Quaker Meeting...and a surprise of Rockwellian proportions

It's Sunday and we look forward to attending Quaker meeting at South Berkshire Friends Meeting in Great Barrington. The meetinghouse (which we passed the day before on our continued trek to become lost as much as possible) is set on a wooded piece of land that includes a pond with a beaver lodge. We can't quite place what that deep moaning sound is (see Day Seven). The South Berkshire Friends give us a warm welcome and invite us to their potluck, even though we didn't bring anything. We talk about our families and Elisabeth shares that her grandmother's family came from Richmond, Indiana and her grandfather's from Moorestown, NJ. Really? Says a gentleman named Larry Tuttle. My family is from Moorestown. Mine are Richies and Robertes, says E. Oh, I've got Robertes all the way back, Larry says. A few more connections later and they find they are second cousins. How nice!

 We, of course, ask for a good breakfast place and they, without hesitation, send us to Martin's. We always want to know where the locals eat. Sitting over our pancakes, we can imagine living here. Of course, it is June and there is no snow. Michael often chides Elisabeth for falling in love with towns while visiting in fair weather.

Another outstanding reason to visit the Berkshires--the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge. Even though it is late in the day, we ask the lady at the counter if we can see everything in 3 hours. Oh my yes, she says. We remain skeptical--we are the folks who did, after all, once spend no less than six hours at the Civil War Museum at the Tredeger Iron Works in Richmond, Virginia.

The lady recommends we start in the basement--that's where all the Boy's Life, Look and of course Saturday Evening Post magazine covers are. But our focus is diverted almost immediately to the original oil of "Marriage License" hanging just inside the first gallery. The colors are even more remarkable here--the yellow of the girl's dress, the rich wood of the walls, the light coming in through the window and how did Rockwell get that blend of light and dirty dust on the floor? Then we both stop stone still and we both take a quick breath in at the same time. The date on the calendar in Rockwell's painting is June 11--the same day we applied for our marriage license. What a smile!

The cover room is indeed a don't-miss. We're lucky the summer season hasn't fully hit yet and we only have to climb over a few people to get close to the art. It's just not a museum where you can sit on a soft bench a distance away from the paintings to get an appreciation. You've got to get close because it's all about the detail, of course. The only place where that isn't true is the small rotunda where the Four Freedoms are, and there's a comfortable round bench there so you can spend as much time as you like.

In Lenox, we have trouble finding a restaurant that looks even remotely affordable.  We settle on the venerable Rumplestiltskin's or Rumpy's as the summer theatre and concert crowd affectionately calls it. The locals are all talking about James Taylor and Carole King, who will start the Tanglewood season in another week before the Boston Symphony gets rolling.

Even though the summer season is week off, it is the Berkshires and we need a theatre fix so we head over to Shakespeare and Co. for an intern production of Julius Caesar. Well-done with a six-actor cast in a black box space. It's fun seeing a woman play Casca.

Brewster

Sleeping in...good...

Unfortunately, sleeping in also means that nobody is serving breakfast anymore. Already, this is yet another vacation that is orbiting around the orb of food. Time to shift priorities. Even though it's almost noon, we decide to head for Brewster, New York. It's only a two hour drive away. Brewster is where Elisabeth's mom was born and grew up. E's grandfather was Dr. Elisha Roberts Richie, a country doctor who had his office in a small annex of Yeomanoak, that large family home. There, he and E's grandmother Dorothy raised five children--Don and Bob (from ERR's first marriage--he was widowed when he began courting Dorothy) and Jane, Doug and Beth. So off we go to Brewster.

Before we leave Massachusetts, we have lunch at the Barrington Brewery in Great Barrington. It's the country's only solar-powered brewery so of course, Michael has heard of it. We buy a bottle of ale for later.

In hindsight, perhaps we should have cracked the bottle sooner because we are about to experience what road construction on one little bridge over the Housatonic River can do to a fairly straightforward drive through Connecticut. We dutifully follow the detour signs and Kate just about has a seizure. Between Kate's clipped British "GPS signal lost" (lots of overhanging trees) and "recalculating route" remarks, the roadway signage, Elisabeth's pretty-darn-good-but-not-infallible sense of direction and Michael's steadfast belief in, well, all of the above, we wander for well over two hours before we land on anything remotely resembling a highway that leads to the Hudson Valley. Pretty houses though.

Elisabeth is not used to coming into Brewster from this angle and the first phone call to Beth ensues. Now, Mom is getting up in years and her memory isn't always the greatest but she is a firecracker when asked to recall details of her childhood. "Have you come to the reservoir yet?" she asks. We have. "Well, turn back." OK.

Milltown Cemetary is on a peaceful road east of the village of Brewster. We have no difficulty finding the Richie family plot. ERR was an enthusiastic golfer and the plot is marked by a very large rock that was excavated from the local golf course and moved to Milltown when he passed away. The word RICHIE stands out from the rock in brass letters. It's supposed to, at any rate. The last two times Elisabeth has visited one of the letters has been missing. This time, it's the E. We'll call Uncle Doug to take care of this with the groundskeeper. ERR is buried there with his wives Anna and Dorothy on either side of him. Their son Theodore Hill Richie is there too. Dodie died of menangitis when he was three, before Beth was born. There is a picture of him on the wall in Beth's home today--large soft brown Richie eyes. We spend some time sitting at the plot, grateful for the opportunity for Michael to connect, and meet the spirit of the man whose wedding ring he now wears.

Forgive the blurriness--it was dusk and I really wanted to shoot it without a flash.

Another call to Beth as we head towards the village, not just for directions but to share with her how the town looks and feels in this nice June twilight. Brady-Stannard auto dealership still busy. Train just pulled in to the station from NYC. We start to feel a lot like the Stage Manager in Our Town. "11 o'clock in Grover's Corners...you get a good rest too."

Yeomanoak looks pretty good. It's had a checkered past. After the family left in the mid 50s for California, the house was subdivided into apartments and when E last visited, it was ramshackle to put it nicely. Tonight, it stands with signs of recent renovation. The porch over the entyway has been enclosed--an architectural highlight falling victim to the need of a landlord to add another unit. Grandmother's garden is now extra parking for the adjoining church. But the clapboard siding is new and very white. We chat with some tenants sitting on the back porch. They don't know that the oak in their front yard was there when the pilgrims landed.

Walking back down the driveway, Michael sees fireflies for the first time. For a lighting technician, this is revelatory. It's like he didn't really believe they existed.

Gratefully, the forecast rain has held off as we leave Brewster. Taking no chances with detours, we head for the Taconic Parkway to take us back up to the MA Thruway. Not so gratefully, that's when the skies open up. We always ruffle slightly when Easterners and Midwesterners call Californians weather wimps. But we own that title tonight. Lightning, thunder and a sheet of white rain is too much for us and we pull off to wait for the worst of it to pass. When it does, and we finally open the car windows, the air is thick with frog croaks all around us. Must be way cool to be a frog on a night like this.

We congratulate ourselves on surviving our very own Weather Channel doumentary with a stop at Price Chopper for Ben and Jerry's. Eat local, that's what we always say.

Kate, take us to the Berkshires

The real excitement starts the next morning--sleeping in and the Cracker Barrel for breakfast, even if it means driving ten miles out of our way. One of the very best things about traveling back East is the Cracker Barrel. We love the Cracker Barrel. In Orlando for LDI? Cracker Barrel. Trekkng Civil War battlefields? Cracker Barrel. Getting married in the Berkshires? Cracker Barrel! As a company, their human rights record has been dreary but they've made positive changes recently so we are happy to reward them by digesting their buttermilk biscuits, warm maple syrup, chicken and dumplings, country fried steak, eggs over medium actually cooked over medium, blueberry streusel french toast and the lemonade served in an icy beer mug. We love, too,  the folksy country store where the ladies greet you as they dust the Family Affair and Gomer Pyle USMC DVD sets. All hail Cracker Barrel and why oh why aren't there any on the west coast.? It's payback karma  for no In-and-Outs on the East coast, that's it.

The smartest thing we did on this trip (besides marrying each other) was to get a EZ Pass transponder for the car. Really saved time and money on all the toll roads. Extra bonus was the Sirius XM in the car, and we find Siriusly Sinatra right away. It's funny how when you are in love and running off to get married, every standard love song ever recorded sounds like it's just for you.

While you readers are all in a mood of good will, maybe this would be a fortuitous time to bring up a rather delicate subject--Kate.

Kate is, for better or for worse, an integral figure in our relationship. She is there with wisdom and calm to help when trouble looms, yet she's infuriating in her flightiness and downright stupidity. We care for her, making sure she has a warm place to sleep and replenish herself at night. She repays us by freezing us out and not speaking to us. Her quiet anger when we are wrong is frightening. She unites us in happiness, reassuring us that our choices are worthy. She's bitterly divisive. Michael never knows when she's going to blithely take Elisabeth's side in a disagreement. Elisabeth is rarely prepared when she coldly changes allegiance and cozies up to Michael's brilliance. Michael embraces her affection with passion, calling her pet names and praising her good taste and cleverness. These are the hardest times, when Elisabeth gets the dark, dank, oppressive feeling that Michael actually loves Kate more than he loves her. Trollop! Elisabeth cries. Tramp! Harlot! TEMPTRESS! But ah! Soon the tables turn again and it appears--is it possible?--that Kate indeed leans towards the joys that only a woman can provide. And Elisabeth once again forgives her, and pulls her close.

Kate is our GPS.

Kate became part of our family on our trip to Scotland and England last summer and continued her maddening and exhilarating ways on this trip. But enough about the little jezebel...

On our way up Highway 8 to Pittsfield (where we'll apply for our marriage license) , we spot several restaurants we read about on TripAdvisor and wonder how late they stay open.

Kate obviously doesn't know the difference between a round-about and a true left turn so we do a lot of what Bob Newhart calls alley driving (the driving instructor routine--iTunes it now).

The Pittsfield City Hall looks how a small-town city hall should--Greek Revival columns and mahogany-lined hallways with little signs hanging on the top of the doorjambs identifying each department. The Mayor's office lobby has a Lucite box filled with baseballs. There are no lines of people waiting for anything except the parking ticket office--and you get to sit on upholstered chairs while you wait.

In the City Clerk's office, we're the only ones there for a marriage license--it's all about dog tags and fishing permits. But we know we're in the right place because there's a framed print of Norman Rockwell's "Marriage License" on the wall. There is a three-day waiting period before the license is issued. We've come prepared with birth certificates, Social Security cards and passports but all they need is for us to use a black pen. We take note that the application doesn't include references to gender in this marriage equality state.They ask us to swear that all the information is correct and that we're not cousins and stuff. Being Quakers, we ask if affirming rather than swearing is ok. It is a Quaker tenet not to swear. The meaning behind that is not only the sense that if the Sermon on the Mount gives you an ethical principle (But I tell you, do not swear at all, either by heaven for it is God's throne or by the earth for it is his foot stool. Simply let your yes be yes and your no, no--Matthew 5:34), you ought to take it very, very seriously, but also that if you swear, you are suggesting that maybe other times you don't tell the truth. The Presidential Oath of Office, as laid out in the Constitution, contains the option as well--whether to swear or affirm. It's a Quaker legacy. President Barack Obama, in fact, chose to affirm. It's ok with the City Clerk of Pittsfield Mass too. We affirm.

Kate can't find the exact address of the Oak N' Spruce (more folksiness) timeshare resort in South Lee but we're sure we'll find it if we head to the street. We pass Tanglewood, the Berkshire Theatre Festival, the Colonial Theatre, Shakespeare and Co and tons of art galleries and bookstores. You've got to love a region that's almost entirely culture-driven. We picked the right place to be married.

The Oak N' Spruce gets mixed reviews online, mostly based on the age range and renovation status of the buildings. Elisabeth has called in advance to request a newer unit and since she has casually mentioned that we'll be on our wedding trip, it works. It's a family-oriented place with extensive activities and they've thoughtfully assigned us a unit away from the center of the action. Nice condo with living room, kitchen, two bedrooms and two baths with an in-room jacuzzi bath (major points awarded by Elisabeth). No fireplace or wi-fi but a nice woods view and an automatic icemaker. More points awarded.

Dinner at the Salmon Run Fish House. Michael doesn't know what scrod is so, predictably, he orders it. Strawberry shortcake for dessert. We close the place, also predictably.

It's raining pretty good when we get back. The rain sounds lovely on the leaves out the window.

Our Wedding Trip--Day One

Hello from Mr. and Mrs. Michael Elliot.

Elisabeth is in the process of changing her name. We've been told that this is A) really old-fashioned and B) nice. Although Elisabeth is melancholy about no longer carrying her father's name, she feels very right about taking her husband's name. After all, she was Graham for the first fifty years of her life and she'll be Elliot for the next fifty.

We left for Boston on Thursday morning, June 10. Our plans to get some sleep before the Red Van picked us up at 3:15am didn't work out so we were pretty punchy. You can pick out the Virgin America counter by the loungy little red LED lamps, and it wasn't even open when we got there. We both use CPAPs for sleep apnea which, according to law, cannot be counted as carry-on bags because they are medical equipment. Elisabeth is all over this idea--she gets to carry-on her purse and her Land's End briefcase along with her CPAP case, which also has just enough room for a little cosmetics bag. Michael, on the other hand, has only his small REI carry-on (with his CPAP in it) and he insists on carrying Elisabeth's CPAP bag just in case an airline official gets huffy about E's three carry-ons. Always avoid bureaucracy when you can.

Like the counter, the plane wishes it was a Las Vegas ultralounge. The lighting alone seems intent on getting you to buy drinks, gamble and pick up babes. Your individual seat monitors even have seat-to-seat chat. VA has pretty good fares as a rule which means of course they charge big-time for everything else. Checked bags ar $25 each--each way, even when you use frequent flier miles (which we did). They charge for headphones to access their extensive entertainment options at your individual seat monitor but you get a choice of red, blue or silver. We brought our own, thanks. There are many movies to choose from--at $8 each and you can't share. Water, juice and soft drinks are free sans peanuts. But you can order peanuts and assorted other snacks and sandwiches for an additional fee. You order them using, yes, your individual seat monitor. Personally, we'd trade a little less self-conscious cool for a little more it's-on-the-house courtesy.

It's overcast throughout the flight so we miss lovely morning-has-broken views of our country. We got our car rental on Priceline as usual and are happy to get National--they always have good, friendly service as well as no-hassle pick-up. Traffic isn't bad at all through Boston's Big Dig. No-frills dinner at the Piccadilly Pub off the Turnpike. We can't check into the timeshare in the Berkshires until the next day so we score a 4-star Sheraton in Springfield on Priceline.  The catch of course with city 4-stars is you pay $10-20 a day for parking. Tonight, we would have been happy with an EconoLodge. We have no need for a sleek lobby or little bottles of stuff--all we want to do is shower and sleep the minute we get there.