Lookout

Filed next to "coffee milk" in the catalogue of bizarre things one can find in Rhode Island, is this: a wooden observation tower in a parking lot beside a nasty little intersection in South Kingstown.

There's no mystery surrounding this, as with another odd Ocean State tower. This one is just an observation tower, built in 1937 and used during WWII, in case the Germans got up to anything nefarious in Narragansett Bay.

Some sources say this tower is 40 feet tall, some say 100. I have no idea why there's a discrepancy that large, but then again I have no idea why there's coffee milk. I didn't bring a tape measure, but in any case, something about this thing (perhaps the steepness of the stairs) makes it feel much higher. When I got down I actually looked up the height of the Eiffel Tower - 1,063 feet, according to Wikipedia - because standing on top of that didn't bother me in the slightest but standing on top of this was sort of freaky.

It makes no sense, but it is the truth.

But despite the feeling that the whole thing might be swaying...

There is a nice view.

You can see the Newport (aka Claiborne Pell) Bridge. (On a related note, I wonder if "I Need a Better Camera, Please" would qualify as a Kickstarter project.)

*Perhaps the higher number takes into account the tower plus the elevation of MacSparran Hill? Or perhaps someone, somewhere, was just plain wrong? Or maybe Rhode Islanders simply like that sort of thing, which would explain why the town of South Kingstown includes a village named Kingston.

Oakdale Detour

There was a missed exit, then another, then a spontaneous change of plans, then a rain shower, then another change of plans, or maybe two. There was a detour, with police cars and flashing lights, and a parade, and a road I'd never been on, one that looked like every other rural Eastern Connecticut road, except everything on it was new. Even - especially - the things that were old.

Would I have found this church and its black and white doors without all of that disruption? I'll never know.

A Walk In the Woods

It's been three years since I wrote this post, and I don't know where that Connecticut went. For a few years now it's felt as if the state has been bouncing from disaster to disaster, like a boat hurtling down a river too fast and repeatedly getting snagged on something terrible. But that's probably just reality catching up to us. That moment when I wrote that post in 2010 was probably just an anomaly, or a fantasy.

And yet, so much of this place is calm still, and quiet. So much of the landscape is reliably populated with glacial erratics and little streams and fallen trees and heard-but-not-seen creatures in the woods.

Rockland Preserve, in Madison, is as good a place as any to remember that, when you're about to forget.

Unseasonable Cold and Books, 6

I thought I was done, at least till next year, with my little Snow and Books series of not-exactly-reviews of Connecticut travel guides. (1, 2, 3, 4, 5.) But then I found the worst book. Like, "Oh my God, Becky, look at this book. It is so bad." I'd rather be nice about good books, because a) I love travel guides and b) I feel like when there's good travel writing out there, of any sort, that means there's a market for it and an interest in it from publishers, which of course is good for me as a writer, at least in theory. But then I stumbled upon this book, and despaired. It was so bad I had to share it. (And though it wasn't snowing, it was unseasonably cold.)

So, this is Romancing the Roads: A Driving Diva's Firsthand Guide, East of the Mississippi, by Gerry Hempel Davis. It's published by Taylor Trade Publishing, and if the title makes you uneasy, it should: this is only Volume One. There is a whole other book for the states west of the Mississippi. Davis was a producer on the Ed Sullivan Show and a Today Show correspondent, which apparently entitles her to be a travel writer because, oh, I don't know, the world is a terrible place. (Despair!)

The book is marketed as being useful for travelers driving around America as well as entertaining for readers who want to experience that road trip vicariously from their couch. Of course, all good travel guides fulfill both functions anyway, so this shouldn't need to be so explicitly spelled out, especially when a book fails on both fronts. But anyway.  

Romancing the Roads is divided into sections for each state. I only read the Connecticut section, because this is The Size of Connecticut, and because that was all I could stand. The Connecticut section is very short.

Today I Learned: Connecticut is small. It has "fabulous shorelines, bucolic settings, estates, industrial cities belching smoke...and a few unpretentious villages that time seems to have bypassed." "Connecticut's main drag is the infamous I-95." Traveling on back roads is often less congested than on highways. The coast "has a lot to offer."

I never would have known any of that, nor could I have found it anywhere else, say, online, or in 37 other, better guidebooks. [Picture a sarcasm emoticon here, rolling its little googly eyes.]

Amusements: The only towns Davis really singles out for mention are Essex, Madison, and the borough of Fenwick in Old Saybrook. I love Essex, and Madison is lovely too. I, too, recommend that people visit them. And though there's not much in Fenwick, if you're a Katherine Hepburn fan, then sure, knock yourself out. But still...huh??

Aside from this slice of shoreline, the Connecticut section of Romancing the Roads is mostly about... wait for it...casinos. There is actually a bold heading that says "Connecticut, AKA the Casino State." Davis informs us that "both casinos are centrally located," which made me wonder if she  had ever even been to Connecticut. But then, as if anticipating this criticism, she spends pages - the bulk of the section, really - on casino restaurant reviews, descriptions of casino decor, and praise of the massages at the spas.

Listings: So few and so random as to be not worth mentioning, except I can't not mention that the two listings for Madison are Hammonasset State Park and a car wash.

Quotes: On the Delamar, in Greenwich: "I have not heard a derogatory word about this property; therefore, I include it. Also, I knew a previous general manager and respect his properties. Delamar is added as an FYI. It receives superb ratings, and not a thing is out of place. Because it is on the beautiful Greenwich Harbor, this property's placement has a very special dimension and ambiance. I look forward to verifying my Delamar info."

(One other weird note: Romancing the Roads appears to be sponsored, like a post on a fashion blog. There's a "Contributors" section at the back, wherein Davis thanks the companies that gave her free stuff, like a camera and a car, to use during her writing of the book. Have I used the word "despair" too much today?)

Imaginary Slogans

Southport: You're Just Jelliff.

Haddam: Really Much Further North Than You Think.

North Stonington: We'll Never Be NoSto.

Chaplin: No, Really, Look It Up, It's Next To Mansfield.

Kent: Not Quite Your Class, Darling.

Groton Long Point: The No You Can't Park City.

Plainville: Getting mistaken for Plainfield since 1869.


Yes, these are the sorts of things I think about when I have nothing else to do much more important things to do.

Oh, and Torrington? If this doesn't work out, call me.

In the Land of Water Towers

Turns out this previous post did not entirely cover the topic of the abandoned water towers of Guilford. This one is right by the train station.

It once provided water for steam-driven locomotives, and is thought to be the only similar tower left in the state and one of only a few in the country. (Most such water towers were made of wood.)

I imagine that if you commuted regularly from this station, you'd either stare right at this thing without really seeing it, or consider it an eyesore. At least that's what I would probably think if it was near the suburban station I grew up using. (Though nothing this interesting is near there. That town must have had a P & Z meeting in the '70s where they voted to tear down any structure that might ever make anyone think about, well, anything.)

As recently as a year ago, there were big plans for Guilford's tower. It could someday be a tourist information center, which would be a nice use for it. (My first thought was to turn it into Connecticut's smallest octagonal cafe.) Whatever is ultimately done with it, I hope it stays standing. And possibly incorporates a floor made of vegetation.

Cross Optional

Not long after I moved back to Connecticut, I heard about a rural synagogue in Lisbon. I wrote about it here. Some time after that, I began to notice that it had little near-doppelgangers in churches all around the state. The church above, St. James Episcopal, is in Haddam. It dates from over 60 years before the synagogue, so obviously this style - which I'm starting to think came from some kind of Make Your Own House Of Worship Kit - remained popular (or at least convenient to build) for some time.

I took this picture so I'd remember the date, and then I looked at it when I got home and said to myself, What the heck is Ponsett? And the answer is, unsurprisingly: it's a section of Haddam. (So are Higganum, Haddam Neck, Hidden Lake, Tylerville, and Shailorville. Which does nothing to dispel my belief that all towns with Haddam in their name are slightly otherworldly and possibly inhabited by faeries, or gnomes.) In Haddam there's an Old Ponsett Road, and a Ponsett Brook, an Old Ponsett Cemetery, and a New Ponsett Cemetery. The founder of this church, Rev. William Clark Knowles, wrote a book called By Gone Days in Ponsett-Haddam. It was published in 1914, so quite a few days have gone by in Ponsett since. The book has chapters titled "A Galaxy of Old Folks" and "The Roll of Clericals" and "Ponsett in the Wars." You can read it, it's sort of awesome.

I also wondered what a cluster ministry was, because I can't think of anything good that starts with "cluster." One definition I found was "a localized gathering of church and ministry leaders sharing a common vision, strategy, resources and system for developing leadership, planting new churches and ministries as well as adding to the health and vitality of existing churches." Oh. Sounds nicer than bombs and headaches and...things.

Agony

It's getting so that finding random stone towers in Connecticut isn't even startling, it's just, oh yeah, another tower. This one is in Guilford.

I sent this picture to my mom and she wrote back, "Rapunzel could live there!" So then I had Agony stuck in my head for hours. I don't love all of Into the Woods, but Agony is fantastic and Agony Reprise might be better.

Anyway.

I would never have known this existed if Ryan Hanrahan, the NBC Connecticut meteorologist and reporter who also blogs about weather here, hadn't mentioned it on Twitter. It's not the sort of landmark you'd normally encounter on your own if you don't live in Guilford, because it's located literally in someone's backyard. I felt bad driving up to it, on their driveway, and walking up closer, on their lawn. I didn't try to read the plaque because it would have required me to climb up their children's playscape.

But I know it was originally a water tower and it used to look like this. Built in the mid-19th century to supply water for the fountain on Simeon Chittendon's "imposing summer estate with landscaped grounds, a fountain, and a deer park later given over to peacocks," it was used "during World War II and in 1955...as an aircraft warning Station, manned day and night by volunteers." (There's more here; it's fascinating.)

And as I was driving to the tower, I noticed a house with a cellar so remarkable it had its own plaque. This turned out to be the Regicide Cellar, where "In June 1661, William Leete, then Governor of New Haven Colony concealed for three days Whalley and Goffe, two of the judges who signed the death warrant of Charles I of England."

Someday, I'm going to have to write a post on how much of early Connecticut history involves hiding people in things. Once I get through all the towers...

Pack It In

I'm still sort of in travel mode this week.

One side of travel that I love to read about almost as much as the actual, um...travel, is the practical aspect, e.g. "What am I supposed to pack?!" I like silly fashion blogger fantasy lists and enviably pared down lists by people who are far more extreme minimalists than I am. So I thought I'd make my own list.* When I went to Louisiana last month, I wanted to take as little as I could (reasonably) get away with. I haven't checked a bag in years, and never will again if I can help it, and I didn't want to drag a huge heavy carry-on through three airports. So I went with that old mainstay of packing advice: pick a color scheme. Since almost everything here is in the black/blue/white family, it's all mix-and-matchable.

1. Sandals: tan leather, comfortable for walking.
2. Bag: fits laptop, manila folders, notebooks, wallet, phone, glasses, camera, miscellaneous chargers, a water bottle, and a snack. Yet somehow doesn't look like a big bag of crazy.
3. Carry-on - a black zip-top bag that I've had for longer than I can remember. There are probably people who can fight in wars who are younger than this bag. It zips up into a tiny square, but even when stuffed it fits easily into an overhead bin.
4. Flats: they roll up and weigh nothing and are easy to take off and put on at the airport.

1. Jacket: army green goes with everything.
2. Cardigan: a long white layer helps to de-New-York-ify a mostly black wardrobe.
3. Skirt: cornflower blue, below-knee.
4. Sweater: navy crew-neck.
5. T-shirts: one short-sleeve and one 3/4-sleeve, in black.
6. Pants: black cotton wide-legs with a wide stretchy waist-band, great sitting in uncomfortable plane seats.
7. Dress: black cotton maxi.
8 & 9. Scarves. I wore these both separately and woven together; I also tied them around the strap of my bag.

So there you have it - a packing list that will work whether you're visiting Connecticut, or leaving it.


*The drawings are by my mom. Who usually draws cute greeting cards but who happily sketched me and my stuff for this post. (She has never seen what happens to my hair in the South.)

New Orleans

I was in Louisiana last week. I will probably have more to say about that later. For the moment I'm just going to post some pictures of New Orleans, a city possessing several of my favorite things: palm trees, intricately wrought gates, a richly layered history, a bad reputation, and heat. (Come on, Connecticut, can you catch up soon? I want 80s, at least!)

Happy May

Ever the pessimist, I keep reading this as "April Showers May Bring Flowers." I hope my natural tendencies are proven wrong.

Whigville

I love that there's a section of Burlington called Whigville. It's most likely named after a vocal group of residents who belonged to the Whig Party. (I say most likely; the town's website says "reputedly." I also love that there's even the slightest bit of uncertainty there, because what else could it be named for? A settlement of wig-makers who couldn't spell?)

I went to Whigville and I didn't really know what to do with myself. I mean, there are no Whigs anymore (at least I think there aren't) and the area is pretty residential. So I found the Grange Hall. And I thought, this is probably how they rolled in the 19th century. Come to an area you don't know, feel lost and unsure, find the grange hall.

The absolute best thing about Whigville is that before it was called Whigville, it was known as Poverty Hollow. As a freelancer visiting the area right around Tax Day, I felt like I fit right in.

Burlington 2 for 1

This diminutive building jumped out at me the first time I saw it. At the time I couldn't stop, but I've had "Burlington Brick ??? Route 4" written on a piece of notebook paper for years.

When I finally looked into it, I found that the structure was once the town records building and was was built in 1906. It now belongs to the Chamber of Commerce.

Route 4 is a very busy road, and this building stands right by a curve. People actually stopped to let me run across, which just blows my general view of western Connecticut right out of the water. (In other meta-blogging news, if you zoom in on this picture you can see me taking the photo, reflected in the window.)

And while I was there I found this, which had no plaque or sign, but if it's not a schoolhouse I'll eat my hat. And all my hats are knit winter caps, except for one rather large and plastic-y spring rain cloche, so none of my options would be pleasant.

I'm Going To Need A Bigger Camera

Thomaston, named for early 19th century clock-maker Seth Thomas, has many things. It has - as you would expect - several large, prominent clocks. It has what must be a record-setting number of distinctive, small, pleasantly crumbly-looking churches of different denominations. It has railroad tracks and dams. It has old factory buildings, glorious in their size and semi-decay. It has a little mini town green with a war monument. It has, I kid you not, an Electric Avenue.

But mostly, it has this. The Thomaston Opera House, which is also the Thomaston Town Hall, and the Thomaston Senior Center, and oh, who knows what else. It is probably best photographed from a helicopter or hot-air balloon, which I do not have. It is a darn impressive building.

Topsmead State Forest

After much deliberation, I have found the place in Connecticut where I want to live.

Unfortunately, it's in a state forest. (Oops.)

Topsmead State Forest in Litchfield, to be exact. This was once the summer estate of Edith Morton Chase, daughter of Henry Sabin Chase, who founded the Chase Brass and Copper Company in Waterbury. (I just looked up the origins of the phrase "top brass"; sadly it doesn't come from Waterbury.)

I usually hate Tudor buildings. (Or English Tudor, Tudor Revival, what have you.) Hate them. I used to live near a Tudor-style hotel, which I never remembered the proper name of, since I always refereed to it simply as "that Tudor monstrositry."

But this 1925 property is nothing like that. And much like this house in New London, I was drawn t it though it's not my usual style. As a rule I still like older, plainer houses better, but...

There's just something about the way the trees and vines climb the walls.

And the fact that the trim is pale blue.

I would even be happy (in fact I'd probably be happier) to live in the dovecote.

The birds get a perfect little summer cottage too.

When Miss Chase died in 1972, she left her summer home to the people of Connecticut to be used for "passive recreation." Which is, of course, the best kind.

My first impression of Topsmead State Forest is that it's the Harkness of the Litchfield Hills. It's not quite Harkness, which remains my favorite State Park. But it has the same sweeping, peaceful beauty, and something about it warms you even when the air is cold.

Even if they won't let me live there.