Old Home Days in Warren

Team Grigsby's visit to Warren, New Hampshire, coincided with Warren's Old Home Days.  For those of you unfamiliar with the idea of Old Home Days, it's sort of like a really really REALLY small county fair, but with none of the judginess (of animals, pies, beauty queen contestants, etc.) that usually accompanies such fairs.  OHD is pretty is pretty much just an excuse to eat fried dough on the town common, play some games of chance, shoot off some fireworks, and throw a parade.

My friends Joe and Wendy live right in the center of Warren in a very cool, 19th-century barn that has been converted into a living space.   

"The Barn"

"The Barn," as it is called, is wonderfully convenient for all things Old Home Days.  It's a stone's throw to the town common, the fireworks are launched from its back yard, and it is right on the parade route.

First, the town common: 

Joe and Jenny on the Common.  Note the missile.

Warren's town common is like many other New England town commons (i.e., a patch of green grass surrounded by white clapboard buildings, a church a two, maybe a school, etc.) with one significant exception.  It has a missile. 

I borrowed this photo from Wikipedia because the photo I took didn't turn out.

There are conflicting stories as to how the missle came to reside in Warren.  The most popular account is that it was donated by some town muckamuck, who bought it in the early 70s, transported it from Alabama, and placed it in Warren in honor of long-time U.S. Senator Norris Cotton, a Warren native.

Anyway.  For OHD, the town common is awash in fried food vendors, games of chance, and people selling things made in China.  We of course availed ourselves of all three categories.  First, we ate buckets of french fries, pulled pork, and hamburgers (the latter two are not technically "fried," but they're pretty close).

We also played some games of chance:  the Chuck-a-Luck (sp?) and the Chicken Drop.  The Chuck-a-Luck consists of a booth with a long wooden rail that has the numbers one through six painted on it.  A caller has a little cage with three dice in it.  The patron places her bet(s) on whatever number(s) seem lucky.  The caller then rolls the dice in the cage.  If your number comes up, you win double your money.  Pretty basic stuff.

Wendy and Jenny at the Chuck-a-Luck

Another game of chance, the Chicken Drop, consists of a 6' x 6' pen with the numbers 1 through 50 painted on the plywood floor.  The patron pays $2 for a number.  Once all the numbers are sold, a chicken (one that has, presumably, eaten a lot recently) is literally "dropped" into the pen.  The first number that the chicken shits on wins $50.

And then there is the crap from China for sale.  I did not win the Chicken Drop, but I did make some money at the Chuck-a-Luck.  So I took my winnings and bought a totally pimping purple hat:

Yes, I know it's a crappy photo.  Shut up.

Next up, fireworks.  The fireworks were shot off from the trail behind Joe and Wendy's backyard.  So we all sat down in the grass with the alcoholic beverage of our choice, got consumed by voraciously insatiable mosquitos and other blood-sucking invertebrates, and enjoyed a fireworks display that was really quite impressive given the relatively small scale of OHD.

Oooh!  Aaaaah!

Finally, the next morning, we were treated to the OHD Parade (while we scratched the open wounds caused by the mosquitos and other invertebrates the night before).  The parade was a blast, if very short, lasting all of twenty minutes or so.  The first ten minutes were some floats, firetrucks, a couple of town bands (who, instead of marching, opted to sit in the back of flatbed trucks), and some classic cars.

Wild AND Awesome.

After the classic cars went by, the remaining half of the parade was taken up by Warren's ATV club:

Warren:  Human Population 1,000; ATV Population 1,500. 



And as the last ATV lurched by and the parade came to an end, we sadly had to say goodbye to Warren and hit the road.  Canada beckoned.  So we said our reluctant goodbyes to our gracious and most supremely awesome hosts, Joe and Wendy.  And just as we exited this New England gem of a town, Grigsby hit a milestone:



No, I wasn't driving when I took this photo.

 Next stop, the border!

Maine to Moosilauke

It's hard for me to keep the days straight while on this road trip.  Is today Wednesday?  Thursday? 

No, it's Friday -- a fact that I had forgotten until I checked FaceBook this morning and saw numerous status updates praising the day dedicated to Frijjō, the ancient Germanic goddess of love.  But TGIF only has meaning if you're stuck in the Monday through Friday work-death-spiral.  When you're on an extended vacation, it's really just another day. 

Let's rewind to a couple of days ago.  I think it was Wednesday morning.  Team Grigsby left Portland for New Hampshire on U.S. 302.  But not without first stopping at Reny's in Bridgton.  Reny's is a Maine institution, where one can buy pretty much anything one could ever need.  So I bought a pair of Carhartt pants, in anticipation of my new life in Seattle.

From Reny's, we headed towards the White Mountains of New Hampshire, via the Kancamagus Highway, or "the Kank," for short.  The Kank is gorgeous 30-mile scenic highway that winds up one side of the WhiteMmountains and down the other, with beautiful vistas along the way. 

We had taken the top off of Grigsby for the day, and it was a balmy 85-degrees outside.  So on the way up the Kank, we decided to cool off by taking a plunge in the lower falls of the Swift River.

One Night in Portland

Remember that book of Calvin and Hobbes comic strips, "The Days are Just Packed"?  That's sort of how I'm feeling at the moment.  I'm like a kid who is having way too much fun, and is probably managing to get himself in trouble along the way without even realizing it.

Team Grigsby said a wistful goodbye to Castine the morning of July 5 and headed down Portland for a night.  For those of you who don't know (or remember), I lived in Portland back in 2002-2003 when I clerked for Judge Kermit Lipez.  Whenever I think about my year spent in Portland, I get all nostalgic and misty-eyed.  I had an amazing time during my year there, and to this day I wonder if I should have just set down roots and never left. 

We arrived in Portland shortly after noon, and Jenny and I joined the judge and his wife for lunch.  The judge, Nancy, and I laughed and reminisced and caught each other up on our families, friends, and our various doings.  And we even occasionally managed to loop Jenny into the conversation so she wouldn't feel left out.

After lunch, Jenny and I explored the Old Port, which looks pretty much the same as it did when I left almost ten years ago, with just a few exceptions -- a couple of storefronts look new or different, but most haven't changed at all.  We had a pint at Gritty McDuff's, we people watched, and we just wandered.  We eventually got settled into our hotel room at the Eastland Park, and then we went to church.

Yes, church.  Have you ever had an amazing meal or a stellar cocktail that bordered on the divine?  Well, Portland has a new restaurant that pretty much guarantees you a religious experience of some sort.  Restaurant Grace.  Set in a 150-year-old de-commissioned Methodist church, one need only look at the bar to know that drunkeness can be next to godliness:

Boozibus Vobiscum

The opening cocktail was a blessed event befitting the venue -- a margarita made with house-infused strawberry-jalapeño-pineapple tequila that started me on my pilgrimage.  And then the meal itself:  Salt cured foie gras to start, followed by goat cheese gnocchi prepared with an oxtail ragout, stone fruit, mushrooms, and baby peas, accompanied by a lovely Sangiovese.  With each bite of the gnocchi, I thought I had died and gone to heaven, with stained-glass angels escorting me into the clouds.  Jenny had some sort of fish dish, but really, I was so hung up on the gnocchi that I didn't really notice what she was eating. 

After completely sating ourselves at Grace, we stumbled into the Portland night, had a quick nightcap at Blackstone's, Portland's oldest gay bar, and then called it a night.

The next morning we roused ourselves, not too bright and not too early, loaded up Grigsby, and hit the road for New Hampshire.  But not without first making a stop at the Portland Headlight for the obligatory photo opp:

Jenny at the Portland Headlight

Maine.  The way life should be.

 

Red, White, and Blue, and White

I survived a second night in Castine without being rudely awakened at 3:00 am by Kathy Bates taking a ball peen hammer to my ankles.  So I think I've gotten over my Stephen King phobia, at least for the time being.

Yesterday was Independence Day, and Castine pulls out all the stops for such an important occasion.  American flags everywhere, homes draped in bunting, and recordings of John Philip Sousa marches playing at levels that I'm sure exceeded OSHA safety standards. 

The town common was awash in red, white, and blue -- mostly white.  According to the Census Bureau, the population of Castine is 97.1% white.  The little bit of color in town is mostly attributable to the Maine Maritime Academy, which brings in students, faculty, and staff from around the world.  So amongst the sea of white folks, there were occasional little bursts of melatonin.  And no one seemed to notice or care.  Everyone was just having bushels of fun.
 
The morning started with a children's costume parade, followed by rides around town on the volunteer fire department's fire truck.  After that, the real fun began.  On the town common there were sack races:

A tort waiting to happen.



Tug of war:

Heave ho!



And, most fun of all, a pie eating contest:

The kid on the right must be a Yankees fan.

Although I must admit, I was a bit disappointed that competitors could choose between apple and blueberry pies.  The adults almost uniformly opted for apple, while the kids dove head first into blueberry.  Clearly the children around here are all gifted, while the adults have much to learn.

After a morning crammed full of patriotica, we did what any other self-respecting Castinian would do on a nice, sunny day.  We went sailing.  Jenny, Emily, Russ, Dick, Charlie-the-dog and I took turns on the Sunfish, tooling around the bay.
 

Emily and Jenny catching the breeze.

And, remarkably, I managed to not get sea sick despite having a belly full of bratwurst and cheesie poofs.  It's an Independence Day Miracle!

The afternoon winded down with mint juleps, made with mint from Marjorie's garden (an homage to my southern roots), and gin and tonics since we were, after all, in New England.  Dinner followed -- steak and lobster with all sorts of delicious salads and sides courtesy of Dick, Marjorie, and Andy.  Outstanding. 

As the sun set, the fog rolled back in.  And, as a result, the town fireworks display was postponed until next Friday.  So we had to entertain ourselves with a bunch of sparklers, while we all sang the Marseilleise.  I'm glad to report that there were no injuries.  Which is remarkable considering how tanked we all were.

And now Team Grigsby is off to Portland for the next stop on our adventure tour.  Many many thanks to our gracious hosts in Castine, Dick and Marjorie.  You're the best!

Channeling Steven King

Yesterday was a long day for Team Grigsby.  We started bright and early in Poughkeepsie and finished dark and late in Castine, Maine, where my friend Emily is from.  The drive would have normally taken about seven or eight hours, but we made some detours along the way, so it took closer to twelve.  Along the way, we stopped at:

• Red Hook, New York, to visit my friends Maggie and Mark and their gorgeous 10-day-old baby Adelie
• Malden, Massachusetts, to pick up my friend Emily's uncle Andy, who needed a ride to Castine, and
• Portland, Maine, where we stopped for dinner at Becky's Diner 

Castine is, as they say in Maine, "Down East," which means pretty much in the middle of nowhere.  And the approach is on a very long, narrow, and bumpy state road that, at night, seems to extend endlessly into dark, ominous woods.  A dense, creeping fog added to the eeriness.  And when I noticed that none of the houses we passed had any lights on -- even though it was only 10:00 at night -- my imagination ran wild and I instantly envisioned myself as the protagonist/victim in a Stephen King novel.

But, I thought, Grigsby would surely protect us.  After all, he has fog lamps:

Of course, I couldn't remember how to actually turn on the fog lamps, so Andy had to get the owner's manual out of the glove box and look it up for me.  Thank goodness we figured it out, though, because who knows if we would have survived without the fog lamps.

Anyway, notwithstanding the slasher movie set up, we did finally make it to Castine a little after 10:00 pm, to the only house with the lights still on -- the home of Emily's parents, Dick and Marjorie.  Dick, Marjorie, Emily, and Emily's boyfriend Russ had waited up for us.  And, more importantly, they had alcoholic beverages ready to calm our nerves.

Castine is a beautiful, quaint little town on the Penobscot Bay, surrounded by water on all sides, and connected to the mainland by a tiny little spit of land.  The town is dotted with white clapboard churches, cedar-shingled waterside homes, a lighthouse, docks for lobster boats, lush green lawns, one hundred year old elm trees, and perfectly appointed English gardens bursting with flowers of every color.  It really is like something out of a New England novel.

Yet, like every such town, it has a King-esque dark side.  In this case, it involves cannibalism and immolation:

Don't let the smile fool you.  I'm terrified in this photo.

What other dark secrets does this town hide?  As we wandered around Castine today, I kept trying to imagine what other horrors lie just beneath the town's picture-perfect façade.  Perhaps, I thought, an evil sea god demands human sacrifices every Sunday, human flesh in exchange for not destroying the idyllic-seeming town.  Just about that time, Jenny went traipsing down towards the water.

"Release the Kraken!"

I immediately feared for her safety.  And my own.

Our First Emergency

At one of my many going away parties last week, my friends Jamie and Carla gave me an especially apropos going away present --- an emergency travel kit. Here is a view of the interior of said kit:

Well, we've had our first emergency: seven and a half hours of riding in Grigsby. Oy, my poor tuchas! Luckily, though, Jamie and Carla's kit comes to the rescue, with an assist from some Fresca and a beer left over from another holiday party:

 Ahhhh. Refreshing. Poughkeepsie has never had it better.

The Adventure Begins

It's been a whirlwind past few days.  My time has been preoccupied with going away happy hours, going away parties, going away drinks, going away lunches and dinners, and more going away drinking.  All whilst dealing with packers, movers, cleaners, realtors, lessors, and the like.  Good lord, moving is a full time job, and I already have one of those!

So this is it.  Jenny and I hit the road in about 20 minutes.  For those of you who don't know Jenny, she is one of my dearest friends here in DC (or indeed, anywhere), and she is going to be joining Grigsby and me for the first two weeks of our adventure.
 
Last night, Jenny and I packed Grigsby to the gills:

When Jenny and I were making our list of things to pack, I was a little concerned that we wouldn't be able to fit all the crap that we (OK, "I") wanted to cram into him.  But Grigsby, of course, came through.  He took it all with room to spare.  He reminds me of one of those thin beautiful people who can eat and eat and never gain an ounce.  I hate them.  But I love Grigsby.  He's ready and raring to go. 

And with that, we're off!  Here's to a fantastic, fun, four week adventure full of fabulousness!  Next stop, Poughkeepsie.  (Yeah, I know.  The fun and fabulousness will come.  I promise.)