rangeley days, we do the same things every year, usually adding a new twist or variation.  We wake up and drink coffee on the screened-in porch or on the dock. We sit in the sun and read books and swim.  We take the kids tubing on the lake. We play whiffle ball in the grassy field and pretend to play tennis on the mud court.  We mix cocktails that we never drink at home. After dinner, we watch the red glow of the sunset behind Bald Mountain, and the moon rise over Saddleback.

At least once, we pick blueberries in the lush fields at the Wilhelm Reich Museum.  Back at North Camps, I make blueberry pie.  We swim some more.

We explore. One day, a canoe trip, on the Kennebago River or somewhere new. This year, we canoe down the Chain of Ponds, up near the Canadian border, and one of the easier legs of Benedict Arnold’s arduous 1775 expedition to Quebec.

Making a few casts on the Kennebago River. To see moose on the river, you have to get out just after sunrise or at twilight.

Another day, we go for a hike, sometimes to a new mountain and sometimes an old favorite. This year, we drive north from Oquossoc village to climb Mount Aziscohos, a lonely summit off Route 17 which some say has the best views in all of Maine, of more than 25 lakes and endless green forest.  With binoculars, we can see the docks of North Camps.

We like our civilization and make many required trips to town: to the IGA for groceries, to the Red Onion for pizza, to the library to check out favorite books, to the Ecopolagian Nature Store to browse and lounge in the swinging chair on the porch.   By the week’s end, some are concerned that we might miss a visit to Pine Tree Frosty. But the weather is fabulous and we squeeze in our ice cream after an afternoon at Cascade Stream Gorge, where we jump from the cliffs into a deep pool of freezing water.

I have only skimmed the surface of Rangeley, (I haven’t even mentioned the fishing) but reading what I’ve written, I’m exhausted. How can we possibly do all this and not be? Where do we find the time?  Partly, we are on vacation, so we are removed from many of the daily obligations (although we still have meals to cook and, without a dishwasher, the dishes pile endlessly in the sink).  But here, we are liberated from our screens: our computers, our televisions, and other devices, our multiple emails and postings. We lack smart phones and don’t regret it.  If we must check our email, the library is open Tuesday to Saturday.

Jumping off the cliff for the first time was nerve-wracking, but once they were baptized, the jumpers couldn’t be stopped..

This year at North Camps, several of the cabins are empty. Business has been down all summer, a sign of the ongoing recession, and maybe also of changing tastes in vacation.  North Camps is rustic; the furniture is old. In some kitchens, the linoleum may date from the Depression.  Many travelers want their surroundings to look shiny and new and to come with WiFi and cable television.  In judging this book by its cover, they miss out on experiencing the richness of the story.

The kids roam free, devising their own activities, jumping off the docks and playing Apples to Apples in the new pavilion by the lake. They stay up late to finish books.  They bait fish hooks and fall off rafts.  Technically, my son could play with his Nintendo DS – we do have electricity – but during our Rangeley days, he puts it away without protest.

Our week at North Camps is a reasonably-priced vacation, a bargain even.  But what treasure we find in these days of alternating activity and pure laziness.

As an operation that’s been in the family since the 1950s (and which dates back to the 1890s), North Camps will hang on unless the owners decide to close it down and sell this prime lakeside property for the millions that it’s probably worth. We worry about that possibility but Fran tells us not to, because North Camps is their family’s special place, and they have no intention of selling it.

What changes will come to Rangeley over the next year? Will Books Lines and Thinkers Bookstore remain open? Will the Lakeside movie theater still be showing movies?  Can we count on the breakfast at the BMC Diner?  What I see as economic decline may just be part of the usual struggle to keep an off-the-beaten-path mountain community going. Compared to the 1950s, when Rangeley’s many grand lakeside hotels closed down in a matter of years, the ‘decline’ of today may just be a blip in a pattern of recurring small blips.  I hope so.

I imagine moving to Rangeley, maybe buying the Main Street bed and breakfast that was on the market for several years and which now appears to be in new hands.  I’ll swim every day in the lake in the summer, ski in the winter at Saddleback, and get to know the locals sitting at the counter of Moosely Bagels.  I’ll help to organize the Library Gala and volunteer to serve on the town’s Economic Development committee.  And soon my days will fill with emails and meetings and commitments, just like my life back home today

Then again, maybe not. There’s something to be said for having a relationship that is committed but not deep, consistent but not completely connected, because it offers the opportunity for the disconnection so hard to find in our lives today. Next year, I think we’ll stay two weeks.