Home, sweet home. Really.
August 24th, 2005
In the morning, on the way to the girls’ daycare, we drive up a winding hill, past a big yellow house with a handpainted wooden sign that reads BEEBES’ FRESH PRODUCE. SQUASH PEPPERS TOMATOES CUKES.
Every summer morning, the Beebes set out a canopied farmstand with baskets of vegetables from their garden. From what I can tell, it’s all on the honor system. So far, I’ve been too timid to pull over and attempt a country transaction like this, but I’m hoping to get up the nerve before the season is over. I could use a little coaching, but I don’t know who to ask. It’s one of those things that you’re just expected to know, if you live here. And I’ve still got a lot to learn.
I grew up in Philly, where the closest thing we had to an old-fashioned, grassroots business transaction were the omnipresent men who stood on concrete dividers between 12-lane traffic, or on the curb near the on-ramp for I-95.
My father loved to puzzle out-of-town visitors by pulling to a stop near one of these mysterious guys. He would then hand our visitor a dollar bill.
“Go on,” my father would say. “Just hold it out the window and see what happens.”
When our visitor tentatively waved a dollar out the window (for who could refuse?), the guy on the divider immediately snapped it up and handed over a lumpy brown paper bag. They never looked at your money; you never looked inside the bag, not until you drove away. That was the deal.
As my father zoomed back into traffic, our guests—without fail—were always amazed to find a row of golden, chewy, rock-salted pretzels inside. No-frills Philly cuisine, still warm if you were lucky, suddenly right there on your lap. Through the window. All without a word.
Magic, I always thought. The real deal.
I’ve always found magic pretty hard to come by in big cities like Philly. Still, we know a lot of good folks who thrive on the adrenaline rush of nonstop people, nonstop traffic, nonstop nonstopping. But we had come to accept the fact that it just wasn’t in us, and for that reason, saying goodbye to New York City in 2001 wasn’t hard to do. We weren’t in the right place (though we’d initially thought it was where we needed to be to do the sort of thing we like to do) and it was time to be in a righter place. We’d settle for righter for now, until we figured out right.
So here I find myself, the East Coast big-city girl—the one who learned to drive by white-knuckling the powder blue Oldsmobile through the fastest, scrappiest urban stretches of U.S. Route 1, from strip mall to strip mall to strip mall—now driving very much in the slow lane, through working-class old mill towns of western Massachusetts, passing places like the Beebe residence. There are posher parts of Berkshire County, the parts you tend to read about in “lifestyle” magazines and the travel section in Sunday’s New York Times, but that’s not where we are.
I like where we are.
I can’t get enough of the signs around here. I never tire of them. ADAMS AGGIE FAIR: JUST ‘N KASE, MINOR SETBACK, DOG SHOW. I passed that one six times before I realized it wasn’t a contingency plan, but the names of local bands playing at the fair.
There are other signs you see here that you’ll never see in Philly or New York:
TRACTOR PULLS
COYOTE KEITH’S CHAINSAW SCULPTURES
VICTORIAN GARDEN PARTY TONIGHT AT THE TOWN HALL
PICK YOUR OWN PUMPKINS/BLUEBERRIES/STRAWBERRIES/
RASPBERRIES/APPLES/CORN!
The newspapers are different too. The first few months we were here, I collected crime reports from the local Pennysaver:
8/14/01: Main Street. Witness saw unidentified man squirt toothpaste into open window of parked car before fleeing the scene.
We have not been the victim of toothpaste auto assault, but our neighbor’s doorbell rang the other night at 2AM. When she took her dog outside with her to investigate, she found an upright box of linguini on her porch. That was big news around these here parts, worth leaving porch lights on for a while.
Although I know it came as an unwelcome shock to our poor neighbor, I have to say I prefer 2AM linguini vandals to the car thieves (three cars stolen in our family, one returned—with bullet holes) and the scary neighborhood thug who punched David in the face—hard, splitting his lip—in broad daylight, right across the street from our NYC apartment. Then there were the nightly calls to the cops about the gang fights in the schoolyard at night, the pushing of Sophie’s stroller through broken beer bottles, the walking of the dogs on the wooded slope near the Hudson River, an area referred to affectionately by locals as The Body Dump. Rumors swirled that one woman’s dog disappeared into the brush and returned carrying a human shinbone, still bloody.
Yes, ma’am. I’ll take the linguini hooligans. I don’t have the stomach for anyplace else, and I’m okay with that.
I know it takes all kinds, in all places—I’m sure we’ve got a few car thieves and thugs around here too, laying low in their fleece vests and plaid flannel shirts. The area’s seen rough times, and there’s plenty to complain about: high unemployment rates, schools that aren’t ideal, lack of opportunity. I hear the natives talk about these things and watch them shake their heads. “You chose to come here?” they’ll often say. “How about that.”
That’s how it goes. Our Berkshire neighbors would likely see the magic of Philadelphia, beyond the pretzel exchanges, and the high-octane magic of the Big Apple—the magic I can’t see to save my life. And when I try to tell the longtimers that I see magic here, on their turf, they’re pleased but incredulous.
A couple of months back, two friendly older women joined me for a few laps around the local walking track. Upon finding out my back story and relative newcomer status, they grew very animated.
“Have you talked to the mayor yet? You need to tell the mayor everything you just told us!” exclaimed one. “He needs to hear from new blood like you and know that he’s doing something right, bringing all of that art in here! He has to hear all the time about everything that’s wrong, and you’re proof that something’s going right!”
“She should join city council! That’s what she should do!” added the other.
“Absolutely! Call the mayor today! Tell him Alice and Betty sent you.” said the first.
“What are your last names?” I asked.
The second dismissed my question with a wave of her hand. “Oh, he’ll know Alice and Betty.”
Not all of my conversations lead to city council nominations. More often than not, the conversations are shorter, and straight to the point: Why do you like it here? What could you nice young folk possibly like?
“The people,” I usually wind up saying. “There’s just something about the people.”
People are reasonable here. There is space enough to be reasonable in a place like this.
“You mean boring,” they say.
Not a chance. Some of the area’s characters border on legendary: the Elvis impersonator who used to hang out at the Dunkin Donuts; white-haired Albert from “the college” who knows everything there is to know about trains and baseball, but would love to know what you know, too; the gray-haired woman with the toddler-sized doll that used to be lashed into a crate on the back of her bicycle. Now the woman drives a red Vespa, and the doll wears a helmet that matches hers, but they are still inseparable.
There may be a shortage of nightlife, but there’s no shortage of stories.
We were looking for righter, but I think we stumbled upon right.
Entry Filed under: Uncategorized, Pretty flowers. (Berkshires)
18 Comments
1. geogirl | August 25th, 2005 at 7:13 am
It’s amazing how tasts change. I grew up in the country surrounded by cow fields and swimming in creeks in the summer and I couldn’t have imagined living anywhere else. Now, I can’t imagine living without the grocery story right across the street or the metro stop two blocks away.
Nice, friendly people or big city convenience….it’s a shame you can’t find both. Well, not in the US anyway. I will give this to Canada…they have gotten pretty close. On a brief trip to Toronto I was amazed to find clean streets and friendly people who were willing to give me directions. With the exception of one incident where I had to defend the honor of southern BBQ to a somewhat disagreable bartender, I had a most enjoyable time. Never has a stranger felt so welcome in a big city.
Still…..it would have been nice to buy fresh produce on the corner and take a quiet walk through the woods. And, maybe just one more time, to strip to my skivies and go swimming in a creek.
2. lmg | August 25th, 2005 at 8:46 am
Hi Jenn!
In answer to your email of the other day - I definitely do live in Stamford and have always lived in Berkshire County (North Adams & Florida Mt.) Yes, I am a Townie!!
Anyway, in answer to the farmstand question - they almost always are on the honor system.
3. Slimbolala | August 25th, 2005 at 9:37 am
Yes, it sometimes takes a while to find our home, and it’s not always what we think it will be. I grew up in the country, and, although I feel a profound connection to it, it’s definitely not where I want to be now. I lived in NYC and loved many things about it, but it wasn’t home. In the end, home turned out to be New Orleans, a city (where I can walk and buy a cup of coffee), but a slow and funky city that often feels like a very small town.
4. Simon | August 25th, 2005 at 9:57 am
Having moved out of The City over two years ago now to a nearby sleeper community, I never want to go back. I can walk to the farmers’ market on Saturdays, enjoy the riverside running trails and get anywhere in the town in the space of five minutes. The tallest building downtown is four stories, and I like that.
Plus, I’m close enough that I can go and get my fix in The City should the need arise.
5. Bavardeuse | August 25th, 2005 at 12:36 pm
I spent some time in the Berkshires - two summers actually - at the Tanglewood Music Center (Lenox, Mass). Stayed at “Miss Hall’s School for Girls” in Pittsfield and had the best sushi of my life in a town not too far from Lenox. I mean, it was fab. Plus, the title of the school provided me with covert chuckling opportunities all summer. I mean, seriously, short of a porn movie producer, who comes up with that stuff?
Prolly Miss Hall herself. But I digress.
No idea if that’s anywhere close to where you are, but Lenox is so typically small upper class town USA that I felt like I was in a postcard 24/7.
Now I live in a town known for its steel production in southern Ontario. Good times people, good times.
6. Rachel | August 25th, 2005 at 1:22 pm
What a totally fantastic post. So full of yummy details.
I love the thing about the pretzels in Philadelphia. Magic, indeed.
And I love the way you’ve brought our place to life, describing so much of what I love around here, too.
My tip for you on the honor-system farmstand: make sure you have small money (dollar bills, probably). Easier to make change for yourself that way.
7. the Mater | August 25th, 2005 at 3:58 pm
Yo Philly! “the City that Loves You Back” … as an English chap I know best addressed our welcoming arms: “the City of Brotherly Shove”. He wasn’t impressed.
Jenn, you forgot to mention speaking “Fluffyan” … I guess because you and your brother have never really had too pronounced a Philly dialect. And the uniquely Philly ritual known as “the Mummers” would probably merit a blog of its own, right next to “the drunken sailors”!
Ah, I guess I should start thinking about moving up your way … maybe running a roadside farmstand and playing my accordion to draw in business :>)
Great job of writing, kiddo! As Rachel said, kinda magical.
Ouch, I forgot about the bullet holes in the car though :>( Ah, yes, the city that loves you back ….
8. Sheri | August 25th, 2005 at 4:24 pm
Jenn - I’ve been reading your blog for a couple weeks now and I have to tell you that I LOVE IT!! Thanks for making me laugh and cry. You are truly talented.
I was born and raised in the area, stayed for college, and still reside here. I love it here despite any drawbacks and I love how you described it. It is nice to know others appreciate the area.
Thanks for all of your sharing!
9. R J Keefe | August 26th, 2005 at 10:52 am
Walking through Fort Tryon Park last week, I was amazed by the sound of crickets, which I instantly realized I’d been missing for years. (My wife and I never leave the city in summer.) The question was: is Fort Tryon Park, a hundred blocks north of my apartment, “home”? Given that I hadn’t set foot in it for over ten years?
10. Karina | August 26th, 2005 at 3:09 pm
R J - As you were walking along Fort Tryon Park listening to crickets, I’ll bet you had no idea how close you were to the infamous “Body Dump.” Maybe now you’ll be less inclined to call that area “home.” (Although I still liked that part of the city when I lived there. But I guess I’m a city girl.)
11. the Mater | August 26th, 2005 at 7:24 pm
Oh, Karina, you just brought back NYC memories!
Let’s see … all within walking distance of Jenn’s former “home” in Washington Heights: the “Body Dump”; a shrine to a Catholic saint which holds her body on display, a “sacred body dump” I guess; the Cloisters, with its own array of medieval ceremonial artifacts, including silver relicaries that once held the shin bones of the holy departed; and, the real home of Doctor Ruth, sex therapist! I don’t know why I threw in Doctor Ruth … maybe because she does deal with “bodies”.
Certainly not Mr. Roger’s neighborhood but it’s making Philly pretzels and stolen cars a heckuva lot less interesting.
Jenn, you traded all this for roadside veggie stands and gray-haired ladies on motor scooters, huh?!
12. Paula | August 27th, 2005 at 12:03 am
There’s a screenplay in this scenario: big-city girl charms small town all the way into the mayor’s office. Colourful local characters, supportive hunky spouse, bemusing children assist and/or hinder. It’s a winner.
Bavardeuse: Hamiltonian, I presume? I’m up the QEW in Oakville.
13. Chopin Gal | August 27th, 2005 at 10:59 am
Paula, I so agree with you! Art imitating life ….
Julia Roberts is just looking for post-preggers starring roles. Jenn just has to write the script!
14. Barb | August 27th, 2005 at 12:59 pm
Phillys’ loss our Gain!
15. …My heart’s i&hellip | August 29th, 2005 at 6:22 pm
[…] dWeep/”>Breed ‘Em and Weep. She turns her considerable talents this week towards talking about some of what makes our part of the world (Berkshire County, Massachusetts) so u […]
16. Doug | August 30th, 2005 at 1:12 pm
Go up to West Mountain Farm in Stamford. Pick your own blueberries (you might have a week left). Only open on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. While you are there you are treated to 30 or so llamas running around and a stunning view of the Berkshire countryside.
17. Casey | December 1st, 2005 at 2:49 pm
I spent my summers growing up in the area you’re referring to and you describe it perfectly… right down to the woman with the doll. I’ve ridden in the Adams Aggie Fair Horse Show, been given a dog biscuit by the drive thru attendant at dunkin donuts for my fourlegged co-pilot, and went to more parties at the Sand Pits than I care to count. I love this town. Before it’s Renaissance and after. Back when Williamstown was a cooler place to claim you were from. Before they dumped all that sand on Fish Pond’s beaches and you could still find snapping turtles over a foot in diameter and after when the Mohawk Theater’s lights were turned on.
18. Kristen | March 9th, 2006 at 10:55 pm
More on the Berkshires: My husband and I both attended what is now known as the “Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts” (I’m sure you know where that is), which was “North Adams State” back in the day. They thought they’d fancy up the name a bit and it would bring in a better class of student. I think it actually worked. It once made the list of one of the “top 20 party colleges” and now I think they’d weeded out most of the frats and it’s a pretty tame place. It was a weird little place to go to school, but I got a great education and some of my greatest memories took place in Berkshire county. It’s where I met my husband, apprenticed at the Williamstown Theatre Festival and learned to fly fish. I get nostalgic just thinking about driving along the Mohawk trail…Good place to be!
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